Tears fall from wells
behind my eyes
pools of potential
fear, doubt, worry
shooting through
eyeballs on cue
into pockets
of losses.
Category / Uncategorized
Who is Love?
I’ve had many lovers,
I’ve made love many times,
but my love was found in the reflection of me in;
your eyes
your soul
your way.
Fingers grip flesh so deep it pierces the skin,
hurting you, strengthening me,
we continue in this ritual of emotions,
too strong to be expressed physically,
into the moment before the release,
when two souls become one entity,
and leave bare bodies on exposed sheets.
Lucid dreaming as you thrust your energy into me,
Tangible pain yields tantric bliss.
You are love.
Fear
Anxiety rising with the setting sun
Assaults from unloving souls resurface
Shadows haunt my conscious mind
Possibly paranoia –
Losing touch with reality
I see the face of
my former lover
my current enemy
all around me.
Featured image taken by Alexander Palacios
Questions
Lauryn Hill just wanted reciprocity
but see, I just want your honesty.
Did you ever love me?
not some idealized fantasy
the scarred jaded being that I am
that couldn’t live up to your expectations
and neediness and clinginess.
We fell into a mess of codependency,
We called it love,
We pretended to be happy.
A Warning
Be careful what you ask of the Universe
She listens
She responds
I have found my inspiration
but I may have lost my lover.
Complacency
I’ve reached the point in my relationship where I’m uncomfortable enough to write again. Poetry flows out of my pens like tears from my eyes, and I’m not sure how to feel.
Does anyone else get writer’s block from being too content in life?
“In our Western understanding of time we involve the correlative of distance. The past is away in that direction, the future in that, and the present is just here, where I happen to be. But we speak of the passage of time; times come and go, the day will come. We remain in place and observe the flow of time, just as we sit at the cinema and watch, fascinated, as images fly before our eyes. The plane of time is shattered; it is composed of moments, ad infinitum, in perpetual motion.”
N. Scott Momaday, “On Indian-White Relations: A Point of View”
