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.

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.

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

Organic

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I am a flower with a imagination like wild fire. Like a flower at night, I am cold, hidden and guarded, but once the night has left me and I feel the warmth of day. I’m opened, so easily. So use your senses and sense me.

See the wet drops of dew on my youthful feathers. Smell the flora of my sunflower petals. Hear the birds and bees who swarm and sing. See and touch my warm sun kissed spring. Don’t rush, I don’t mind. Please take your time, to taste my fresh, sweet honey. Isn’t it odd and kind of funny, how once you’ve had something natural and organically made, you no longer crave artificial, superficial things?

writing

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To me you are art. With you, I don’t think about being comfortable or uncomfortable in my own skin. You love when I’m vulnerable, exposing all my fears to you. You have always been apart of my life. Whether you’re lyrics for a song, a classic fairy tale, a tempestuous adventure, or poetry. I’m starting to realize the therapeutic relief you give me. I can be emotional, energetic, quiet and sad, I can bloom through you.

“Who are you, when no one is watching or listening? Let me show you how clear reality is and let us paint a picture of something so complex and scarred…” When I ask you why would we do such a thing. Your reply was, “I am your truth, your mirror, your sweet nirvana. With all your errors and flaws, we will create something so beautiful that the sea will reflect our words instead of the stars.”