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.
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.
It runs deep, it boils from the chasmic spaces in-between your bloodstream.
They say contain it, they say smile.
Their lips form shapes that spell out the words, calm down.
How can I possibly be calm?
Must I pretend that the climate of this world, doesn’t put me in a state of distress?
Why is it that only the expression of happiness is deemed acceptable ?
But then I remember they do not want you whole.
They tell you that your anger and your sadness is something that must be purged.
But do not let go of your anger.
For emotion is a thing of wholeness.
But display your anger in such a way, that they cannot call you angry.
Use your anger and show them that you are determined, you are definite.
Even with your anger, you are wholeheartedly whole.
For what is a human without their range of complex emotion.
Many will say you don’t have the right to your anger,
But the right is yours and yours alone.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
i hate boys
some make me feel like im not wanted
some make me feel like a toy
some think my soul doesn’t add up with the body that my spirit decided to enjoy
some think im a weirdo, they’re right i am
some are intimidated, they run away because they are scared
some no matter how much i do, don’t seem to care
some want me physically
none want me spiritually
so ill hate boys until the death of me
I wonder what it’s like to meet a Man.
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