Hold me up, Hold me down

A declaration of love has been made.
Please, put down your weapons, and stand away from the heart.
Oh no, the position stood down.
Collect your artillery again, boys, the war is back on.
Back on for love.

Romance is something a man made up
To sweep an unsuspecting woman off her feet.
Romance is the rose, beware it's bite
The man gave you, to stop you from buying the lilies.

The man who saved you
From what he thought he saved you
He thought she was worth saving
All and for himself.

Plays with her heart
And says it's not a game
Holds her to his chest
And let's her feel,
It's not for vanity.

Which is the day
She will feel,
His heart is made from steel
And hers from glass.

Shards, slithers, splinters.

Photo Poetry

The Tallest Man in London


Summer in Paris (Lanvin dolls)


Pizazz


Hark in the Dark


Monk in the Rain

Leila Rousseau 2010

In the Wilderness

Beaten track, beat me knowing the way
Finding treasures, hold down my pockets so I can't walk
Forests of shrubbery shrug me away with your shoulders
Wind in the leaves, leaving me astray.

Primo Gusto

How about noting that nothing he ever said was of importance
Everything you thought of him was fiction
And part of it a great collection, farces and such fallacy that you were distracted, so easily.

Wage, the Rap

It's to do with my wages
In out, old Sages
You been here for ages

Boss is always on rages
Calm me if you can
Feelings like rabbits in cages

Torture me just
Capture me first
Tame me to obey
To feed your thirst

I'm not hungry if I tried
I'm not begging forgiveness, nor
Counting my sins.

I repaid you in debts to collect
You gave me what I own in loans
You showed me what it was to be
Independent, truly, of thee.

Short cut success
Sucks more than it does
To walk alone,
I walk alone.

Wage

Au contraire
I love the hair
C'est possible, couleur de la lumiere.

Kisses forbidden
Mais, je les aime
Don't throw it away, the fire.

The empty eyes
They watch
Looking for something more

The empty eyes
Make up disguise
Don't see you

The ears, closed to voice
The eyes, closed to soul
The lips, shut to touch
The arms, deprived of love.

Calm the conscience
Slow the pulse
Breathe not air
But poisoned passion.

Off, the top of your head!

Participating in sarcasm doesn't mean you're wits are dead.
It means you took note of what it was for them to not be alive, for a few minutes.

Just don't do it too often, the wind could change.