Balance in all things.
We are kept apart by space and time
but connected through wires and electricity.
You are my living diary.
I whisper my secrets and
you code them into your heart.
I am your living list.
You share your thoughts and
I scribble them inside my mind.
We are connected through wires and electricity
but kept apart by space and time.
Balance in all things.
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
I've got a strange disconnect with today.
Everything is slow.
There is no wifi in my brain.
Even my fingers are slow on the keys.
The words do not curl across the pages.
I woke up and something was missing.
The pain is distant.
The world is clear.
There is no haze.
Time moves like water flowing under ice
or the creep of winter in the ground.
The world is there, but it isn't right.
I can't quite reach my patterns.
I can't touch the words or emotions that colour the world.
Writing chapters is beyond me.
Characters on the screen get no response.
My empathy is me,
but my emotions don't exist.
Pieces are shifting, ponderous and still.
I know I don't do slow.
I know I don't do still.
But I can't find quick.
There is no lightning.
It's like a rainbow gone translucent.
You know it was there,
but all that is left is clear drops.
My brain is like an old map.
There be dragons.
Empty lands.
The nothings not known.
The dreams will be weird.
Medication dreams are always strange.
Shattered glass
Liquid pools.
Thoughts that coalesce and break sharply.
Dreams aside,
I should sleep again.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 7:55 PM UTC
For the life of me
I cannot see why
you bring such clarity with
your dark eyes and
laughter.
The tracks,
they quiet with the sound
of your voice. Shutting down
one by one
until the speed of my mind
slows.
On one hand,
a cosmic joke, never truly
to be mine.
On the other,
a gift so rare I cannot
help but find joy
in what we are.
A contradiction in terms
and a sweet sorrow.
We are beautiful
and strange, isolated
and together. There is
a belief, one for the other,
that gives us the strength
to be who we are.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
Words are beautiful,
cruel, and fleeting.
They play in the writer's soul,
devouring the mind.
They tell the stories
that tie us together
and tear us apart.
They are friend
and foe
and frenemy.
They are gifts
given too quickly
or ripped from the heart.
They are
what we wish to be,
what we could never be,
and what we will become.
Bittersweet and passionate,
they exist as
our face to the world.
They are our masks
and the parts of ourselves
that we keep hidden.
They are little pieces
of our inner selves
that we give to the now.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
I dream
of a little house with
a black and red kitchen
in a country where
the language
is not my own.
A cat on a chair
and a dog on the patio
as children play
in the yard between
the hedge and
the garden.
A hand on my hip
pulling me in
for a quick hug
and a sweet kiss
as your pan sizzles
and my chef's knife stills.
A teasing pat on my ***
and flour on your nose
signals laughter
and promises for later
as the sun sets
to the sounds of happiness.
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 4:38 PM UTC
Home is gentle
and soft
and strong
and true.
It is a smile
with dimples
and laughing,
coffee-coloured eyes.
It is the freedom
to be myself
and not hold
back my thoughts.
It is not having
to walk on eggshells
because, here,
my words are understood.
It is knowing that
between us
secrets don't exist
because dreams are shared.
Home is
close to my heart,
but far away
from where I stand.
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 12:17 AM UTC
Hope is a man who
calls me crazy
with laughter in
his eyes and
a shake of his head.
It’s someone who
explains his passions
with joy because
he wants to share
that part of his brain.
It’s the soul that
catches the light
and reminds me
of the sun
on a cloudy day.
It’s the person who
turns tears into
laughter with gentle
words and a smile
like summer sunshowers.
Hope is the man who
I want to plan
stories with and
parties for while
sitting hand in hand.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 11:58 PM UTC
My head is a maze.
A city you somehow navigate.
Coloured doors and rooms full of pages.
A fountain in the middle that
catches the moments of sunlight
amongst the clouds.
Trees that shade the lanes
no other footstep has traveled.
Where did you get a map?
Did you find it or
did you create it?
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
If we were both light,
we would float away.
If we were both dark,
we would fall into an abyss.
Instead, we are balance.
One being light and
the other dark. This
ties us to the Earth.
Makes our relationship
dusk and dawn
with day and night
between. We
are the most beautiful times:
the purples and blues;
the pinks and oranges.
We are the watercolour sky
that poets dream of
and artists paint. We
are wonderful and sad,
honest and true. At each
tip of the scale, we
begin again.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC