I've learned that Time is only the indication of one thing: Time.
It determines the seconds, minutes, hours as they pass
But it can't determine the rate at which a person falls.
Important factors in the drop.
Time doesn't get to determine how quickly he learns to make your heart stop.
I've always had these rules because Time told me they were right.
"Can't eat until that time."
"Can't shower until this time."
Can't give my heart away to a man after 28 days
Because Time claims, 'Too soon.'
But Time doesn't see the details.
It can't stop it's ticker, pause,
and see the way his hands make your body quiver.
time doesn't get to take a break
to feel the way his eyes gaze at you
as if he has never seen anything more beautiful.
And time can't feel the breath your lungs take
at the simple sight of him.
I've always had these rules because Time told me they were necessary.
And when he told me of the love he felt after 21 days,
I looked to time who yelled,
"Too soon, too soon, too soon, he can't possibly feel that now."
But then I look at him
and I can see the way he looks at me.
I get to feel the gentleness of his touch
and the intensity of his kiss.
Time can only pass.
And I've realized that time will pass,
whether you let yourself fall too soon
or if you allow the passing minutes
to inform you of when it's okay to start loving someone.
Time can only indicate the time.
Time counts the seconds.
But time does not get to tell me when it's okay to feel anymore.
Pens and sticks,
Needlepoints and ancient tribes,
All found value in the imprints of ink,
Written, scribed upon human flesh.
From whirling patterns to pictures and caricatures,
Blackest ink flowing as if an artery were severed.
From the elder of the tribe, covered in scars and ashen color.
The reckless youth in urban scapes,
All wished to express a feeling
that was simpler to draw
Then put into words.
The poets of the ancient times one could say.
Able to communicate with pictures more than words.
Perhaps an art lost to history.
The pen and the pencil
vied for attention
The pen's see through allure
flaunting it's slinky ink
promising permanence and validity
The pencil's long slim body
offering soft greys and a robust rubber
selling it's lead on both brevity and longevity
temptation lying in it's inherent correction abilities
providing sharpness in harness with deletion
"I don't wear a a silly rubber for my mistakes", said the pen
"You're the ugly descendant of the beautiful quill", said the pencil
"When did you ever hear of a pencil friend", said the pen
"I'm not 2 letters short of the male reproductive organ", said the pencil
"At least we're not ink cartridges", said the pen and the pencil
*rubber - you may know it as eraser
She whispered his name each
Night like a prayer waiting to be
Heard by a god she thought was
There. The way the syllables
Swirled round her tongue like an
Ancient tale she didn't know but
Felt when she heard her heart
Beat. The feel of the letters on her
Lips was like a childhood lullaby
She had heard a thousand times
But forgot the words to.
She longed for the person she had
Once known like her first name.
But what she didn't know was that
There are some things that must
Just remain forgotten.
The moon bestowed the sweetest simper.
Withal around the world would whimper.
In the fairest eyes, though oceans deep,
The mocking beauty an oil spill keeps
If mountain forrowed fingers shake ,
May cause a fragile mind to quake
And spin. Though true the world should do,
With thoughts with plastic threaded through
I never knew your voice except
I knew it from my dreams
And you know that I had little choice
You know I didn't want to hurt you
I wish my mind was just a stream
So that my thoughts might trickle instead of crash
I wish my blood, stuck in glass veins could run free
And I know I didn't want to break you,
I know I shattered when I broke you, and
I know you...
You were a home for broken and lost souls,
Don't you see?
You were a house, and I
Was a fucking tsunami.
I never meant to break you baby,
I wish I hadn't hurt you...
But everyone knew I would,