Desert Dream

Awakened of a reason
I cannot identify.
Adrenaline is released
But not your hold of my thoughts.

Dizzied of heart, still clouded with dream
Twisting to even try.
Scorn, yet reaching again
I wince to the stretch of taut skin.

I reach to you, physically inept.
Here, somehow we may connect.
Surrender to sleep tonight
and regard to the light on the 'morrow; nothing yet lost.

You stir warmly, as a cool jeweled moon in a desert sky.
reflects the salt, dry on lush lips.
Disappearing again as your inviting dark curls slide, caressing your cheek.
Smiling, as your dream has enraptured you; as I envy to.

I will walk with you tonight, in the solitude of your dreams.
O peace, O rest; may you find it tonight.
Yet to awaken and feel the warmth of your touch would be the dream to me.

Poetry is dead

My friends, today poetry is dead, but why?

You see I believe it's the fear we dread
and the fact that we're lead
to face our hearts but we fled
to higher hills and we spread
the idea you keep to within and embed
and that it's not okay to share what's truly in your head.
Sadly, we have all been misled.

You are human and there is passion within you
You may presume
it takes some else to approve
or to nod their head for you to include
what good your heart can produce?
I implore you, to pick up this pursuit.

I'd like to explain to you how to derive these remarks
sometimes you have to venture within, embracing the dark
or other times you use the good within you to provide the spark
But no matter what, commit to expressing your heart within quotation marks.

This process will fill your heart up and make it heavy
the emotions will run high and it will break the levy
And as it rushes out of you, embrace the empty.
For me this process has always been plenty
but I'll tell you often times the sight's not pretty.

Poetry is not about being cute or getting a head start

And it's not about being able to present analytically in a flow chart
It's about making something you can call your work of art

For me, an inspiration strikes me, that pulls at my heart
and then it winds me tightly, until it splinters me apart
and the random words begin to bounce around a la carte.
This feeling overwhelms me and I begin to depart.

But to where? It's a place that is dark, and I'm not sure what to call it.
But I know it's easy to find for a functioning alcoholic.
It's a place where music is hypnotic
and you sense a level of hurt that is catastrophic
and where the ghosts that haunt you will turn demonic
and what ends up on my paper is just a touch psychotic.

When I get home at night, I pour a good scotch
My heart can feel for the most so I just sit back and watch
as it masochistically grabs a post so I can add another notch
and I won't shy away to almost duck or to dodge
From putting my hurt on a paper because it helps me dislodge
the falsification that my wants in this life have projected a mere mirage.

As I stand here before you, I realize perhaps I have disclosed too much
No, you see that is what this is about
Be free to express and not care that others doubt
that what you are is beautiful within and throughout
and that you're true to yourself no matter what the route
and sometimes you embrace your flaws but you let that shit out
Let your heart's ink spill and see what she writes about.

Adventure

Adventure

Friendship. Disappointment. Threat. Intimacy. Frustration. Happiness.

In one way or another we relate to everyone we meet, therefore we are in some form of relationship with each individual. This is the conventional wisdom that she destroys. To call this a relationship could describe it but it would not explain it. This would be to scratch the surface upon an immeasurable depth. To relate is to account for and attempt to connect.

Attempt?

We never just find an error and just try to make it better, no.

We move towards pleasure, away from lesser with an natural ebb and flow.

There is no “attempt”, whatsoever in our endeavor.

We sail seas of choppy waters of emotional adversity.

We stand atop a mountain, chasing down the sun as it descends.

We submerge into the waters of more difficult times.

We trek across miles of open fields of new experiences.

And we sit in the silence of the valley of the joyous moments before us.

I do not simply relate to her on experiences, I am on an adventure with her.

Centered

When my walls began to crack, it worried many in my circle. 

The cracks spidered upwards and some ran as the threat increased. As my walls came down, a few stayed to embrace and support. 

In the settling commotion, there were footprints leading away that I smiled towards. I appreciated what they contributed while they were here; part of me today is from them. As the dust cleared, many more stood with me than I anticipated. 

The rest of me has yet to be great because their presence is my potential. My strength is their support. My dreams are their hopes. And I them. My heart is centered with a reconciled circle. 

Paradox

Pain takes us back and serves to remind

That our hopes and failures will always intertwine.

With that pains comes beauty and within it, we define. 

For when we suffer loss we pine

Yet in victory we enshrine. 

For some reason we do not allow our hearts and actions to align. 

Perhaps that corroborates our imperfect design. 

The Pond

It was such a strikingly beautiful day.

Fingers lightly interlocked we strolled to a destination.

We laughed, we enjoyed and we were present.

There was an air of something sweet, almost a perfection per se. 

The surprise to her would be something great and I simply could not wait to see the look on her face.

This stroll would be healing and a final hurdle we would cross together. 

As we came upon the quiet pond, the look of sheer curiosity dawned on her face. Such a beautiful face if is to look upon.

She looked around her, as if the surprise would unveil itself. The longer I waited, the greater her anticipation heightened, thus the greater the revelation would be for her. Sheer excitement now prominent upon her face. 

My knuckles struck her face once fiercely, equivalent for the blow she first gave to my heart so long ago. If only I could capture the look of her thoughts shifting on her face as recompense for the hurt that I have already sustained. 

I struck her a second time for accepting my forgiveness as a weakness and preying upon it maliciously. Blood spattered outward in a delicate spray, just as a summer wind picks up newly seeded life to spread beauty about. The blood landed on an autumn canvass of dead leaves and dried beauty that crackled to perfection not long ago. 

With that, I delicately dragged my love to the pond. Struggling and gasping yet I lovingly lowered her to the surface of the water. How else could I have handled her but with absolute care? The contradiction of violence and adoration was reflective of the same tormenting way she had handled my heart all of these years. In that moment I gazed upon and savored the look of disbelief upon her face. I would need it later to relinquish the concern I was sure to have later; the one where I didn't inflict enough pain to make us even.

Her eyes widened as she reactively shook her head and I lowered her face below the surface. Her tears, now one with her fear all now deepening within the pond. 

The surface delicately wisped the blood from her cheeks in waves of watery sheets as her face continued to pale. Her body, now returning the earth and bringing her energy home. 

There were fighting screams, muffled by water. She was there, in front of me yet the screams resounded in a way that was distant. It rang true; even the most genuine of emotion from her would surely have to come from a place distant from her own heart. 

As the last convulsion shot through her limbs, she returned to innocence. There was no brow to misrepresent the emptiness behind it; her expression and thoughts now reconciled, finally. 

I restored her to the beauty she was always capable of. I returned her to a state where she can still be appreciated and adored. 

I left her body where I left the love I had for her; in a somber, chilling place from which there was no return. 

It was such a strikingly beautiful day. 

Hollow

She always met his presence
with a sense of worship.
And when the sentence was passed
she thought she knew for certain.

She never felt her feet touch the ground
the way his smile uplifted her.
They danced together in the dark
as her heart was quickened, the doubt shifted her.

When their open mouths met
the black tar hit the spoon.
Boiling, the flame flickers wildly
like the look in his eyes, her heart taken to swoon.

The pain he put her through
was the needle piercing the skin.
'Twas the wince of pain before the oncoming rush
Her blood would soon swim, one with his sin.

Defenseless to committing to him
the sudden push was slow and deadly steady.
The discomfort she felt now blown the wind
Her eyes rolled back in him, skin cold and sweaty.

His effect on her, she dutifully embraced
what was once all of someone else, from him was only a taste.
Enrapturing he was, the world around seemed suddenly erased
Her fear was displayed
His charisma persuaded
Her love was proclaimed
Yet his efforts could not maintain.

The need he created, he suddenly abandoned.
Gone was the presence, the promise and the intent.
Diminished to a life of chasing that same high
and the correction of this error she would attempt an amend.

Still warm to his touch, her heart cooled to slow.
What could of been she swore no one could know.
Her tranquil efforts cannot hold ground to grow
and she was left, soaked in sorrow.
Where did she lose control?
She moved to crawl to her hole
as the bitter bones crack with the loss of bone marrow.
What she once was is now left to a shadow
as she was left waiting, hanging on to that first high.