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 Jul 2015 ZA
Rumi
The moon has become a dancer
at this festival of love.
This dance of light,

This sacred blessing,
This divine love,
beckons us
to a world beyond
only lovers can see
with their eyes of fiery passion.

They are the chosen ones
who have surrendered.
Once they were particles of light
now they are the radiant sun.

They have left behind
the world of deceitful games.
They are the privileged lovers
who create a new world
with their eyes of fiery passion.
 May 2015 ZA
Daisies And Stories
Act One
Scene: a blue room with white curtains all drawn together tight
A broken record player filling my mouth with buzzing noise
You sit on the couch the way a queen sits on a conquered city
My eyes blind themselves with the dark of your hair

Time: When the sun and the moon collide

This is the part where I meet you
Where I really meet you
Where I get to know the inside of your cheek
The beating of your fluttery heart
The bruises on your sides like blooming roses
The soft hush of your words melting into my mouth

We play at lovers in a game that isn't our own

Act Two
Scene: Flashing lights sending the room into a flurry of technicolor madness
A bottle of ***** burning my throat like swallowed wooden matches
In a sea of movement you turn into a deity all on your own
My hands shake from the inside out and it is nothing, it is nothing

Time: When the waves engulfed the shore

This is the part where I hate you
Where I don't really hate you
But I hate him and him and her and him
And the way you are holding on to bones that are not my own
The clawing at my chest
The blood spinning in my head
The way you mean everything to me
And I don't even cast a shadow in your world
The way you shine and all I can do is long

I never meant for jealousy to wear my skin like a tailored suit

Act Three
Scene: An empty street and a lonely light
Jagged bricks digging into the soft part of my neck
You lean on a car and you don't look me in the eye
My tongue bleeds from all the words I cannot say

Time: When the stars fall from the sky

This is the part where I lose you
Except that I don't really lose you
Because in order to lose something, you must first have it
And I never had you
But I did keep your butterfly laugh in the cracks between my ribs
Your favorite lipstick in the pocket of my jacket
The broken shards of your full length mirror buried in my hands

I knew some people always loved more, always loved less, but I never knew you didn't love at all

Act Four
Scene: a blue room with white curtains all drawn tight
A broken record player imitating life
You are nowhere to be found  and yet your ghost keeps popping around
My spine creaks from the weight of the world, of love, of you

Time: When the moon stills sing for the morning light

This is the part where I wait for you
Where I really wait for you
Because I am stupid and naive and hopelessly hopeful
And maybe it's pathetic
But I'm still waiting for the sound of your heavy footsteps
Your red sweater on my desk
The warmth of your presence
For you to love me back

I'm still waiting for you to come back
 Feb 2015 ZA
Dust Bowl
Stop treating me like I'm the cut on your wrist your sweater just barely covers.
I am so sick of being something your ashamed of.
Your secret, your mistake.
But you know as well as I do that the guiltiest of pleasures are the most rewarding.
Maybe that's why you keep ending up back in my bed
And maybe that's why I keep letting you.
 Dec 2014 ZA
PrttyBrd
a loving heart knows no distance
and distance cannot quell desire
sparks that flare for every instance
neither time nor space can put out that fire

not for the tepid or the sorry
just seeking comfort wanting fun
because every letter builds a story
that binds two hearts and souls as one
112914
adapted from the lovely comments on the poem Dedition

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/964629/dedition/

It is always a pleasure to work with Wolf Spirit Quinfinn. He is absolutely delightful.  Thanks Q for pulling poetry out of thin air. Love it. :)
 Nov 2014 ZA
Pdub
Black Hole (10w)
 Nov 2014 ZA
Pdub
There's a black hole
where my heart used to be.
Emotions, such a *****.
 Nov 2014 ZA
jls
I am not a poet
 Nov 2014 ZA
jls
I see metaphors from broken hearts
and wish my heart would break into
something beautiful.
I spend my time making love to pen and paper
in hopes of producing
something acceptable.
I wait at my desk for hours,
crying and trying
to purge something useful out of me.
But no matter how hard I try,
no matter how much my fingers bleed
and my heart aches
I will never be a Poe, Hemingway or Dickinson.
I'm just a fragile little girl wearing her heart not on her sleeve but on paper.
Hoping,
praying,
that will be enough.
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