- 11 years, 1 month, 16 days ago
They say giving a smile is free, so why not keep on sharing it, for they also say: the best that life can offer are all free. Like our mother whom dearly loved us, has given almost everything that she could hardly rebuked; and with each smile we tend to reciprocate, she finds strength, her food, only from your table; and the demons could never ever conclude. glens "After"Festive
- 11 years, 3 months, 28 days ago
A photo and her thousand smile That hides in this ridiculous world, A last glance to say goodbye - Forever that moment will stay high. Like the heart it hides the clock of time, And shyness within, in mind’s to take blame. From beyond there’s a scene, only he knows… Her eyes in tears - caught the melancholic show; For the hands of time, its fate we hold, The empty chair, which also told His farewell - for her is not! Caged in photograph for her thousand cry, Breathe a crazy world for her thousand smile. glens "After"Festive
- 11 years, 4 months, 13 days ago
When you had created a far achieving plan, that each, came to the rendezvous of your design, a bizarre you was done.
But happiness knocks at the other door.
When love confuses difference, peace makes it only in moment, freedom's path blinded, but hope never loses its meaning.
But there's absence of hope. (When she said her goodbyes the glass fell and I broke.)
How like it is a nobody a solitary pole, on such abandoned street, without anyone sharing them directions of who you are.
There's a life not found inside me and in yours, too--these thoughts of yearning... and that, it can only exist in us, together.
Happiness is at the stars, moon and clouds... when you're just in your room, an angel at the kitchen, the sky surrounds you.
When words are just words, when words forgot why you were the flower, the flower had become you.
The sky is the sea, a bird flown out the water--earth coloring itself.
No one is plain solitude, not even a monk in its remote cell, not even in the most unmerciful ways, like a gloomy weather of a Sunday morning, or the little message against the sea, lost in the tides of air, somewhere there in the many street-- no one is alone for the waiting. glens "After"Festive
- 11 years, 5 months, 23 days ago
- 11 years, 5 months, 28 days ago
Who would be a turtle who could help it? A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet, she can ill afford the chances she must take in rowing toward the grasses that she eats. Her track is graceless, like dragging a packing-case places, and almost any slope defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical, she's often stuck up to the axle on her way to something edible. With everything optimal, she skirts the ditch which would convert her shell into a serving dish. She lives below luck-level, never imagining some lottery will change her load of pottery to wings. Her only levity is patience, the sport of truly chastened things.