Looking Ahead.
With six words to my
name I have a voice
to fill the silence,
befriending echoes
and calling tomorrow
my new home;
with shades of
pleasures to pain,
imagining stale
lifetimes recanted
in words, I have new
daydreams to roam.
goodbyes
Insight Two.
my heart beats
so loudly when
you’re near that
I almost didn’t
hear you say
that for me,
there’ll never
be a second
chance; it was
like trying to
revitalize the
butterflies, only
to let them drown.
Letting Go, Or Something like that
For months I was carrying a
gram of hope around my heart,
telling myself that I was
patient enough to wait for you
to realize where your home
truly lay, between comfort and
complexity, growing rustic at
the edges with time and wild
fires blazing up in passion –
but those are not realizations
forming on your lips as we
finally take that dive and
converse back like we used to.
I am kept at a distance, with
two smiles and a half shrug,
for your words are telling me
never again, or ever truly was.
Believe me sweets, this isn’t
the truth that I was hoping
would become our end, but I
have listened to your sonnets
growing out beyond the waters;
I shall drop all hope the
next time that it rains.
Muse
I once called her name,
barely breaking a whisper,
trying to prove to myself
that I still could, even
though she had gone astray;
with me still looking for
her in the colors of my
pens, the spaces between my
words, and in the lines of
the journal that she had
insisted matched the
creativity that we were
creating. Together.
She was my second muse
having come and gone,
dried up with the blue ink
stains and coffee grounds
scattered across the page –
I can only hope she’s
traveling as well,
finding whatever it is
that she’s looking for.
Twenty.
As the heat began to drop,
the sun looming over the
tops of the treeline,
I was hit with that
unnerving realization
that while I wasn’t
eager, nor exactly
willing – it was time
to let go, and breathe.
Watch the sun fade,
christening the stars
as I focused on the
colors and shades
no longer the whys,
just one last time –
I was ready. It wasn’t
home but I’m sure
that I’ll be missed.
Thirteen.
I had tried to break the silence –
shattering all mirrors of yesterday,
while singing viciously over the future.
Too lost in stale vodka and sonnets,
that I once sung but now carry her
voice, I presume for you to notice.
I dare say, she sings much grander
than I – but I wonder what she’s saying
in the silence that makes your heart come
alive, like it did with me? Or doesn’t she
tease and evoke; make you quiver in that way?
Only silence, I presume – what a pity.
For now or always?
I’ll never know how to say goodbye –
do I whisper it softly and allow
it to fade off beyond the skyline,
harmonizing with the sweet moments
captured in between the colors of
the sun reflecting off the trees,
or do I slice it in half, bitter
at the core with the pain and anger
that is raging through my thoughts;
the hurt beyond my control as I want
to flee and run circles and scream
all in the moments of your turning
away, with two knifes in my side?
Tell me please, before you leave me.
Sunday’s are the worst…
I want to be wrapped in your arms,
with your touch promising me words
of always, not your half hushed
whispers of things getting better;
actions become facts, and words
become sharpened knives in
battles of broken hearts my dear,
you taught me that once upon
a time – when all I had were
fairy tales and dreams of love.
when I love you meant everything;
where everything else I could
always look the other way on.
Because I loved like the
horizon to the ocean –
never getting to hold them
but still sparking sunsets
and warmth every time I see them,
doing everything in my power to love
them throughout the days and my best
to let them shine alone in the nights.
It’s no longer the dreams come true,
white picket fences and happily
ever afters – it’s wanting to be wrapped
in each other on a Sunday afternoon
kissing and dozing the time away,
with stories of white knights,
damsels and talking frogs, whose
fantasies will never compete with
our own imaginary reality.
Acceptance.
at last I speak to question
the fateful path of life’s lies.
and burden our humble hearts
with caffeinated meager highs.
aware I stand loyally
with death ridden butterflies,
I plead with my late night drink
to grind out the pleading cries.
too late the doors are closing,
and I but a passerby
am quite aware I live on
the side not meant for I,
and so I drink in as much
and leave my words for the wise,
take with each an ounce of love
to soften too soon goodbyes.
Storylines in Verse 