If only I could grab you
and wrap you tightly in my arms.
If only I had strength enough
to sweep you off your feet.
If only you weren’t so far away.
If only your words didn’t seem
to float just outside my grasp.
If only I knew the magic words
to make it all just seem okay.
If only I knew how to apologize
and not push the moment over the edge.
If only I could know exactly what you
feel,
What you think.
Then maybe I’d be a better partner.
If only I wasn’t so bad already.
When I make you mad
a strange set of switches flip
and I suddenly
realize just how much my heart
yearns for yours.
In those precious seconds,
where I could possibly save
the situation,
my feeble attempts do nothing but
force a wedge in the dam’s crack.
When the flood hits me
it comes not in words
or raised voices
but in your tone and language.
an almost silent riptide that
pulls me from my feet.
Then when the inky
water starts to pull
me from my sputtering
and nonsense ramblings
and down into its depths…
I suddenly know,
not just think,
but know just how
much I love you.
By the bursting
pain that runs through my lungs.
By the flailing lack of control
my limbs seem to master.
By the guilt
that forces me to question
How exactly I am able to
keep you
by
my
side
when
I do the things that inevitably make it worse
And when I say the things that only seem to bring
me a foot deeper and the surface a foot farther away.
I believe I love you
not only because of the
glowing ring above your head or
the shimmering wings you hide so well,
but because you hand me a ladder
when my perpetual watery hole has gotten too deep
to handle.
At chopsticks minus one:
There is nothing.
Volumeless sound
Unspeakable verses
I start to think
That I understand
These are the notions
the musings I pursue
as I flick somethings
from my bed sheets
Fleeting thoughts
of slaying beasties
slip through my fingers
where the controls
sat earlier.
I fall back onto
pillows of endless dreams.
Seeking sunlight on days
where only the lifeless
clouds of grey seem to float,
giving nothing but that melancholy
I need.
and
I want.
I apologize to you
if I control the weather.
Gloomy uninteresting skies
are all I predict.
Dull
Matte
Boring
and grey.
But
So is life.
You’ve been there, I know you have.
Life doesn’t exist without the
days filled with
grey.
That grey
The one that pervades the soul.
The grey of one who has lost.
The grey of one without
Grey.
Only grey.
I made myself worry again.
I say again when really it’s always.
I could never tell you.
Not even if you paraded a Sultan’s
treasure in front of me.
I just wouldn’t be able to pull my heart out of the well I’ve
hidden it in.
I haven’t taken it out in a while.
I think it likes it down in the
musty, moldy black, at least
I never hear it complain.
Maybe that’s because my ears
are down there too.
That’s not even the problem though.
Even if I somehow gathered up the small
Tidbits of my courage and
decided I could pull it out of the water,
The words I would have practiced
over and over in my head
would leave and fly away.
Unfurl huge canvas sails
and float out the holes where
my ears used to be and slip
onto the rivers where all my other thoughts
seem to go.
The only thing that I have anchored is you.
Yeah, try to pull that load of baggage away.
Isn’t going to happen.
My whole point is that I worried.
I almost cried.
It was late; you said we would talk later.
But it only got later.
My mind didn’t flood with the myriad
of flippant colors that is a dream
but with the stagnant flowing tar of
unadulterated, poisoning thought.
I realized something in the midst of
this.
I realized what love is,
Not what it feels like.
Everyone has felt love,
but the actual fiber its warm blanket is woven from?
It’s a hearty blend of desire and jealousy and hate and happiness and
a multitude of feelings from the entire spectrum
all of them pressed tightly together.
So when I should be cozy and carefree
under covers, all I feel is cold and clammy.
So when you don’t call when I thought you would
all the happiness melts away and the
beach fills with warped logs of concern
and a thick tangle of anxious seaweed.
I’ve noticed
by a severe lack of curiosity
that “they”
say a lot of things.
They say up is up
and black is black
as well as a great deal of
rubbish that everyone
knows,
and therefore don’t ever actually say.
They also say that
love comes from the
heart.
This is completely,
utterly,
and irrevocably
wrong.
If love came
from the heart
then no one
would say it…
However, they do on a regular basis, every single day.
So
upon deep and
intense contemplation,
I finally realized
that if not from the heart
Where exactly love comes from.
Love lies in the warmth of a kiss
in the heat of a hug
in the shared comfort of bed sheets.
Love comes from an airy laugh on a summer day
from a dark whisper in the failing light
from the shadows of a candle lit frame.
Love is a word.
It comes from lips.
But love is a thought
a memory
a hope
a speck of time.
Love is you and me.
It comes from us.
So forget about they
and tell me where your heart is.
There they sit
in silence.
White flowers
capped,
floating in space,
wrapped in snow.
A disturbing mixture of
beauty and pain.
A juxtaposition
of awe and desperation
There is no protest.
They just are,
existing in the frosty haze
As if there is nothing
wrong.
No ranting.
No pissy moods.
Just complacency.
The soft petals
seem cozy
despite the piercing cold
that their blanket
affords them.
Wouldn't it be nice
to live with
the knowledge that death
is coming, and still
float, as if everything
was right?
And now
as smoke trickles
from my fingers
I pull my thoughts
around me and
begin to envy those
small white
balls of fluff.
And I wish
it could
be
that
easy.
The sky was crying.
only that dry tears fell,
Aimlessly.
You know, the ones that
always sit, knees tucked in tight.
gently rocking.
They rarely raise their head,
except for some reason
they jumped up and
screamed at me until
I had to acknowledge them--
bright and wicked.
strong and quiet.
I had scorned them for so long
sitting there,
Pathetic.
Maybe i should have
cut them down.
Forced them back into
submission.
They would still be there though.
sitting.
waiting.
like some overzealous tea kettle,
billowing steam from the stove top,
that will hiss, patiently,
mocking you in secrecy
from the other room.
the freeloading sons of bitches.
I set them to the street,
those silently whistling words.
who cares anyway,
their work here was
finished.
i miss them now.
a chasm has replaced the silent patience
and try as i may, no amount of pain can fill it.
they brought me comfort,
though i cant say how, or why.
As the rain collects
In my upturned eyes,
that i had listened.
to the rocking in the dark
The sprightly stream bubbles on, flowing forth from the crack where it began and into stronger currents yet to come. It grows in strength and speed with each crumbling bank and overly stubborn boulder it passes, roaring and rushing around what it can, but pulling with it a smattering of pebbles and gallons of sand, a collection of undesired souvenirs. A roaring creek then falls complacent, forging its way to calmer places. Then meandering, barely moving, through pastures and fields until it spreads unwittingly to the sea.
Does the river ever forget the brook, the solemn simpleness of its beginning? Or, is it much like it started, a peaceful, blissful reverence?
An oak stands solemn,
The wind washing through its branches.
A split trunk and fusing limbs
strain, fighting some absent weight.
Of sleepless nights and angry days
The tree still stands, gnarled and steadfast.
How does it survive the ever changing
torments of scorching heat and dagger like cold?
Why can't I stand so proud?
I feel like failure is coming from
all sides, I feel like nothing will come
from this. I feel so lost and so
desperate for answers that I
can only try to bear the wind.
Perhaps I am only a sapling.
Perhaps my branches have only begun
to tangle, my trunk to stand straight.
Perhaps I am meant to bear my weight
now, to ease my journey later.
But I am so tired... I am so Tired.
Now I sit and contemplate
this twisted and warped tree.
And as the light of the afternoon fades,
bathing the nearly broken branches
in a warm glow,
I ask in a solemn voice.
“Why? Please, please tell me.
What is to come?”
Perfect
harmony, shaped and
polished on a face.
Pure, priceless innocence
found in the smell
of a perfumed nape,
smoothed flesh
and curves.
The fairer sex
becomes all the fairer
when there is
None
around to hold you.
Like brightly shining
sapphires dripping arsenic,
they place daggers in
the mind. Forcing
us to long for the pain,
because we would rather
be hurt than alone.
There is no greater drug
than the love
of a woman.
It hooks you
with a sideways glance
and instantly digs
fiery nails into
the heart.
A white knuckle grasp
that can never
be fully
shaken off.
The wind whistled softly
through the trees and grass,
wrapping its arms around us
as our hands melded into a
mess of fingers.
You sighed slightly and I put
my head on your shoulder, as the momentary flicker of fireflies
filled the field around us.
It seemed as if they were trying to imitate the sky,
all silent and twinkling.
I told you that I loved you
and you said the same.
We sealed the night with a gentle embrace.
For a moment the wind paused to hold us closer.
The stars stopped twinkling to watch.
The fireflies kept on flickering however.
They were too dumb to notice
as I passed my heart to you for safekeeping.
