the first was in a dream
a ride in the clouds
then a slow circling waltz
and when we met in the centre I
kissed you.
the second was gradual
when the pink summer haze gave way
to a cold winter
and yet the warmth lingered
between our tangled fingers.
the third was a firework
when I saw you across the cafeteria
and the way you smiled
was as sweet as
the coffee that I left with.
i wonder what the fourth will be
and I know that it will come
but yet I can't help but wonder
if one day this warmth will
stay.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 7:50 AM UTC
what a strange sight to see,
sunlight streaming through windows;
the gentle touch of fiery radiance,
falling on silver pillars and plastic handles
draping over broken plastic seats
with the same ceremony and caress
inside a bus as it would in a chapel
on this quiet journey homeward,
I have found peace
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 6:31 AM UTC
I love myself
in a world that longs for perfection.
And perfection is defined by
slender figures on shining billboards,
perfect scores on standard tests,
and a heart of gold in a heartless world.
I love myself
in this race we run against each other,
trying to be the first and the best.
Where only a few ever come close,
and many never do.
After all, we were born imperfect.
I love myself
so I won't let myself fall behind.
To subject myself to scorn and judgement,
and disappointment and anxiety,
when my efforts are too little and too small.
"Do whatever it takes to achieve your goals."
I love myself,
I promise, bent over porcelain sinks
with my hair tied back and two fingers down my throat.
Because of a number on a scale,
the nausea that builds and the memories of
cloth draped over foggy mirrors.
I love myself,
I promise, as the hours tick by late into the night,
and I study until exhaustion takes my attention.
Because of a number on a paper,
the knowledge of failure and that
I will never amount to much in this world.
I love myself,
I promise, as the penknife hovers over unbroken skin,
and when the rush of traffic seems welcoming.
Because I am tired,
I am tired of imperfection, of
being unable to give myself what I want.
But eventually,
I swallow back my bile,
I pull away the cloth,
I hide the penknife in a drawer,
I step away from the traffic.
Because I love myself too much.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
We are walking with our long strides
Keeping time to the day
Finding hands beating music
As our feet skip away
And my knees take the floorway
Turn to you and say
It is now forever
That my loves here to stay
Then we join in the hoping
Fill the hallway with light
We are travelling in moonlight
For an everlasting night.
Love Mary x
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 12:13 AM UTC
there is a road on the ocean
and it goes on further than I can see
a thin strip of pale wood
that cuts the waters in half
i stand upon this endless road
in the middle of an endless ocean
from the moment i saw it's beginnings
stretching out from the sandy shore
i stepped upon its pale worn planks -
there was no hesitation.
i watched the land grow smaller
and stood surrounded
by the great grey blue;
blue above and
blue below
and a handful of blinking stars.
overhead and under
the cloudy waves shifted;
a gentle kiss of foam upon my ankles.
i sit upon the path of no end
and i will wonder;
i've walked miles upon this road
but i can't go up
or under.
who is to say that there is an end
or a purpose in its presence?
how much longer will my legs carry me-
will I ever find my answer?
my heart sinks into a sea of stars
my mind is lost in the clouds,
but my feet, my feet will always tread
on this wooden road built of the earth.
there is a road
on the surface of the ocean
and that's as far as i can go.
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 9:54 AM UTC
high on the plant
that grows out of the soil
reaching far against the turmoil
the turmoil called life
the turmoil called death
fist to fist on an endless fight
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
No one can know your pain
Not nearly as well as yourself
But the rope won't take it away
It just gives it to someone else
Feb 16, 2018
Feb 16, 2018 at 9:06 AM UTC
are the shadows that hang under your tired eyes,
indicative of the shadows clouding your tired soul?
or can I tell from the way you hang your dreams
up on the coat-rack by the entryway
to fall into an empty slumber?
the rain that falls through an open window
onto your cheeks- a replacement for what you cannot shed
empty grievances rattle around in your empty heart
loud clanging muted and muffled from
the stuffing in your mind
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 11:54 AM UTC