poetry, creative writing, musings and art
Tell me to stay
Push me away
Tell me you care
Never be there
Hold me close
Shun me the most
Time after time
Like a song out of rhymes
Repeat the same verse
A dozen times
Time after time
Like a song out of rhymes
Repeat the chorus
Wear out the lines
Want me in the dark
Leave me in the light
Unshackle my heart
Unburden my nights
Come closer
And feel from miles away
We’ve gone on too long
Put an end to this song
A field of flowers, a plague wrought upon by my insecure thoughts:
Does he love me, or does he not?
I scatter the petals into the wind; they falter, unable to answer my question
A daisy chain is broken with ruthless pain as my fingers commit a massacre
He loves me not, or does he? Why don’t the full blooms answer?
They say a lady should never sleep with a stranger
But his arms felt like freedom to my entangled heart
The blood-thirsty lips of the devil have a taste for foolish girls
And their foolish desires which wholly satiate liars and their sick lusts
Are they any less savage than those of us who lay waste to a field of roses?
Licking the blood the thorns draw from our fingers
The pain of bleeding is far more satisfying than that of a broken heart, constantly wounded and dense in scar tissue
He loves me, he loves me not.
Strawberries taste like summer, with a sweetness that gives me visions of green strawberry fields
With bright red gems glittering with the morning’s slowly dissipating fog
And fragile white, round-winged butterflies fluttering through the miles and miles of sweet strawberries.
Tasting a strawberry in the midst of a winter, I wonder how far we roam to find strawberries in a place so cold
Across the country, through the snow, to the other side of the world where it isn’t below zero
Or maybe just a little down south, where the porch is warm enough to languidly rock and watch the trucks drive by
Through day and night, to bring these strawberries out of the light and hope they survive.
A journey up the coast, to where the sun doesn’t shine and the earth is too cold for strawberries to grow
They taste like another place, or another time, as I’ve witnessed summer before with my own eyes:
It smells like the green leaves of the strawberry, tastes just as sweet and sounds like cicadas
Feels like sweat on my forehead, my bare feet on sand and a cool salty wind with an ocean wave cadence.
I wonder if strawberries in the winter taste just as nostalgic as pomegranates in the summer
To fully validate the irony in that I only miss one when I’m with the other.
There is no wind for whispers; just the silence of the sea.
As the waves lap at my feet, I soundlessly weep at the solace the sun has given my soul.
At last, I am whole, together with the sand from which my form was span
And the salt that seasons my tears.
After so much time alone, I’m finally home to a place I’ve never been.
I long to see that blue sea once again.
He screamed at a shadow to get out of his way.
Perplexed, she said “Why shout when you could walk right through me?”
He shrugged. “I want to be heard as much as you want to be seen. Now we’re both satisfied.”
So she remained by his side forever to dance before his eyes, and he whispered his dreams to her in the dark.
For years, I hid in fear of letting anybody near
But once I came out of hiding, there was nobody there.
A multi-flaceted mirror meets a single looking glass.
She drives herself crazy trying to analyze each of his reflections.
He thinks he’s seen all of her, but never peered beneath the surface.
More than any other color, I believe in blue
The widest outstretched arms I’ve ever seen above and below the moon
In bright pastel or tempest grey, she always builds a day anew
With hope of sun or fear of pouring rain, my prayers may still come true
If I were to pick a religion, I believe it would be you
You, the watcher who hides away and watches from a brighter view
The invisible smile of a stranger that I picture in my dreams
I ponder on how you’ll never know how much your unseen smile means to me
More than any time, I believe in midnight
The one second on the clock that an erroneous day is blown away
A flitter of hope in a shivering heart beat leaps awake
Ready to make right this fresh new day
Yes, I believe in this the way I believe in virgin snow
That quietly covers our footsteps and holds our secret close
She wistfully shifts around our frozen trails
And slows the time just enough for us to observe the small details
I suppose it’s hard to not believe in God;
Who else can I find to blame the hardships of life on?
Or where do my prayers go after they fall as weary tears?
What idol can I rely on to placate all of my fears?
But no one can reply to all of the questions, all of the demands
They fall back into the frail fingers of my tired hands
So I believe in magic, the magic that makes up time
Who meticulously grooms the sea and the sky
Patiently healing wounds and removing the iron ball and chain
So the hope in my heart can finally fly.
I’m only sometimes sober when I write you messages you’ll never read;
Silly thoughts and forbidden words that bring me solace you’ll never see
I hide away from terrifying truths for fear of what you’ll think of me
I lie to you, and to myself too – the truth is such an ugly thing
I wear a mask of several layers, just in case you can see through
I wander round earth’s many corners just to stay away from you
And still I circumnavigate the globe to watch you from afar
I’ve known you only in concept; I have no idea who you are
Like religion, I see you only how I would need you to be
But you’re more of a demon than an angel in reality
But that doesn’t discourage me from heathen thoughts or sorcery
I’m closer to hell than heaven, and all you’ve done is encourage me
But not enough, not quite enough to send these messages you’ll never read.
I tip toe over broken glass with the same meticulous pace that I distance myself from a broken heart.
One and one don’t always align, and I fear the sound of shattering from a pair mismatched. Like magnets, only the opposite sides attract, but when pulled apart, a bit of myself leaves with you each time.
Under planetary bodies, rising sun and waning moon are no match for the tides that move me pensively in your direction. Were you any more poisonous, I surely still would long for just the slightest taste and suffer the lasting bitterness.
The home of your arms is lined with brambles so shallow they only pierce my skin. Alas, my buoyant heart rests at my surface to bask in the heat in your eyes – vulnerable for those thorns to pierce.
With closed eyes I meander around sharp debris, heart still aching, hoping that things will change. The scars haven’t faded, the pieces of me have not regenerated, and though in my latent pace I hope you return to me, I know that I’m shamefully malingering.
