I've suddenly come to the realization that I
cannot be all the me I wish to see--
The me I hope and long for,
the me I project.
My "me" can't encompass you and how you
feel about my being.
It can't overcome your judgements of me,
just be-ing.
No--I'm imperfect, lost and broken.
Scared of being left alone,
Anxious about something I can't explain,
Afraid I won't make it in the world.
Stifiling everything around me with self-doubt.
A beautiful disaster is what I am--
A hot mess with plenty to fix.
Plenty to munch on, to dwell on
or
to move forward from.
I've fallen out of love with my perfect reflection
and see only what's left in the real--
Me.
An Imperfect Being, imperfectly be-ing;
And maybe, just maybe,
That ain't so bad after all.
30.6.10
30.5.09
Saint Joseph, Missouri
It is a strange and beautiful thing
To see lightning in the distance;
The approach of a distant storm
Across wide plains,
And to know the soul of the midwest.
To see lightning in the distance;
The approach of a distant storm
Across wide plains,
And to know the soul of the midwest.
7.12.08
Tonight I Want To Write
Tonight I want to Write
To express my inconsolable fear--that
Humanity has lost its ability to be good.
To record the dreams of today for
Tomorrow because Maybe the
Muse wont come to visit again
Soon.
Tonight my heart aches and I
Want to speak through this
Paper that ache may be
Forever recorded; vicodin
for my soul.
I want to write jazz on the
stereo, cigarette smoke that
I shouldn't like so much and
burnt coffee that wont keep
me up because caffeine lost
its potency long, long ago.
I want to write that I miss
him even though I left
after the ship sank and...
Jack... Jack...
I want to write of anarchical
desires of my once-right heart
where politics have become
apathy... because I study them.
Of how corporate dominance
is a pipe dream Howie Shultz
crammed down my throat
as he rubbed my back and
told me he'd be closing
my favorite Starbucks
store
--Onward
I want to write how I don't believe
"The One" exists how
after too many meaningless
fuck-ups I dont think
anyone really cares about
my feelings.
I feel the need to write
how in the last week
Turkish Silvers have reminded
me, in no particular order,
of Peaches, Pie, and Orange
Hi-C from Mcdonalds.
And I feel the need to write
about how,
once again,
I feel lonely and just want
a cosmic hug.
So tonight--
tonight--
I'll write.
To express my inconsolable fear--that
Humanity has lost its ability to be good.
To record the dreams of today for
Tomorrow because Maybe the
Muse wont come to visit again
Soon.
Tonight my heart aches and I
Want to speak through this
Paper that ache may be
Forever recorded; vicodin
for my soul.
I want to write jazz on the
stereo, cigarette smoke that
I shouldn't like so much and
burnt coffee that wont keep
me up because caffeine lost
its potency long, long ago.
I want to write that I miss
him even though I left
after the ship sank and...
Jack... Jack...
I want to write of anarchical
desires of my once-right heart
where politics have become
apathy... because I study them.
Of how corporate dominance
is a pipe dream Howie Shultz
crammed down my throat
as he rubbed my back and
told me he'd be closing
my favorite Starbucks
store
--Onward
I want to write how I don't believe
"The One" exists how
after too many meaningless
fuck-ups I dont think
anyone really cares about
my feelings.
I feel the need to write
how in the last week
Turkish Silvers have reminded
me, in no particular order,
of Peaches, Pie, and Orange
Hi-C from Mcdonalds.
And I feel the need to write
about how,
once again,
I feel lonely and just want
a cosmic hug.
So tonight--
tonight--
I'll write.
7.8.08
The Ballad of the Sad Heart
The Ballad of the Sad Heart
NH Brunk
Wearily, so wearily he crept up the side of the mountain, creeping so as not to disturb the spirit of the gargantuan temple and creeping wearily as his soul was burdened. The traveler stopped by a small spring to fill his canteen before he proceeded. As he filled it, he realized that he never saw this spring before and as he listened to its gurgling water, he thought about his travels thus far.
---
The journey had been arduous to say little, daunting to be frank, and impossible to be forward. Like Sisyphus, he’d rolled his burdened soul up this mountain so many times before, only to chase after it, skinning knees and cutting his hands as he reached out to brace himself, sliding back down behind it. He remembered the people that had pointed and laughed as he fell and how none had thrown him so much as a rope to grab onto each of the times he’d fallen. Each time, he’d sat at the same dried up riverbed at the base of the mountain and stared up above its tree line where it seemed to meet heaven. “One day,” he said.
---
He found himself, one day, sitting on the most comfortable rock in the riverbed, looking up at the mountain’s precipice. His stare must have indicated something prominent as another traveler stopped by him and squatted down.
“Ah,” said the young man, “you’re looking at the top!”
“Yes,” said the traveler without breaking his gaze, “one day I’ll reach it.”
“You’ve tried before?” The young man looked away from the mountain and rested his stare upon the traveler.
The traveler looked up and into the stone blue eyes of the young man. He had shaggy blonde hair and was dressed plainly, but he had a confidence about him that was almost visible as an aura of contentment. “Yes… yes I have,” he replied.
“And why have you not made it? There’s a shepherd I stay with on the top; he helped me find a walkable path in the midst of all the crags and snares up its sides.”
“I’ve tried so many times I’ve lost count, young friend,” said the traveler to the other. “Each time I try I fail, and each time someone gives me advice on which path leads to the top, only to laugh at me when their word leads to a slippery spot where I lose my footing.”
“Only one man lives at the top,” said the traveler. “Perhaps only he and those who have met him are fit to offer directions, straight and true.”
The traveler fought with this thought and lashed out at the young man. “Why is he so arrogant as to not make the way known to everyone else? Shouldn’t everyone be entitled to know the path that leads to the summit?”
“People think they’re ready for the top; they’ve sat where you sit now and have sought direction from those that have met the shepherd. They travel up the hard parts, but stop on its sides when they find an oasis, only to sit and guard it so that others don’t come across another place like their own. These were the people that lead you astray, and will be the ones who continue to offer bad advice on your next trip; you must avoid them and have faith in my directions.”
“Why?” said the weary traveler. “What guarantees do I have that your directions are any better than theirs?”
“None other than I have been to the top and I came back down to help others get there too. Here’s a canteen,” the young man handed it to the traveler, “in all of your pack it doesn’t appear you’ve remembered one.”
“The others told me it’s less than a few days journey, I didn’t think I needed more water than I could drink down here.”
“My friend,” said the young man, “the journey is as long or as short as we make it, but it’s always best to prepare for the long-haul.”
“Humph… well, thanks,” muttered the traveler, somewhat annoyed with the young man. Though he wouldn’t come right out and say it, he expected these directions to end him up in the same place he began, staring at the mountain and thinking, “One day.”
“So how do I get to the top?” The traveler spoke quickly, the words sounding more biting than he intended.
“Ah,” said the young man, “you’re willing to try again?”
“One day I’ll make it! Please, tell me how to get to the top!” The traveler was near tears, feeling taunted by the younger man. “If you’ve made it before, tell me how to make it!”
“My friend,” the young man spoke quietly and placed his hand on the sulking traveler’s back, “I do not want to tell you, I want to take you myself. Your pack looks heavy, let me carry it for you.”
The offer of assistance had never accompanied any of the directions he’d previously been given and as his pack was heavy, he welcomed the respite from its burden. He slowly removed the straps from his shoulders, stood and picked up the pack. The young man took it out of his hands and put it on his own back with such ease it startled the traveler. “This man must be stronger than he looks,” thought the man to himself.
The traveler stood fully as his back cracked and popped. He’d long been under the burden of that pack and it felt refreshing to stand without its weight, without stooping. His moment of ecstasy quickly ended as his mind brought him back to the moment.
“I’ve nothing of value in that pack! If you decide to make off with it, you won’t get much for it.” The traveler was still wary of the young man, to the traveler, he had every right to be.
“Friend,” said the young man, cool and collected, “this isn’t a trick. We must get going though, it’s almost noon.”
The young man started off in front of the man, walking in the riverbed rather than toward the mountain. The traveler questioned his decision for only a moment before he picked up the canteen and hurried behind the young leader. The young man walked faster and surer than the traveler was used to, it took him a few minutes to adjust to the pace, but excitement caught on and he didn’t want to stop.
Within an hour they’d come to a clearing at the base of the mountain the traveler didn’t recognize. He’d always been told the easier way was around the other side of the mountain, yet he trusted this man for some reason he couldn’t explain. Thus far it appeared he at least knew one way others didn’t. Without speaking, they ascended through the clearing and up the mountain. It wasn’t as easy as some of the ways he’d tried before, but the traveler was surprised that each time he slipped the young man reached back and offered a hand to stop his fall. Sometimes he took it, other times he made the same mistake he had each time before and stopped himself with his own hands, cutting them and cursing the ground that dug deep into his palms.
After one such outburst, once the traveler had regained his composure, the young man looked at him and said, “Why do you curse the ground when it’s your own unsure footing that caused you to slip?”
“I… the…” the traveler strained to respond, but no words came. Instead he continued on in silence.
The pair came to a flat place just as they met the tree line, it was grassy but even in the dimming light of the afternoon; the man could see that it was painted with wildflower colors around a bubbling spring. He didn’t remember any such place from his previous journeys, but was refreshed as he knelt down and filled his canteen.
The traveler snapped from his daze just as the canteen started to overflow back into the spring, down onto his hands and back down the mountain. He sighed as he sat back on his haunches and drank the cool water. The young man sat down quietly next to him, placing the pack down gently as if it were no heavier than a feather.
“So what’s your story, traveler?” asked the boy as the traveler quenched his thirst. “Why this mountain? Why try so many times?”
The traveler wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and looked back into the stone blue eyes of the young man. He sighed, “It’s my destiny.”
“To reach the top?”
“To see what’s there, young friend.”
The young man answered, “Anyone could have told you what’s there; the shepherd and his small flock, his home. What difference does it make?”
“It’s not knowing, it’s seeing. Going to see it is my destiny.” The traveler turned his head away from the young man’s eyes; he sensed the young man knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth, or that the burdens of his own soul were seeping out of his own eyes.
“Traveler,” said the young man, “forgive me for being forward, but I know it’s not the whole truth. Like you, I had to see what was at the top of the mountain for myself, it was my destiny. Looking down at the riverbed from the top, as barely recognizable as it is, every step that you take up this mountain will make sense to you there. Every painful slide down, every taunt or jab that the others have made will fall away. Just remember that as we keep on you must keep putting foot in front of foot. You’ll continue to slip, the climb gets harder from here on out, but I will walk behind you and watch that your footing is sure.”
“Why do you do this?” asked the traveler, unable to keep the tears behind his eyes, sobbing as he looked again into the thoughtful eyes of his companion.
“Because, this is my destiny.”
The man put his head between his legs and cried; he had not known sincerity or honesty like this before. Each time it was a misleading direction, a sneer from one of the people who lived on the mountain, or their thundering laughter that echoed in his head as he slipped and fell off one of their “paths to the top.” But this young man was genuine; the traveler recognized it and was overcome.
He looked up; the young man was standing over him with his hand outstretched. He spoke softly, “we’ve got to continue if we’re going to make it by night.”
The traveler put his hand in the young man’s and hoisted himself up. He reached around his guide and hugged him deeply as he sobbed into the young man’s shoulder. The young man hugged back harder and whispered into the traveler’s ear, “I wont let you fall, we’ll get to the top together.”
After a moment, the traveler pulled back and nodded, wiping his face with his shirt then motioning for them to carry on.
---
Just as he had said, the young man walked behind the traveler, warning him of unsure footing that he saw ahead. When the traveler slipped, the young man caught him. They carried on for another two hours until the peak was in sight. The traveler looked back at the young man whose smile stretched wide. The young man nodded and the traveler took off at a sprint.
Clamoring over the rocks, he flew up until he stood upon the mountain’s precipice. The young man, still carrying the traveler’s pack made his way up shortly behind him.
Each man looked at the other, tears welling up in their eyes. Neither had to say a word, their embrace captured the moment. The traveler opened his eyes over the shoulder of his dear friend and saw the mountain’s top drew down a little into a wide plain covered in grass, impossibly green and dense for the altitude. The traveler reached around and removed his pack from the young man, putting it on his own shoulders. “It seems so light,” thought the traveler to himself. Just then he saw the strong, old form of the shepherd coming towards them, leaning on his staff as he looked at the two men.
“Welcome friends, I’ve been expecting you!” His aged voice allowed a quiet comfort to creep over the traveler, finally giving him a sense of peace, that he had fulfilled his destiny.
“And I you, shepherd,” said the traveler, feeling as though he had just arrived home.
He looked down the mountain and saw the riverbed below; over the snares and rocks they’d made their way through, thankful for this young man who had finally shown him the way up. He smiled, and as he turned back to the shepherd and his friend he thought to himself, “it all makes sense.”
NH Brunk
Wearily, so wearily he crept up the side of the mountain, creeping so as not to disturb the spirit of the gargantuan temple and creeping wearily as his soul was burdened. The traveler stopped by a small spring to fill his canteen before he proceeded. As he filled it, he realized that he never saw this spring before and as he listened to its gurgling water, he thought about his travels thus far.
---
The journey had been arduous to say little, daunting to be frank, and impossible to be forward. Like Sisyphus, he’d rolled his burdened soul up this mountain so many times before, only to chase after it, skinning knees and cutting his hands as he reached out to brace himself, sliding back down behind it. He remembered the people that had pointed and laughed as he fell and how none had thrown him so much as a rope to grab onto each of the times he’d fallen. Each time, he’d sat at the same dried up riverbed at the base of the mountain and stared up above its tree line where it seemed to meet heaven. “One day,” he said.
---
He found himself, one day, sitting on the most comfortable rock in the riverbed, looking up at the mountain’s precipice. His stare must have indicated something prominent as another traveler stopped by him and squatted down.
“Ah,” said the young man, “you’re looking at the top!”
“Yes,” said the traveler without breaking his gaze, “one day I’ll reach it.”
“You’ve tried before?” The young man looked away from the mountain and rested his stare upon the traveler.
The traveler looked up and into the stone blue eyes of the young man. He had shaggy blonde hair and was dressed plainly, but he had a confidence about him that was almost visible as an aura of contentment. “Yes… yes I have,” he replied.
“And why have you not made it? There’s a shepherd I stay with on the top; he helped me find a walkable path in the midst of all the crags and snares up its sides.”
“I’ve tried so many times I’ve lost count, young friend,” said the traveler to the other. “Each time I try I fail, and each time someone gives me advice on which path leads to the top, only to laugh at me when their word leads to a slippery spot where I lose my footing.”
“Only one man lives at the top,” said the traveler. “Perhaps only he and those who have met him are fit to offer directions, straight and true.”
The traveler fought with this thought and lashed out at the young man. “Why is he so arrogant as to not make the way known to everyone else? Shouldn’t everyone be entitled to know the path that leads to the summit?”
“People think they’re ready for the top; they’ve sat where you sit now and have sought direction from those that have met the shepherd. They travel up the hard parts, but stop on its sides when they find an oasis, only to sit and guard it so that others don’t come across another place like their own. These were the people that lead you astray, and will be the ones who continue to offer bad advice on your next trip; you must avoid them and have faith in my directions.”
“Why?” said the weary traveler. “What guarantees do I have that your directions are any better than theirs?”
“None other than I have been to the top and I came back down to help others get there too. Here’s a canteen,” the young man handed it to the traveler, “in all of your pack it doesn’t appear you’ve remembered one.”
“The others told me it’s less than a few days journey, I didn’t think I needed more water than I could drink down here.”
“My friend,” said the young man, “the journey is as long or as short as we make it, but it’s always best to prepare for the long-haul.”
“Humph… well, thanks,” muttered the traveler, somewhat annoyed with the young man. Though he wouldn’t come right out and say it, he expected these directions to end him up in the same place he began, staring at the mountain and thinking, “One day.”
“So how do I get to the top?” The traveler spoke quickly, the words sounding more biting than he intended.
“Ah,” said the young man, “you’re willing to try again?”
“One day I’ll make it! Please, tell me how to get to the top!” The traveler was near tears, feeling taunted by the younger man. “If you’ve made it before, tell me how to make it!”
“My friend,” the young man spoke quietly and placed his hand on the sulking traveler’s back, “I do not want to tell you, I want to take you myself. Your pack looks heavy, let me carry it for you.”
The offer of assistance had never accompanied any of the directions he’d previously been given and as his pack was heavy, he welcomed the respite from its burden. He slowly removed the straps from his shoulders, stood and picked up the pack. The young man took it out of his hands and put it on his own back with such ease it startled the traveler. “This man must be stronger than he looks,” thought the man to himself.
The traveler stood fully as his back cracked and popped. He’d long been under the burden of that pack and it felt refreshing to stand without its weight, without stooping. His moment of ecstasy quickly ended as his mind brought him back to the moment.
“I’ve nothing of value in that pack! If you decide to make off with it, you won’t get much for it.” The traveler was still wary of the young man, to the traveler, he had every right to be.
“Friend,” said the young man, cool and collected, “this isn’t a trick. We must get going though, it’s almost noon.”
The young man started off in front of the man, walking in the riverbed rather than toward the mountain. The traveler questioned his decision for only a moment before he picked up the canteen and hurried behind the young leader. The young man walked faster and surer than the traveler was used to, it took him a few minutes to adjust to the pace, but excitement caught on and he didn’t want to stop.
Within an hour they’d come to a clearing at the base of the mountain the traveler didn’t recognize. He’d always been told the easier way was around the other side of the mountain, yet he trusted this man for some reason he couldn’t explain. Thus far it appeared he at least knew one way others didn’t. Without speaking, they ascended through the clearing and up the mountain. It wasn’t as easy as some of the ways he’d tried before, but the traveler was surprised that each time he slipped the young man reached back and offered a hand to stop his fall. Sometimes he took it, other times he made the same mistake he had each time before and stopped himself with his own hands, cutting them and cursing the ground that dug deep into his palms.
After one such outburst, once the traveler had regained his composure, the young man looked at him and said, “Why do you curse the ground when it’s your own unsure footing that caused you to slip?”
“I… the…” the traveler strained to respond, but no words came. Instead he continued on in silence.
The pair came to a flat place just as they met the tree line, it was grassy but even in the dimming light of the afternoon; the man could see that it was painted with wildflower colors around a bubbling spring. He didn’t remember any such place from his previous journeys, but was refreshed as he knelt down and filled his canteen.
The traveler snapped from his daze just as the canteen started to overflow back into the spring, down onto his hands and back down the mountain. He sighed as he sat back on his haunches and drank the cool water. The young man sat down quietly next to him, placing the pack down gently as if it were no heavier than a feather.
“So what’s your story, traveler?” asked the boy as the traveler quenched his thirst. “Why this mountain? Why try so many times?”
The traveler wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and looked back into the stone blue eyes of the young man. He sighed, “It’s my destiny.”
“To reach the top?”
“To see what’s there, young friend.”
The young man answered, “Anyone could have told you what’s there; the shepherd and his small flock, his home. What difference does it make?”
“It’s not knowing, it’s seeing. Going to see it is my destiny.” The traveler turned his head away from the young man’s eyes; he sensed the young man knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth, or that the burdens of his own soul were seeping out of his own eyes.
“Traveler,” said the young man, “forgive me for being forward, but I know it’s not the whole truth. Like you, I had to see what was at the top of the mountain for myself, it was my destiny. Looking down at the riverbed from the top, as barely recognizable as it is, every step that you take up this mountain will make sense to you there. Every painful slide down, every taunt or jab that the others have made will fall away. Just remember that as we keep on you must keep putting foot in front of foot. You’ll continue to slip, the climb gets harder from here on out, but I will walk behind you and watch that your footing is sure.”
“Why do you do this?” asked the traveler, unable to keep the tears behind his eyes, sobbing as he looked again into the thoughtful eyes of his companion.
“Because, this is my destiny.”
The man put his head between his legs and cried; he had not known sincerity or honesty like this before. Each time it was a misleading direction, a sneer from one of the people who lived on the mountain, or their thundering laughter that echoed in his head as he slipped and fell off one of their “paths to the top.” But this young man was genuine; the traveler recognized it and was overcome.
He looked up; the young man was standing over him with his hand outstretched. He spoke softly, “we’ve got to continue if we’re going to make it by night.”
The traveler put his hand in the young man’s and hoisted himself up. He reached around his guide and hugged him deeply as he sobbed into the young man’s shoulder. The young man hugged back harder and whispered into the traveler’s ear, “I wont let you fall, we’ll get to the top together.”
After a moment, the traveler pulled back and nodded, wiping his face with his shirt then motioning for them to carry on.
---
Just as he had said, the young man walked behind the traveler, warning him of unsure footing that he saw ahead. When the traveler slipped, the young man caught him. They carried on for another two hours until the peak was in sight. The traveler looked back at the young man whose smile stretched wide. The young man nodded and the traveler took off at a sprint.
Clamoring over the rocks, he flew up until he stood upon the mountain’s precipice. The young man, still carrying the traveler’s pack made his way up shortly behind him.
Each man looked at the other, tears welling up in their eyes. Neither had to say a word, their embrace captured the moment. The traveler opened his eyes over the shoulder of his dear friend and saw the mountain’s top drew down a little into a wide plain covered in grass, impossibly green and dense for the altitude. The traveler reached around and removed his pack from the young man, putting it on his own shoulders. “It seems so light,” thought the traveler to himself. Just then he saw the strong, old form of the shepherd coming towards them, leaning on his staff as he looked at the two men.
“Welcome friends, I’ve been expecting you!” His aged voice allowed a quiet comfort to creep over the traveler, finally giving him a sense of peace, that he had fulfilled his destiny.
“And I you, shepherd,” said the traveler, feeling as though he had just arrived home.
He looked down the mountain and saw the riverbed below; over the snares and rocks they’d made their way through, thankful for this young man who had finally shown him the way up. He smiled, and as he turned back to the shepherd and his friend he thought to himself, “it all makes sense.”
3.4.08
Literary Elitism
Who ever said poetry had to be literary?
Intellectual BS sprayed out on the unwitting masses,
Captured in propaganda drenched subliminal ice cream.
Freezer burn on the fruits of our labors
Judged by the people we love most in the world
Reducing us to mushy peas.
At least the British would still consume us.
Professors sit in the front rows of readings,
Agreeing with the in-between-the-lines hilarity
That only they understand.
Apparently the average person is immune to poetry,
Mushy peas and propagandist ice cream
Mean more to me than the average man.
I’m so full of shit.
Some of the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever heard
Only takes up one line;
The worst: many.
Everyone thinks they need to be sneaky
About making their point,
That dancing around the fire will please the poetry gods.
Why are we so afraid of frank?
You know what I say? (non-poetically?)
I want to affect change in a tangible way in the world.
I want to start a revolution.
I want equal rights for gays.
I want to reduce suffering in the world.
I want gender equality… it doesn’t scare me.
I want to be the spark that sets off the bomb.
But if you say bomb on the phone,
The NSA will crush the revolution;
They’ll extinguish all hope.
And a black man wont be president
And we’ll still have a two party system
And we’ll still find someone to hate.
God Bless America.
Poetry doesn’t have to be
Under the surface,
Worrying about where line breaks should go.
In fact, I dislike studying poetry.
But I love writing it,
And hope, sincerely, someone gets something from it.
Someday.
Intellectual BS sprayed out on the unwitting masses,
Captured in propaganda drenched subliminal ice cream.
Freezer burn on the fruits of our labors
Judged by the people we love most in the world
Reducing us to mushy peas.
At least the British would still consume us.
Professors sit in the front rows of readings,
Agreeing with the in-between-the-lines hilarity
That only they understand.
Apparently the average person is immune to poetry,
Mushy peas and propagandist ice cream
Mean more to me than the average man.
I’m so full of shit.
Some of the most beautiful poetry I’ve ever heard
Only takes up one line;
The worst: many.
Everyone thinks they need to be sneaky
About making their point,
That dancing around the fire will please the poetry gods.
Why are we so afraid of frank?
You know what I say? (non-poetically?)
I want to affect change in a tangible way in the world.
I want to start a revolution.
I want equal rights for gays.
I want to reduce suffering in the world.
I want gender equality… it doesn’t scare me.
I want to be the spark that sets off the bomb.
But if you say bomb on the phone,
The NSA will crush the revolution;
They’ll extinguish all hope.
And a black man wont be president
And we’ll still have a two party system
And we’ll still find someone to hate.
God Bless America.
Poetry doesn’t have to be
Under the surface,
Worrying about where line breaks should go.
In fact, I dislike studying poetry.
But I love writing it,
And hope, sincerely, someone gets something from it.
Someday.
1.4.08
What's Written On My Heart
I feel like
Those three little
words mean so
much more when
you enumerate them.
"I love you."
Not "you too" or "ditto,"
but a commitment--
reaffirming over and over
You're mine and I'm yours.
Maybe you're not.
Maybe I'm not.
But God, Dear God, PLEASE
GOD
Let him be mine.
The relational limbo bar
Has been lowered by
The voodoo priestess, "Lust,"
Her cackling laughter signifies distrust on
Your perceptions of me
making you believe I'm
Incapable of doing this-
Making it work.
And it makes me so full
Of sorrow I could fill
A reservoir with tears,
Cry 'till my insides dried
Up and blew away like
Fall leaves Because
I'M SO GODDAMNED SCARED OF LOSING YOU.
I believe you capable,
Mature, and faithful
Enough to make this
Work; to give it one
Last stab before
The body politick of "us"
Is eternally, mortally
wounded.
Please,
Don't go.
I
Love
You.
Those three little
words mean so
much more when
you enumerate them.
"I love you."
Not "you too" or "ditto,"
but a commitment--
reaffirming over and over
You're mine and I'm yours.
Maybe you're not.
Maybe I'm not.
But God, Dear God, PLEASE
GOD
Let him be mine.
The relational limbo bar
Has been lowered by
The voodoo priestess, "Lust,"
Her cackling laughter signifies distrust on
Your perceptions of me
making you believe I'm
Incapable of doing this-
Making it work.
And it makes me so full
Of sorrow I could fill
A reservoir with tears,
Cry 'till my insides dried
Up and blew away like
Fall leaves Because
I'M SO GODDAMNED SCARED OF LOSING YOU.
I believe you capable,
Mature, and faithful
Enough to make this
Work; to give it one
Last stab before
The body politick of "us"
Is eternally, mortally
wounded.
Please,
Don't go.
I
Love
You.
3.3.08
Erotique
I want to know you.
More.
I want to lay with you.
Longer.
Feeling the pulsations of your love for me
Deep
Down
Beneath my beating heart.
I don’t want to fuck.
I don’t want you to bend me over
And treat me like a rag-doll.
I want you to love me with your thrusts.
I want to kiss your soul through the
Nerve endings of your lips.
Every nibble a question,
Every gasp of pleasure
A response to my disparate begging
For you to be with me,
For you to be
In me.
That with the quickening of breaths
And the sweat pouring off of four-hundred calories an hour
We might become
I
Might become
Us.
I don’t want to read you Gomez to get aroused,
Rather I want to write on your heart through the
Tongue-in-ear foreplay that makes you pull me close,
Pulls me in to you and makes you into me.
I want to sense every nanometer of you throughout my being
Transcending physical reality to deify our love.
Us is the vessel through which the gift of intense pleasure
Is delivered
Beyond kisses and positions,
Beyond numbers and technical terms.
I want to run my fingers through your hair down to the
Throbbing manifestation of your desire and feel you
Penetrate
My every wish for our future in this moment
Given freely and unhindered to/for you.
The temple of our body becoming the offering to One greatness.
…
Love me faster, faster, faster,
Desire me harder, hmmmmmmmm.
My hands as your guide on the map of my body;
Become I
Become us
With you
In me.
More.
I want to lay with you.
Longer.
Feeling the pulsations of your love for me
Deep
Down
Beneath my beating heart.
I don’t want to fuck.
I don’t want you to bend me over
And treat me like a rag-doll.
I want you to love me with your thrusts.
I want to kiss your soul through the
Nerve endings of your lips.
Every nibble a question,
Every gasp of pleasure
A response to my disparate begging
For you to be with me,
For you to be
In me.
That with the quickening of breaths
And the sweat pouring off of four-hundred calories an hour
We might become
I
Might become
Us.
I don’t want to read you Gomez to get aroused,
Rather I want to write on your heart through the
Tongue-in-ear foreplay that makes you pull me close,
Pulls me in to you and makes you into me.
I want to sense every nanometer of you throughout my being
Transcending physical reality to deify our love.
Us is the vessel through which the gift of intense pleasure
Is delivered
Beyond kisses and positions,
Beyond numbers and technical terms.
I want to run my fingers through your hair down to the
Throbbing manifestation of your desire and feel you
Penetrate
My every wish for our future in this moment
Given freely and unhindered to/for you.
The temple of our body becoming the offering to One greatness.
…
Love me faster, faster, faster,
Desire me harder, hmmmmmmmm.
My hands as your guide on the map of my body;
Become I
Become us
With you
In me.
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