Boxoflives - Home To Wind And Rain

Art Museum

In halls of wonder, vast and bright,

Where colors swirl and dance in light,

Where walls stretch high and ceilings soar,

And stories whisper through each door.

Each brush stroke whispers of a tale,

As if the canvas begins to exhale,

A hint of passion, a shred of pain,

The artist's soul within each frame.

From abstract splashes to portraits grand,

The beauty of the world at hand,

In every brush stroke, every hue,

A story painted just for you.

With every step, with every breath,

A masterpiece in every depth,

A world of wonder, there to see,

In each exhibited symphony.

So come and wander, lose yourself,

In halls of magic, in halls of health,

For the joy of art is always here,

In every image, every cheer.

silly goofy post

one thing about me is that I WILL be trying and failing to rhyme, just for sillies. 

i'm never opening up to people again. btw

WARNING!

Today I woke up

Joan Baez performing I Never Will Marry, c. 1958

she has little moon earrings- i have star clips in my hair. she goes to the local community college and plans on transferring to the major university- im in a sorority and my life is intertwined in the large school's greek life. she's a local- im seven hours away. she grew up on vast expanses of land, caring for life and surrounded by her family's love- i grew up in a cluttered house that sucked the soul out of anyone who dares to enter and every time I go home i lose a little part of myself. she listens- i talk. she calls be pretty and for once, i believe it. she smiles and i laugh in her tiny car and we stare at each other in the lamp light of a small parking lot after missing our desert reservations. she walks me to my car and we both ask if we could kiss each other, our laughter ringing in the air next to the papa john's we had to bathroom break in because we asked at the same time. she hesitates so i pull her in and it isn't rushed or desperate, it's just gentle and full of potential for something beautiful and she cradles my face and my hands are on her hips and we're next to my beat up car. she tastes like the chocolate milkshake from earlier that night and i can only assume i taste of the cigarette i smoked earlier on that she called "hot". she is a middle child and im the eldest and we still talk and she didn't ghost me and oh, I think something beautiful can come out of this.

Old friend

I am so glad you are back

That you weren't gone for too long. 

But I know it hurts.

The decision you made was hard, and I feel as though I don’t deserve it. 

I don’t deserve to be the reason you chose to be happy. 

The reason you chose to leave her. 

It feels nice, I suppose. 

Like coming home. 

Like wrapping myself in an old quilt.

But it also feels like exactly what it is. 

Coming back to an old friend.  

Im so obsessed w her I’m ill

Jennifer Jareau the woman you are

NightlyNoirVintage