is freedom far from here

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I go to bed, I wake up and it’s still on my mind

There are small spaces in time, like when watching queen and slim at midnight

Where I’m puzzled by the thoughts that drift by

Life is short and then, it’s long when we work that 9-5

I repent, I cry out, asking him to save me and bring me to the front of the line

Where the water is crystal clear and I know in my heart that my mother will never again cry

We all stand together strong, even though we are all broken and we have all been wronged

And it’s so familiar, but we stay sane

And we laugh to translate the pain and we dance and we sing

We call out and we scream names

We say, that we are indeed emotionally unavailable, dead inside

Quick to cut people out of our lives, use them for our own pleasure, our dark delight

But no one wants to be used, and once upon a time the abuser was abused

All they desire is to be the first and only choice

All anyone wants really, is to be loved and have that love reciprocated without uncertainty, without thinking twice

I asked everyone around me, who it is that they wanted to be

And my favorite answer by far, came from the elderly man, who said that, all he wanted was to be free

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 than 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 the 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.

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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.

Give them a smile

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He stares into the mirror. Unable to recognize the man, who looks back at him. The joke. Dreary eyed, the skin of his eyelids so thin, they appear transparent. His lips stretched and black, form a smile curling to the tips of his ear lobes. His eerie laugh transitions from laughter to a painful screech, lastly fading into a soft distorted whimper. He knows that he must wipe his tears. “The show must go on.” He muttered. He applies the chalk white powder onto his already dried, lifeless skin. Smearing black circles around his eyes and red paint onto his lips. He smiles, remembering a time when his teeth were not rotten and his spirit was youthful, filled with life and passion. Those days are long gone now. A red curtain behind him is all that lies between him and the act. He exits onto the stage, filled with fraudulent laughter. The audience loves it, but does he?

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.