Tap
Tap
Tap
Foam
Float
Wait
Tap
Tap
Tap
Let's go
Let's go!
There really isn't blame
I'm moving with the noise
I'm dansing
I'm moving my feet
To the noise
Shuffling
Clapping to a steady beat
Running forward, not running away
Shouting and jumping
We're visionaries
Monday, July 25, 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Here we are again
There's chalk on my legs
Covering the bumps
Urban radio
Wind whistling through our hair
Like a hand out the window in the wind
We're there; we're here
Golden horizon
Vert hills rising and falling
The pavement fading
Our lungs singing
She's got her hands on the wheel of the boat
I've got my hands on the leather of the passenger seat
Wide turns on the roads of this small town
Laughing
Covering the bumps
Urban radio
Wind whistling through our hair
Like a hand out the window in the wind
We're there; we're here
Golden horizon
Vert hills rising and falling
The pavement fading
Our lungs singing
She's got her hands on the wheel of the boat
I've got my hands on the leather of the passenger seat
Wide turns on the roads of this small town
Laughing
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Danger, Danger! High Voltage!
Thoughts flow like an open wound
Nearly unstoppable
Until the clots form
The urge to grasp danger
The way a pill makes you feel
Afraid
but happy
Accomplished
The snowballs in summer
The ice in winter
Predictably unpredictable
Wish all you want
Wish, wish, wish on wishies
Nearly unstoppable
Until the clots form
The urge to grasp danger
The way a pill makes you feel
Afraid
but happy
Accomplished
The snowballs in summer
The ice in winter
Predictably unpredictable
Wish all you want
Wish, wish, wish on wishies
Friday, June 17, 2011
It's funny
Two things: A him, a her.
I push them both away as they both fade away.
I fear them both leaving.
I despise the truth in both.
It's funny how different the situations are, yet these realizations are so similar.
Dear boy,
Please let me heal.
Dear woman,
Please heal.
I am unable to focus. I shy away from both. I am not shy.
Please stay; do not let me have to face this all too soon. I am afraid. I want to speak, I want to ask, I want to comfort, I want to be there for you. I want to hug, I want to kiss, I want to heal. I want things to be better, I want to face this issue, I want to be strong for you. But I run. I run. You're going down, and I'm tripping as I run away. I don't want the last thing for you to see be my back. I am sorry for being a coward.
And, you, for you: You must run. A part begs to toss a tree branch, trip you as you skip away in hand. He's right in the abandonment. "Was I nothing?" No, no, and I will not be. But, please, please, turn and walk away. Do not turn your head, do not double take. Do not stop in your path to say hello.
I'll come around, in time.
I don't understand how one can be a healer when one is falling apart. But how can you save when you need to if there is not the time to heal yourself? When are we being self-centered in comparison to fearing? Selfishness that you will never be able to replace. You can't make up time. Time only takes; it does not give.
It is not a wish for a pistol or a bullet. It is a wish for courage. It is not for the gentleman, not the man in the jail car trotting away. Trickery. There is no smoke to be had. Just silence.
You cannot replace time. Time only takes; it does not give. It does not give.
I push them both away as they both fade away.
I fear them both leaving.
I despise the truth in both.
It's funny how different the situations are, yet these realizations are so similar.
Dear boy,
Please let me heal.
Dear woman,
Please heal.
I am unable to focus. I shy away from both. I am not shy.
Please stay; do not let me have to face this all too soon. I am afraid. I want to speak, I want to ask, I want to comfort, I want to be there for you. I want to hug, I want to kiss, I want to heal. I want things to be better, I want to face this issue, I want to be strong for you. But I run. I run. You're going down, and I'm tripping as I run away. I don't want the last thing for you to see be my back. I am sorry for being a coward.
And, you, for you: You must run. A part begs to toss a tree branch, trip you as you skip away in hand. He's right in the abandonment. "Was I nothing?" No, no, and I will not be. But, please, please, turn and walk away. Do not turn your head, do not double take. Do not stop in your path to say hello.
I'll come around, in time.
I don't understand how one can be a healer when one is falling apart. But how can you save when you need to if there is not the time to heal yourself? When are we being self-centered in comparison to fearing? Selfishness that you will never be able to replace. You can't make up time. Time only takes; it does not give.
It is not a wish for a pistol or a bullet. It is a wish for courage. It is not for the gentleman, not the man in the jail car trotting away. Trickery. There is no smoke to be had. Just silence.
You cannot replace time. Time only takes; it does not give. It does not give.
You're Sickening
Your gorgeous face
Your strong hands
Smile
Those straight teeth
The spontaneous adventures
The shape of your nose
The softness of your little ears
Fuck it all
Fuck you
I will be free
Your strong hands
Smile
Those straight teeth
The spontaneous adventures
The shape of your nose
The softness of your little ears
Fuck it all
Fuck you
I will be free
Thursday, June 9, 2011
To heal, to forgive, to move past
No se
que esté
Las palabras
Ne znam
My tongue
Your mind
My heart
His
It took two years
This is taking time
Sadness
Confusion
Depression
Acceptance
Neutrality
Bitterness
Forgetfulness
Healing
Progression
There are no warnings
Just be.
Free
Eventually
que esté
Las palabras
Ne znam
My tongue
Your mind
My heart
His
It took two years
This is taking time
Sadness
Confusion
Depression
Acceptance
Neutrality
Bitterness
Forgetfulness
Healing
Progression
There are no warnings
Just be.
Free
Eventually
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Blue Heaven
It has been a long journey, and we have grown nearly weak. The fields guide us like a camino to our heaven.
We raise our arms in greeting to our creator; it greets us with a gentle smile and low bow. A mountain in superiority that treats us equally, as one, as itself.
We all met along the way, creating our own paths until they merged into a river of hope. No one truly understood; no one truly had a purpose. Everything just came together; everything was serendipitous.
Warm sun fills the air, touching our bodies, sending us into a state of bliss amongst each other. Embrace it; do not question. Smiles ripple like water from a cast stone. Our faces glow in the yellow-orange rays.
What purpose do we have here? We join together, hands arms weaving together. A quilt, an orgy of minds. We are creation. We are life.
Our maker shows us the way. We follow like simple moths, but we are not lemmings. Light is our path, showing us not doors but wide spaces to frolic and dance. Happier we get as the light grows stronger.
We shall melt. Eventually, we'll be one. Now, we are many. But we shall unite naturally as a product of our inspiration's love for us all.
It is a cruel world, but in this state, we need not be more than nothing or less than something. We just are, and that is what we live in.
We raise our arms in greeting to our creator; it greets us with a gentle smile and low bow. A mountain in superiority that treats us equally, as one, as itself.
We all met along the way, creating our own paths until they merged into a river of hope. No one truly understood; no one truly had a purpose. Everything just came together; everything was serendipitous.
Warm sun fills the air, touching our bodies, sending us into a state of bliss amongst each other. Embrace it; do not question. Smiles ripple like water from a cast stone. Our faces glow in the yellow-orange rays.
What purpose do we have here? We join together, hands arms weaving together. A quilt, an orgy of minds. We are creation. We are life.
Our maker shows us the way. We follow like simple moths, but we are not lemmings. Light is our path, showing us not doors but wide spaces to frolic and dance. Happier we get as the light grows stronger.
We shall melt. Eventually, we'll be one. Now, we are many. But we shall unite naturally as a product of our inspiration's love for us all.
It is a cruel world, but in this state, we need not be more than nothing or less than something. We just are, and that is what we live in.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Forget who reads, forget who knows
It comes back without haste.
Beauty.
The big secret.
It is like when you first typed those letters those years ago, a script of your life, a passage.
It weighs heavily on your heart as you feel yourself floating upward, giddy.
You've only found yourself wishing like this once before, and, for that, you still sometimes find yourself wishing, daydreaming.
It is as if that night was last night. The dim lighting, the small room, the purple ink, the slender frame, the delicateness, the suspicion, the truth. How you wish you could live it again...
And, then, there is last night; the thoughts in the mind, the reading, the pumping, the jumping, the curiosity, the fear, and the happiness.
How many years has it been?
Is it possible to take this to the grave, when part of you tells you to shout it from the rooftops?
The other part is shy, scared, frightened, and partially shamed and embarrassed.
Forget who knows.
Forget who reads.
Take it to the grave.
...or take my hand; please take my hand.
Beauty.
The big secret.
It is like when you first typed those letters those years ago, a script of your life, a passage.
It weighs heavily on your heart as you feel yourself floating upward, giddy.
You've only found yourself wishing like this once before, and, for that, you still sometimes find yourself wishing, daydreaming.
It is as if that night was last night. The dim lighting, the small room, the purple ink, the slender frame, the delicateness, the suspicion, the truth. How you wish you could live it again...
And, then, there is last night; the thoughts in the mind, the reading, the pumping, the jumping, the curiosity, the fear, and the happiness.
How many years has it been?
Is it possible to take this to the grave, when part of you tells you to shout it from the rooftops?
The other part is shy, scared, frightened, and partially shamed and embarrassed.
Forget who knows.
Forget who reads.
Take it to the grave.
...or take my hand; please take my hand.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
It's been a while.
The pool is dark and brooding like a cloud passing over cerulean stained glass. Octopi slowly crawl out of the water onto lily pads and dark bunches of slimy green aquatic plant life. Their eyes are dark, but the small bit of light around the pool reflects brightly in their eyes as they stare into the darkness. It's chilling, the way their eyes seep into your soul and make you shiver.
A ray of light shines through the water, highlighting dust particles as it creeps through and lands on its subject. Motionless and calm, she sleeps for the rest of her eternity.
"Sometimes, they dump the bodies..."
I do not expect this from my friend's mouth, but she says the words so matter-of-factly, without so much as batting an eyelash, that I do not question her. I stare into the water.
Her hair is a soft dirty blonde, short and shoulder-length. Young. Maybe she is twenty-seven, twenty-eight. I cannot see her face, for she lays on her side, back facing us. She's clad gracefully in a white shirt and gray-blue jeans. No signs of cuts or bruises are on her body, and I wonder how she died. I feel nauseous.
I want to look away from the pool, look away from the sight of the lit water and dead body, but the image is burned into my memory. The way she lays there, motionless, the way the water makes soft rippled shadows on the pool's soft sandy floor... I cannot look away, and, when I do, it is as if I am still looking.
Panic and fear strike the body; waking is possibly worse than living the dream. She forever rests on the bottom of the pool, and we will never know her story.
A ray of light shines through the water, highlighting dust particles as it creeps through and lands on its subject. Motionless and calm, she sleeps for the rest of her eternity.
"Sometimes, they dump the bodies..."
I do not expect this from my friend's mouth, but she says the words so matter-of-factly, without so much as batting an eyelash, that I do not question her. I stare into the water.
Her hair is a soft dirty blonde, short and shoulder-length. Young. Maybe she is twenty-seven, twenty-eight. I cannot see her face, for she lays on her side, back facing us. She's clad gracefully in a white shirt and gray-blue jeans. No signs of cuts or bruises are on her body, and I wonder how she died. I feel nauseous.
I want to look away from the pool, look away from the sight of the lit water and dead body, but the image is burned into my memory. The way she lays there, motionless, the way the water makes soft rippled shadows on the pool's soft sandy floor... I cannot look away, and, when I do, it is as if I am still looking.
Panic and fear strike the body; waking is possibly worse than living the dream. She forever rests on the bottom of the pool, and we will never know her story.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)