Perhaps I should take blame for
not laying specifics.
Or perhaps, for not in the moment
doubting her loyalty and
intervening.
In the game of dares,
she to kiss another, and,
regardless of gender,
not me.
I had said before,
"our physical embraces
and emotional turmoil
boiled into heated enamor
stays in our love, our bond,
our tie."
I believed honestly that she
would be wise enough
or calm enough
to say "No, I refuse it."
I believed she loved me enough to
know the boundary is real
and that when I said, "No",
I lacked sarcasm.
Or, I was not open enough to
list the specifics of what not
to do
and instead left too much open
to her imagination.
In that moment,
as the group of friends were amazed
at her polyamorous behavior
lubricated with *****
the fog of the mind,
and they laughed and
sent cheers outward,
I burned into the deepest rage humanly possible.
For that split second,
I debated leaving the party:
but, I was drunk, and the drive wasn't worth
such risk.
I debated yelling:
but it was her party to lead, not mine to destroy.
Instead, I sat in self-loathing,
hating myself so purely, but
I couldn't bring myself to be mad at her,
I don't think.
Again, the fog was floating.
I wanted to explode,
but instead imploded.
I wished for nothing but
to leave, to drink more to forget,
but instead I sit in rest
without sleep, concentration, peace,
but instead sit in pure hatred:
of what? Not her, not the girl,
but myself, for not doing enough,
not mattering enough.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
Smell, smell that? The air of the
horse-steps and the open field
with vegetation higher than
your own head on your shoulders.
The sky? Do you see it? It's so blue,
blue is the only thing it shows-
as if whipped clean by a god,
that being you.
Could nature be ever more tame?
Could the red of my eyes find more value
in any thought than the dirt beneath you?
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
Has the thought ever come to her of those days with the long walks of nothing and the quiet whispers of wind and lip?
She is laying the midst of a bed, wrapped up in the deep warmth of darkness
only kissed by the cloth on her.
She's so beautiful, lying there, the only sound comes from a breath in,
a breath out,
a breath in,
...
She's due for marriage, is the big news. She has but less than a month to go b'fore
she can finally say she's taken for good.
She has no thoughts of nothing walks and whispered words.
She can't remember those days.
The day that she first fell in love? she doesn't remember.
It was somewhere in the gray part of her memory now,
was it two years ago? Or last summer?
Not the four years ago he fell in love, anyways.
And all he hears about is the whispered words,
all he can think about are long walks with nothing.
She sleeps happily, he sleeps rarely.
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Sits down with the nervous ping on the skin and
sits shivering in the warmth of confidence
and the concoction of nervousness.
In a few moments, what could be but
a few minutes to that of a few hours
the two come to such minute differences.
A single move forward or the delay for
a major progression can lead to the
end-all for one or the other.
In every move comes that sense
of instant regret, that maybe I should
have done it all different.
Maybe in that idea I spun the web to
catalyze my own structure, safety, and
the units of infantry.
In silence, the heart screams against ribs
and the mind plays it off as though it
were really okay all along.
This is not the sort of sport for the weak.
This is not the sort of sport for the scared.
This is the hardest game ever constructed,
and only the defiant and the brave
will take on such a risk.
--
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
Very cold in here. Very cold bed with twice the width and
twice the cotton needed for a single body.
There’s a candle burning over in the corner
and the shadow plays with your hair
in the other room,
in the other life.
I can sit and call out a name but then
it breaks the silent dream we share,
or I share with you, but you not in return.
The candle grows a little more, a little brighter the light
and darker the shadow.
_________________________________
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 9:19 PM UTC
A message to the lady with eyes reminiscent of the last moments of sunlight,
where words cannot describe that, that,
that everlasting beauty of the miracle of existence.
With the fading light (if light could fade) comes a bending of light
and that light gives life to me.
A message to a love that is not so,
I speak of you so much because that is my only way that keeps us together,
your name on my lips is the only thing of love we have.
Forgive me, forgive me, or do not,
but do not believe me a liar.
A message to the lady with the lover from a boy with a lover,
I do not feel bad for loving you as I another.
As the chess player feels no guilt of wanting a game of gambles,
or the swimmer a chance to run,
I feel no guilt over wanting to take my risks and take my laps with you.
A message to the woman with hair soft as air and browned like the gentle oak core,
I only want a few brief moments of existence.
I only want to share myself with you, and you with me,
and we can finally coalesce into something greater than ourselves.
A message to the god whom I shared only a few sentences with,
that is all I needed from you,
and all I will get.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 10:52 PM UTC
Awful it is how much I talk -
Yet how little is heard-
Forgive, of me, this vacancy-
for I am with the birds,
In flight I find - some peace of mind
Where lonely cannot touch-
Now disconnect, I may reflect-
The sting that stung enough,
I fly beyond the white embrace
To temples in the sky-
For in the air - my own despair
Is soundless as a cry,
This wind, mine - this sky, mine,
All these dreams follow true-
But of all things - You have no wings -
I can never have you.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
Well, let's see it like This.
He's tall, handsome, simple to understand,
and there's me,
yeah, me, the kid who
grew up alone so he learned about
different species of mushrooms and
how poetry has a meter
(Not mine, not here, but somewhere, some does).
He can tell you how pretty you are,
while you stare at him, into those shallow souls of eyes.
He'll hurt you, right? Yeah, probably.
The human nature is to tend towards simplicity and ease,
and I'm not easy to understand or simple.
He is.
He's your "Normal" that all of your friends want.
He's your athletic-scholarly(Ha!)-goodboy-Christian kid,
and then there is me.
Your friends don't like me, and that burdens you.
Because I'm different and they are judgmental, but hey,
he's a good kid (not) and he's very smart (I'm still smarter)
but he will hurt you and scar you and I will
take the scars and heal them and use my
care as a fierce weapon against the night.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 2:02 PM UTC
the clouds loom overhead
depleting masses of water,
slowly crying over the dusty ground.
there's a boy on a bridge,
watching a river swim beneath him
imagining himself swimming,
taking the loneliness away.
there's a girl lying on a porch swing,
watching the river swiftly pour down, carrying
the tears of heaven away
and hers.
he takes a walk from the bridge
and crosses two streets,
with a notebook in his hands,
spiral binding and blue cover.
she stands up and wants to
walk into town to see the library,
and grabs only a bottle
of fresh lemonade.
he makes it a mile,
sweat is replacing the rain, the crying above,
and he just wants to make it to
the forest at the end of the road.
she misses reading-
she hasn't read in quite some time,
no poem, no story, no venture,
nothing but the thoughts she owns.
he is thirsty, for anything,
as his throat dries and his legs weaken,
the sun now welcoming itself back out,
the warmth coming up.
a car passes on the left,
the wind behind a gentle friend for her,
and she notices a faint dot
about a mile away.
he sees this moving pixel, and grabs
for his glasses to see who it is-
what faint hair, reddened,
and what does she hold?
she is nearing him
and nervous, because now
she is a witness to his charming looks
and his saddened disposition.
he is worrying-
what should he say? to the girl
whose looks, even from a distance,
are catching him off guard.
she notices his sweat,
asks if he would like a drink
and he takes the bottle,
thanking her very kindly for her generosity.
he notices her eyes fall on the-
what, the seam of his shirt, the
veins of his arm,
or the writings in his hand?
she notices his tanned face,
the gentle muscles of his arms
seeming to force the liquid
inside of him.
he asks if she would
like to read the insides,
(his internal self, is to say)
and she would.
she asks him to sit on an old train-track post,
decaying alongside the road,
next to the river of a million tears,
suddenly becoming a thousand, ten, one, none.
and so was the afternoon of Saturday,
spent on a moist post lying parallel to a
rain-filled river,
and the warm air of summer
suddenly become a little more comforting.
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 3:11 PM UTC
I wrote about you, at first, in small increments,
and gradually formed more words.
Formed more lines, more sounds, more thoughts.
Oh, my state! I called you, earnestly.
And, irony plays out that the way I finish thinking of you,
is that of before;
in words.
Maybe fortune has played something new for you to grasp hold of, as it has for me.
Maybe there is more for you than just me.
I hope so; I really, really hope so.
You are such a precious gem, and I wish I could have held your sparkling edges for a few more moments,
a few more seconds of time,
but the longer I would have waited,
the harder it would have become to let go of my possession,
my lust, my love.
Goodbye, so long, farewell!
You have dug a hole into my heart,
and there you shall stay,
but never doubt that you will stay, in some form, in some way,
inside me.
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 8:57 PM UTC