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.

When she calls

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When she calls, you must decide whether or not you will answer. She resides in all of us, calling us all back to the depths from which we came. She is inside the soul, and she is calling us home. So if you are looking for me, you’ll find me in the mountains or by the sea, maybe with my head in books or surrounded by trees. Either way you’ll now know where to look. I am home. A chapter in Mother Nature’s book.

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.

There are no thunderstorms in California

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There are no thunderstorms in California.

Oh, how I adore the smell of the wet warm earth after a storm. How I would wait to hear thunderous crackle, to see the sparks forged from the sky. But nothing.

There are no thunderstorms in California.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine your sound. I imagine the raindrops that would gently kiss my skin, opening my pores in the most delightful way. I would jump, puddle to puddle racing through the tall grass. Just me and the elements. Once the lightning struck, I would then run into a small stone home. Where it would be warm inside from the fireplace, just in the living room. What a perfect mixture of smoked wood and petrichor. If you open all the windows, you could get a view of the long stretch of land, never ending. Silently, I would watch as the Heavens struck Earth.

There are no thunderstorms in California, but when I close my eyes anything is possible.