In this world of pure immensity
United we were in a wonderful serendipity
In this madness where I don't belong
The only thing that keeps me strong
Is the sparkle of your eyes
You must be the devil in disguise
I can feel your heartbeat
I'm holding on to every dream
Yes, I feel your heartbeat
Pumping though my veins, so extreme
With us, nothing is impossible
You see, our love is invincible
I just need to hold you tonight
So that I can die in your arms, holding you tight
it's like the ocean.
Every time it comes back up
it Hits me harder,
Until the tips of my toes
Leave the rough floor.
And my greedy lungs are denied
The oxygen they so desperately need
And my heart the happiness
It so desperately desires.
I am thrown and tumbled
Grasping for anything
A moment of stability
A second to breathe
I find it
And hold so tight
Beneath my fingertips
The waves come again
So much stronger
But this time
There is no struggle
As I slip farther down
The light resigns.
Staying at the top
Unable to penetrate
The salty water
And my overwhelming thoughts.
When I stop fighting
these waves of sadness.
I think it's better if I leave.
Nobody to hurt anymore,
Nobody worry for me.
I can't stand to be around.
I think it's better if I go.
I'm never going to be that person,
Never going to be missed at all.
I can't carry on.
So here I go....
I can't do this,
I'm only fooling myself.
I can't go on like this,
I don't feel right here.
I think I've dealt enough with this.
Too many people I've let down,
Too many people I have missed.
It's better if I'm gone.
I think I've put you through enough.
Too many tears I've seen fall,
Too many fears I have held.
It's so hard to go through.
So here I go...
I can't go on like this,
I've fear of hurting you more.
I can't go on like this,
I'm scared of losing you.
I think I've made many mistakes.
Not ones you're likely to let go,
Not ones you will ever forget.
Let me go now.
I think I've done too much damage.
No one to hold anymore,
No one to tell me I'm okay.
Let me go now.
You write depressing poetry you lay in your bed for hours wasting time rocking yourself back and forth with tears streaming down your face and you cry until you can't you stare at the ceiling and you go crazy you want to scream and punch things you want to hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger you want to die you want to hurt them but you want to hold and love them at the same time you want to shout you want to throw things you ignore it and you don't ignore it you sink into your darkness and let it consume you you burn because that's all you have left to do you burn with each memory and laugh as it sears your skin and fire rips through your veins and your heart thuds in your chest and you can't breathe. I don't know I don't know because that's all I know how to do I can't tell you how to stop loving someone or how to heal from your sadness because I'm still searching for that answer myself.
A Poem on Zugzwang :
Before your life ends up in Zugzwang
Learn to pin, Devoid of sins!
Skewer your thoughts,
Hope against odds.
Manoeuvre your troops and forces
Plant outposts and seal victories
Numbered are your moments,
To post your deserving achievements!
Plan, Work Sail and Prevail
This is the way you must trail.
Chess is timing, so Is Life!
Move with a purpose, Have High aims!
Face the gale when
Defence is the demand
Hold on! Take charge and command.
Do the best and Leave the Rest
And he will save your position from the Critical Zugzwang!
Her eyes are small bite pieces of chocolate and I want to call her eye candy but I have stopped objectifying women because I found a woman who is as sweet as she is strong.
She grazes my earlobe back and forth until I smile. We are in her bed, tired from lovemaking, happy from lovemaking, indulgent from lovemaking.
Her forehead is touching my cheekbone and her legs have tangled my leg and I hope they stay that way forever.
Her cream colored blanket keeps us warm and secure from the bitter cold of a December Sunday.
She traces her thumb over my lower lip and I tremble with satisfaction. Her hand slips under the blanket and inside my black slacks. She grabs a hold of my penis.
She pushes my head toward her face so that my eyes lock on to her eyes. Those small bite pieces of chocolate melting my soul, making me quiver a pleasure that is immeasurable and nuanced.
her words laid out before
me like a feast of the fanciful mind
and her inner demons like ravens of the soiled soul
hold themselves at the ready with wary eyes
her words spill in slow honey
smooth on the minds tongue
and leaves an aftertaste like mull wine
leaves one lightheaded and without inhibition
i become a drunkard of her thought
forever lounging near her lips in my mind
waiting for the intoxications to begin
my own words come like the unshaven behemoth
like the fair maidens foul brother
my conversation a meal with dance of the clumsy attempt
each step has a sticky note of scrawled apology attached
like new lovers trying too hard
being overly tender with eachothers words
her heart has spoken its mind
and she feels childish recanting its
written in stone meanings
so she follows
silently behind with her head hanging low
trying to be picture perfect
in the pliant girlfriend role
the inner demons like ravens of my own soiled soul
each moment spent like a misers coin
harpie fingers oiled grip
on the narrow metal
slipping ever so slowly past the eye
each day i sit here and watch as the sun settles
like dust onto the deadpan horizon
each day i pray fervently that i find
a better phrase than the one i live
I want you to take as long as you need to decide what you really really want.
I want you to make your decisions without pressure from me .
I want you to know that you don't have to fit in your size zero anymore.
You will always be special to me and I will love you unconditionally.
I will love you to my dying day and I've never cared what others thought of me.
I know you know that but I wanted the one who wrote a nasty poem to know.
Not a poet and know it and know what's in your pure and unprejudiced heart.
You are sweetest and the most interesting and fun lady I've ever met and you
still are the only one I want to read to, have snowball fights with and sit by a
warm fire to to stop the chills, spend endless hours talking to, the one with the
gorgeous smile that brightens my day, the one who I love seeing walking in
without an appointment, the one I always put calls on hold for, the one who's voice
makes my heart race when I always answer your calls, the one with the musical laugh
that I can't get enough of. You are the one I want to be in my life even if we are
just friends. You gorgeous one are worth waiting for and growing old waiting for.
All I want for Christmas is your happiness now and forever Betty Ponder.
Never ever forget this, you are the only one I'd eat tofu with and for AND
you are the only one I will ever call a beautiful storm that blew me away.
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and dirty dishes,
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
waiting to be caught, just as long
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such lines from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.
Anne crutches herself into Sister Paul's office. The nun is sitting in a chair behind a desk, hands folded on the table, eyes stern, lips a straight line. Anne stands before the desk, taking in the huge crucifix on the wall above the nun's head.
- You can sit down, Anne, the nun says, eyeing her firmly, watching the 12 year old girl, as she manoeuvres herself with one crutch onto the chair.
Anne sits down and puts the crutch beside the chair and pulls her red skirt over her knees, covering the stump where her leg had been.
- Do you know why you're here? Sister Paul asks, unfolding her hands, and laying them flat on the desk top.
- No, Anne says, looking at the nun's black and white headdress, the thin features of the face, hawk-like nose.
-There has been complaints made about you, the nun says. She watches as the girl fidgets in the chair, lifts herself with her hands, back further, on the chair. - Are you not comfortable? She asks.
- No, Anne says, My knickers are too tight.
The nun sighs, looks at the wooden ruler on her desk, wishes she could, but knows she can't.
- Complaints made by other children here and staff members, the nun says, toying with the ruler with her fingers.
-What sort of complaints? Anne asks.
-The worse sort: bad language, insolence, rudeness. It has to stop, Anne, do you understand? The voice sounded like grit poured into a bucket.
Anne fingered at her backside. -Ah, that's better, sorted it out now, she says, putting her hands together in her lap. - I can't recall any rudeness, she says, acting miss innocence, butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, kind of expression and pose.
The nun looks at the girl and inwardly is glad she never married and had children, especially if one had been like this.
- Sister Bridget says you called her a dried up prune, the nun says, looking at the dark hair and eyes of the child, the insolent way she sits and looks.
Anne frowns.- Me? To Sister Bridget?
-Yes, to Sister Bridget, and Sister Mary says, you exposed your bottom to her when she asked you to take your afternoon sleep. The nun looks at the girl's expression, her frown of brow.
- No, not me, Sister Paul, must have been some other kid's backside she'd seen.
-Are you calling these two nuns, liars?
The girl looks at her hands in her lap, raises two fingers upwards, out of the nun's sight.- No, not liars, just mistaken. We all make mistakes, Anne says, we're all human, after all.
Sister Paul's eyes darken, she grips the ruler tighter, pushes her toes to the end of her sandals.
- And some of the children have made complaints, too, the nun says, the words hard as nails from her lips.
-Ah, you know what liars kids can be, Sister. They couldn't tell the truth if it came wrapped in yellow paper saying, TRUTH. She smiles at her wit.
Sister Paul doesn't smile; her lips tighten, her eyes scan the child, if the girl at been at one of the schools, rather than the nursing home, she'd be well on her way to a sound caning.
- I know children, Anne, and liars, the nun says, eyeing the girl firmly, tapping the ruler on her palm. - You are a liar, and I know you. I have read the reports on you before you came. I was reluctant to take you in, but had little choice. You will behave yourself or be expelled from the nursing home. Is that understood?
Anne senses a fart coming on, but holds it in. - Yes, Sister, sorry Sister. It's my leg you see, it gives me pain, and keeps me awake at nights, and I get tired and I get irritable. She puts on a hurt expression.
The nun sits upright and stiff, an expression of dislike etched on her features.
-We are given pain, by God, for a purpose, Sister Paul says, it is a gift we ought to shoulder and bear with gratitude.
-Like haemorrhoids, you mean? Anne says, fiddling with her fingers, a blank look on her face.
- You know what I mean, young lady, pain in general, not in particular. At that moment the nun feels a great urge to inflict pain on the girl sitting in front of her. She can picture it, the whole scene, the satisfaction.
Anne shifts in the chair, steadying herself. - Can I go now?
The nun sits back in the chair, eyes focusing on the girl, her face straight and stiff as a board.- Your leg has been amputated, so how can it give you pain? the nun says, her words pushed from her mouth as if they were sour.
- Nerve endings, they don't realise the fucking legs gone, oops sorry, about that it kind of slipped out while I was engaged in thoughts, Anne says, looking at the nun's reddening face. - Didn't mean to, it's my leg you see, it gets me all uptight, and wound up like a clock, and then ping! Out it comes.
The nun sighs deeply. The word hammers inside her ears and brain. - I won't have such language, do you hear me, not another rude word or expression.
Anne clenches, the cheeks of her buttocks tightly, to hold in the the coming wind. She nods, gives an expression of remorse, allows her eyes to water, takes out a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and wipes her nose. - Sorry about that, don't mean to be such a bad girl, my apologises to all. She wipes her eyes, lets herself go, does her acting bit, slumps her shoulders, weeps softly.
The nun is confused, sits up, feels an urge to go around to the girl and embrace her, say, there, there, dear child, but she doesn't, instead she stares at the girl, at the slumped shoulders, at the dark hair, the sight of neck, and wonders what kind of mother she would have made had she married, would she have coped with the nappies and sickness and foul smells and dressing and undressing a baby and the disturbed nights, and a man touching her, and doing things to her. No, she couldn't have married, nor had a child. She sighs and softens, -OK, Anne, lets say no more about it, and she gets out of the chair and walks around to the child weeping, in the chair, and puts an arm about her, feeling the shallow shakes, the sobs, the sight of the one leg, knowing a stump was beneath the skirt. - There, there, calm down, it is all too much for you after losing your leg, I'll have a word with the children and staff and explain about your pain. She holds the girl close to her breast, feeling her there, the catching of breath, the sobs, the shaking shoulders, and plants a kiss on the girl's black hair and head.
- Sorry, Sister Paul, Anne says, between her acted sobs, sniffing, wiping her nose, feeling the fart go away silently, like sneaky hound, all without sound.
The nun feels her heart open and close. - All right, Anne, you may go and rest your leg or stump, she says, going back to her chair and sitting there, watery eyed.
Anne lifts her head, pushes her hair from her eyes, sniffs and wipes her nose. -Thank you, Sister, you're like a mother to me. She pulls herself up from the chair with the crutch, feels the pain shoot through the stump, rubs it, pulls a face. - I'll go and rest it, she says, soft voiced, sobs held in check, head lowered. She crutches herself from the room slowly, sensing the nun's eyes on her, feeling a sense of fulfilment, like passing an audition, and lets the door click gently behind her.
Sister Paul sits and fingers the ruler. Sniffs and coughs softly. Feeling the girl's shoulders in her hands, the gentlest of touches, the sense, momentarily, of being a mother, compassion, concern, yes, it is there, she says inwardly, maybe I might have made a good mother after all had it been God's wishes, even if I had to put up with a man's touch for the duration. Thank God, she says softly inwardly, for my vocation .