June 27, 2011

The Pause Button

Sometimes I hear your voice like a ghostly apparition when I know it cannot be you. Sometimes I feel your touch when I am alone in my room, longing for you. These days, this fleeting life, it is hard to trust as my heart waivers between break and bust. To pause something at its height, to stop the boulder as it teeters at the top of the hill sounds all to difficult so I bide my time, I wait and want as usual. I hope and try my best not to hate for as this love spurts forth from something I never saw coming I can’t stop it, much like a severed vein, there is no tourniquet that can stop this well of overwhelming feeling. It will be a certain miracle if anything is to survive this. I try to believe that you are genuine with the words you delicately placate me with but it’s hard to know where the truth lies, and which lies are truth.

June 21, 2011

Be Careful What You Wish For

I didn’t even make it up the stairs. I collapsed in surreal pain and excruciating numbness. These kinds of feelings should be what make the shell grow harder and yet somehow I had become soft, soft and supple as your skin when I had touched it in the shifting minutes of dawn. Now I have inspiration again, that well of kisses dry and replaced by a spring of tears. The heartache made me sick, I begged and pleaded from the floor but silent echoes were all that answered my sobs. Why can’t you be all those things I want you to be and often pretended you were in the daydreams of my heart? The lost sleep is slighted by the black gnarled hole that resides where my heart once beat. You blindsided me, you crept slowly like those tall cocktails into my brain with this talk of “it must stop,” “we have to end it.” I left my body, floated above us from bar to bar, my face expressionless, the shell not hard enough. Where did the rug go? And why now? Because I think it might rain again and I can barely stand.

June 16, 2011

Happiness As Writer's Block

If I sit and force poetry, no poems will come.
If we lay and force kisses, it's a smile that will spread.
So I'll plant kisses not poems and wish for inspiration to grow....

June 12, 2011

What the Meteorologist Let On

I couldn’t wake up and convinced myself it was because I was dreaming of you. My arm was asleep and it dragged through my dreams as I now drag through my day. Stopping to ponder the proliferation of cumulus clouds that hold no rain. I am reminded of when I watched the lightening storm rage over the ocean from my street and my despondent neighbor used foul language.

I’d say its melancholy again but I think that might be a game I’ve over played. Curiosity maybe? I thesaurusize and make conjunctions where things ought not conjunct, I find lugubrious, exaggerated indeed.

Smart cartoons revel in the ability to swear on cable and I find their allegory self-referential and depressing. I search for some other comedic relief but continue to dwell on the animated statement of cynicism. Have we out grown our own favorite things? Have we enough time in the day to question more than where to lunch?

Back to the clouds, cumulus turns and hides in nimbostratus but the rain still refuses to fall.

Sometimes when we lie in bed my hands are sticky and sweaty like a child’s, while your soft dry hand envelopes mine I feel inferior to you. It happens that way often; as we speed along empty streets on your motorcycle I cling to you as nonchalantly as possible, when you talk to other women I look up at you in wonder, my eyes wide like a lost puppy. When I wear polka dots your reaction is often bleak and I see you smirk at stripes as well. I’ve contemplated your persona and decided to accept it on a whole, you’ve left little room for passing judgments to sway you. Today someone said you’re more cultured then you would like to let on, whereas I like to let on as much as possible, whether it be about culture or anything else.

So here we are sticky and dry, lost and quite founded, striped and color blocked, young, immature, weary and cynical. But still no rain.