You have outgrown it,
it no longer fits you.
Old ideologies wither up, like too small shoes.
No one's there to hold your hand,
because you know better now.
Got the blues because those growing pains are starting to become too powerful to ignore.
Some truly do take longer, but you've been lying to yourself all week, all month, all year..
The procrastination you used to slide on doesn't fit anymore.
The self-doubt that you once tried pulling on over your head, now causes friction against your skin.
The blanket of these familiar things no longer keep you warm; for you have evolved above and outgrown them all.
Your fire now burns too bright. You can not douse the flames in mediocrity.
It is time to grow up.
-Martine Beauvais
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 12:46 AM UTC
Your non-words echoing softly in the silence.
What am I so afraid of?
I think I know what I want
but have no idea of what I truly need,
which confuses the dream infatuation that I have with the idea of being with you.
The stories I've heard about how it would feel to be under you;
the fear of being possessed by
insecurity
while enveloped in your arms.
Cornered by the reflection of our bodies
while trapped in an incantation of shared breath,
whispering loudly to the primal beat of my pumping veins;
I see past infinity.
As my thoughts become quieted,
they are swallowed by my subconscious.
In this moment,
I become truly lost.
The ‘I’ that over-thinks and overreacts is coaxed into submission
and swept under the rug;
atop which we make love.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 10:21 AM UTC
A gentle quaver,
resonating from within
the bird mothers breast;
she reassures her fledgling
to waver not.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Intangible computer guy
The one you trick yourself into feeling closest to,
When in reality he is the farthest away.
Hell, an entire ocean separates the two of you.
But none the less,
He has gained importance.
Your life has become so lack luster
That more and more you find anticipation rising
As you near your PC.
It practically singes your fingertips
As you reach for the keyboard
And paw at the mouse.
Your body is
Taken over by an infestation of cyber butterflies;
Flapping their steel bolted wings
So hard,
That they thin your breath in anticipation of his next paragraph
Of small talk words;
Adorned with innocent courtesies
And make-shift smiley faces of semi-colons and parentheses.
Perhaps you’re eager because of the complement he threw in near the end of his last message?
As you scroll slowly down the page,
You see that he has not replied
Even though it has been two days.
In that instant
you realize that “intangible computer guy”
Is only so intangible to you;
For on the other side of the Atlantic,
He lives a life that is real.
Maybe it is you who is intangible?
Your shell of a life has been a bit depressing as of late.
For you,
A 20 year old
Who should be having flings and going to parties,
Has only been kissed once and never been touched;
Stuck living a life not your own.
Maybe “intangible computer guy” is so real
That your pathetic life can’t fathom the fact that he has one too.
You realize this as the mild depression
That has been like an infestation of maggots,
Gnaws at your senses;
Causing your eyes to burn, redden and cry.
Yes.
You realize that with Mr. Computer Guy
You get the chance to be charming
And talk about yourself,
When in reality you can barely get a word in edgewise;
Too busy living for others
That you,
In a sense,
Have begun to fade.
Becoming almost…
Intangible.
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
A passion surges to the fingertips,
of the chisel wielder.
Hacking erratically at the stone,
he is desperate to hone
the elusive allure of inspiration;
the influence that
ensnares his mind,
and blends his days and nights to infinity.
Though he labors incessantly,
fueled by elements that arouse and dissuade,
he is no closer to the cusp
of the enlightened state to which he journeys.
His ardor,
though noble,
is also his curse.
A slave to his art,
he is forced to endure
the miserable delight,
that epitomizes his craft.
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 5:34 AM UTC
Pulverized,
it lays
translucent.
Once virginal white,
now stained
with impure grey.
It's smoothness,
destroyed
by abrading gravel.
Stray foot falls,
imprint it further.
Surviving buds
not yet fallen,
shed dew drops of sorrow
for petals lost.
Aug 10, 2011
Aug 10, 2011 at 3:22 PM UTC