Shaking at the thought.
Is the chaos contained or is it
free to delve deep inside of me?
I know you're waiting.
You have your hand outstretched,
waiting for a smile or a gesture
that says you know what comes next.
When does it let up?
Can we come and take off?
How does it go when you move
when the sign says stop?
How many wish their days were different.
Just how far would one force the wheel back.
How many hours and seconds feel wasted.
Phone calls that last into the a.m.
We call them day dreams.
Because when night falls.
Only nightmares await.
What is it called when the terror recedes due to repetition.
So many ache for a life less frightening.
Constantly swerving to avoid shadows.
Disregarding the dotted lines left by those that embrace an unknown.
That will never be traversed again.
Creating a fear of mistakes.
That only feed the ever growing mass which ironically will never know growth.
It is too perpetual to be called stagnant.
And we have yet to see just how much will be consumed.
It's only when a distinction can be made.
That will cause such a drastic shift in paradigm.
Sending tremors of enlightenment and damnation alike back to the epicenter.
Just to shake down what meager sandcastle stand.
Can one breathe life.
When so many forget to inhale.
Then thrust themselves into an endless void.
which should never have been undertaken to begin with.
Like trying to start a car without first getting out of bed.
Then realize only a tire-less bicycle is all that sits in the drive way.
One Should fear.
For sometimes it is the only drive that can be counted on.
with such fluid movements,
it's as if passion flows throughout your body.
with each subtle motion,
you articulate a thousand words and sentiments.
with each impressive twist and turn,
you capture those who dare to witness the art you exhibit.
with such fundamental gestures,
you articulate more than i could ever put down on paper.
it's incredible how your body is able to tell stories,
ones that authors only dream of writing.
it's spectacular how you can convey emotions through your eyes,
how dancers envy when they have the chance to watch you.
it's almost implausible to think that such an art form can portray so much,
but seeing you in your element can make anyone a believer.
it's the way that you're able say so much without saying anything at all,
that in itself is a remarkable accomplishment.
when you move that way,
you appear so elegant yet fragile.
how captivating it is to take in every faint change in movement you make,
the way so many thoughts go into something that appears so insignificant.
i feel as though i am not worthy of experiencing something so exquisite,
but it's a crime to deprive myself if i know that it will be breathtaking.
if there is an existence so wonderful in front of me,
i'm willing to halt and observe for the benefit of my own artistic endeavors and then some.
but is it the art form itself that i am enraptured in,
or is it the individual engaging in it?
is it the movements that express those unspoken words to me,
or the way the person behind them depicts them?
maybe i am only enchanted by it because of you,
the way you move is indescribable like an untranslatable word that we will never fully grasp.
the art in which you indulge in is sensational,
and i am awfully fortunate to have the opportunity to behold it.
purely because you are a masterpiece.
You know how your follicles open and your heart tightens.
The way your loins creep upward when you gift her something thoughtful.
That's how I feel when I make you cum 5 times in one day.
That's my thoughtful gift.
Physical and intrinsic.
You know how important you feel when she buys you 4 bean bags which look good only next to her insular lava lamps.
And I. I am only most important when you leave me your words to immerse myself in.
I am chosen then abandoned for her throne.
Think about that and ask me why I can't work with you if I can't have your words inside of me if only to crown you King.
Goddamn it sir.
Living a pipe-dream, I realise,
This life ain't what we despise.
Greedy with desires, running on a course,
Not being content, filled with remorse.
Taking a step back, I see what it's like,
Chugging along parallel lines, is what we call life.
A line of desires, a line which we are on,
An illusion of convergence, that's all we've got.
So rage along your path, keeping on the smile,
Life is not a destination, but a journey worth each mile.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long.
Just long enough for people to stop and live
the moment along.
If we could stop and tell the world the point of it all,
many eyes of disguise would laugh as they think they already know.
How could we forget and loose our point along the way,
And keep on walking breathlessly, as if the secret has never been told away.
We share our memories and our tears
We live in an irrational emotional fears.
If we could write a motion memento
Just a couple of sentences long
just long enough to catch attention
in this fast living world.
Just long enough to remind you
that all you have is NOW.
I want to exile
from this still-life (though it is
still life), but I found
so hard even my
own motion within those stiff,
of living... How knows?
Maybe there is no rise and
fall, but the gaudy
illusion; the cold,
of dried paint spots on a wall.
To wear on certain occasions
While beings form
From the murky waters
Structures of lies
That keep kindred souls
A window pane
Watching the world collapse
In 2D motion
Only to find freedom
Within the mind.
Watching way up high
'planes criss-crossing the sky
weaving geometric vapour trails
from multiple metallic tails
Watching from a hill
motorway traffic standing still
clogged up, bogged down and static
motorists somewhat short of ecstatic
Watching through my windscreen
at every unfolding scene
nose to tail, tail to nose
bumper to bumper, queue jumper
Watching through my glasses
the flow of the human masses
everyone in perpetual motion
c'mon baby do the locomotion!
Tell me in a whisper
softly speaking in my ear
Let me close my eyes
and feel you really near
Hands on skin of velvet
a callous dream come true
A juxtaposed position
this love I have with you
A poet you are too
so am I
Poetry in motion
was left in our goodbye
I see you here tomorrow
to kiss your lips again
Pull out another paper
and caress you with my pen
I write about the passion
as fire burns us down
From crumpled old love letters
left lying on the ground
Returned I am
gone without a sound
dipping my quill in ink
stroking in black ashes
fanning the flames
for you again.
Cherie Nolan© 2016