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It’s the rain

It’s the sun

It’s my messy handwriting

It’s that never ending search for the one

It’s the plants, that hang down from the wall

It’s my favorite flower of the sun, she stands tall

It’s how badly I crave to find someone who will listen to it all

The good, the bad, the dark and ugly

The foolish nonsense that it involves

My mind, a terrible place, but once the pen starts, it doesn’t stop

One click of the key is all it takes

So it’ll be the rain and then the sun

It’ll be whatever it takes

To make sense, where there is none

Le but de l’âme

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I could easily be that woman.

The agreeable one, the one who smiles and laughs…even when I find remarks less than humorous.

I could get married and have children

Cook and clean.

Look nice and delicate.

Be nice and delicate.

Capture my beauty through photographs,

I take of myself.

Be in the moment, live for now.

Love in seasons.

I could be that woman and many would love her.

You see, there is nothing wrong with a woman like this.

If anything, I would prefer to be her.

But she is not me, no matter how earnest the attempt.

I am a thought, always evolving.

Never satisfied…

How could someone love a woman like this?

One who rarely smiles,

One who rarely understands herself, but is in constant search for more,

More of what she, herself does not know.

Strange, how there are so many books, testimonies and scriptures explaining what it is that wise men seek…

Even the Bible states that a man of wisdom seeks knowledge.

But what of my longing, what of my questions?

The abundance of my happiness must stem from what?

Marriage, love, fertility, material belongings? All beautiful things. All fleeting, fleeting as am I in this moment. Fleeting like the short span that is a lifetime, but never like my words.

The soul’s purpose.

The Romantic

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Water spewing from the fountains in Italy or maybe it was France.

Another place, another time.

Somewhere on the Northern Hemisphere, where we met.

Surrounded by many,

but like none.

They didn’t know it,

but I did.

The sunlight kissed our skin from the heavens above.

Honey and pastel hues of pinks and blues,

back to the days, when I loved you.

What sweet undertones with ever growing addictive fumes.

There were many assorted delights,

in our picnic of two.

Where I enjoyed the simplest things in life,

like the presence of you.

Easily saying whatever it was that came to mind.

The feeling of your skin on mine.

The taste of strong ales and rosé,

my guess of your favorite of wine.

In this moment time seemed to stop

as if you and I could forever control the clock.

The perfect rhyme, a pleasing hymn, for a ever so bitter, but lovely end,

to the tale of the romantic and her imaginary friend.

Barefoot Angel

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Barefoot angel

No one told you, that you were meant for more

The world feeds you propaganda, tells you your destiny cannot extend beyond these four walls

No one showed you how to use your wings, how to soar

They ridiculed you for not having lavish material cover the soles of your feet.

But you know what they don’t and you see because they won’t

You, birthed on this earth among them

You don’t have to prove your worth

And you know they wouldn’t have to cover their feet, if they didn’t pollute the earth. You are fully aware that they’ve given you tools to make you numb. But you were born benevolent and you will teach them all to love

The story of the sun

Once upon a time, there lived a star. She was obsessed with the idea of love, so she would watched as all the other stars shot across the galaxy to meet one another in unity… But because she was too fearful to give her heart away, too afraid to join all the other shooting stars, she waited and waited, until she grew older. So much older, that all she began to attract were cold, small, lifeless rocks. She unknowingly began to warm all the rocks nearby with all the things she imagined love to be like. These rocks would soon form an orbit, all rotating around her light. But her poor heart, she kept it in a jar protected by a ring of fire. Far from harm, but also so far away from love. And this is the story of the sun and how our planets were formed.

the smell of pine

The rain continued to bounce off the glass window beside our bed. It’s been a whole week of nonstop rain. Last night, you said that we should stay inside all day and I suggested that we build a fort, made of all our sheets, blankets and pillows and you agreed. The next morning, it was still raining. I opened my glass window slightly, only to better hear the rain. What a gentle, but violent drum it had, and suddenly the aroma of pine trees had entered our bedroom. You tossed and turned, finally sitting up in the bed. “Morning.” You yawned. “Hey.” I replied looking back at you . Scratching your bedhead, you got up out of the bed to use the bathroom. The more I start to think about it, the more I realized that you were never really the sentimental type, but that was okay with me. You spoke clear and plainly, always straight to the point. You were never great at reading my mind or buying me gifts. So whenever, I was feeling some type of raging emotion, I had to explain it to you, otherwise you would be clueless. Which made being mad at you completely impossible. At times you were bit too practical for my liking, but no one’s perfect. I, on the other hand have always been the temperamental type. Overthinking, over-analyzing, always wanting to know what was on your mind. Sensitive, but ever so passionate. An explosive combustion. “Hey you, can you come back down to Earth now?” you whispered kissing my coiled hair. “Yeah, I was just thinking, you know sometimes this… feels like a dream. ” I mumbled looking up at you. You pulled me back into bed, trying your utmost to convince me that this was surely no dream, then we fell asleep with our hands and legs intertwined.

When I woke, I was laying in a twin sized bed, somewhere in California… alone. It really was a dream, I thought. When I went to look outside, it was raining. I slowly cracked my bedroom window, and there it was. The gentle, violent drum of the rain striking the Earth and the smell of pine.

Pottery

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Rough hands

Your veins so close to the surface, that is your skin

Covered

Wet clay, splattered all over your black apron and white T-shirt, carefully placed on your hands face

Earthly, Heavenly

I watch your hands, as you select your clay

High fire, low fire

Your hands form the mold

Your mind feeds my curiosity

You see, it wasn’t your face I fell for, nor your words

It was your hands and your ability to take nothing and create something, that could make me feel

Feel every emotion, that ever existed

All at once