We love ourselves too often and need reach out much more often. It is a social responsibility and it effects the environment also.
In real romantic novels The story is impossible to tell Between the two that hold it It is on the shelf.
Layers unknown in the sands Dark and rich from the tilling of hands Old cracked fingers red and disfigured All the time each sand meant something Minds are not ticking probably On through heaven and hells All sorts moving their bodies Like the mind has its shoutings Grapes roll around in a bowl Having found their mouth No rotten grapes were found.
The wind parts the leaves It is not really spring How to live How to be If there is just leaves And grass And weeds Like growth being hard Like nails Taking from the dark Forward Fast forward Into the distance Something.
The wind is not what it seems The rainbow is not as colorful either As two dreams What improves past there Is perhaps impossible So impossible Perhaps.
I can chase a balloon
Or hide in my room
I can plant my summer seed Or assume it is all a dream What ever hot spot there is Must be like a fire In this cold and dry dessert Fire flowers bloom As nature repels an empty space Putting something out In some special place.
