Dear Lover

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Please feed my soul or I’ll be forced to let go

Wasted are my thoughts. Thoughts of those who weren’t worth my time. Empty shells have come knocking, but once they saw my spirit they fled, leaving less then dust behind. There is one, who is different from the rest.

He does more than feed my soul, he nourishes my psyche. He loves me wholeheartedly. I whispered words of affection into his ear. And he asked me to say them aloud, strong and clear.

“Dance with me, transcend with me, challenge me, be everything I ask you to be, be more than what I ask you to be, be song and dance for not me, but for you. Be life and death with me, progress with me, kill time with me, intertwine both our minds for me, smile with me, cry with me.

For you, I would write a million poems because there are simply not enough words to describe the type of being you are.”

Some say truth hurts and a lie is bittersweet, but I would rather you, be honest and kind to me. Say what you mean, don’t be silent because in this moment, there exist just you and I. In this space we share, this small amount of time. We are in unison in almost every kind of way. We are limited, when it comes to how long we stay. And he never calls me beautiful, because beauty never lasts. But he calls me, his and I tell him every night that he is mine. For we are flawed and free, but unlike our flesh, this love will always be.

wise man

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He closed his eyes & let go of his hatred.

He closed his mouth & listened to the quiet world, that surrounded him.

He opened his heart & took off his shoes.

That day, he walked the Earth with bare feet.

He stared upon the sky & earth, realizing that he & it were one.

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I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?

For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.

But write they must.

And I will,

even if it means, no longer writing for you.

Watching (In our library)

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We made love on our library floor.

With all of them watching.

Hemingway and Bukowski thought, I was the most ferocious woman.

Where as Shakespeare and Fitzgerald whispered of how well you performed.

While Poe thought of all the dreadful things that might happen, if we ever decided to let go.

It was only Dickinson, who understood why.

So many of the best moments only happen, every once in a while.

No matter how hard we try, to capture the feeling in a poem or a photograph.

And just as she,

These thoughts, these feelings

Are intended for none, although seen by many.

The creator

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There’s nothing I want more than to be closer to my creator. For you have shaped my skin and bone. Made every beauty mark and scar. You stretched out the subtle space between my two front teeth. You made my hair so wild, it even defies gravity, and my skin the very shade of the earth, that we walk upon.

All this, so that I would remember to love myself, never settling for less than I deserve. You made sure to send people into my life who would help teach me, patience. Molded me with kindness and fire, so that I could push through adversity. You made a rough draft of my life, crumbled it up into a ball and said, I’ll let her decide. Whether she will or will not follow all my signs.

Love me either way, but constantly remind me that really, truth and raw beauty lies inside.

Dear Strangers

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I have had so many love affairs with my eyes.

Direct & enticing

Deliberate & sweet.

In this moment, you have somehow become mine.

Remove every layer of cloth, while I trace my fingers along your scars, down your spine.

Allow me to create art.

Paint your body with soft strokes of emotion.

Water your mind.

I’m sorry, you like many have become victim to my art.

My body is at standstill, air passes through the lungs.

No sound escapes, but be sure that if I have ever loved you in any type of way. 

Whether forever or just a day.

You may never hear it from my mouth, but only know it from the words I write.

These words are mine and in this moment, so are you.

Too many lovers & somehow, still too few.

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.