If I could, I wouldn't be writing for you to get sense of who I am.. You'd be there.
Be there in a fleeting moment of creativity.
You'd see the frustration and anxiety as much as the frequent glimmers of happiness.
You would hear my ineffable laughter on starry song-filled summer nights.. as would you sense the concentration on winter school days,
Hopefully you would see a few triumphs, but it is all a triumph to me; to feel the pulse under my wrist and the air I breathe.
It is always the smallest victories that are the most important.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
Retrato Rojo
Cool as softly flowing spiral of white,
Warm as the blood in your eyelids on a hot summer's day...
But weave the sunlight in your hair!
And forever calm like a placid lake surrounded by measureless oceans of space
So remember every place and keep them locked in your facet: tucked away so tight singing only when you sleep
A resentment ripples in the lake...
Oh! How that should be shared
Imagination turned you many ways,
Many days and many hours,
Your head filled with flames and your arms draped in flowers
The word you loved,
but couldn't bear to hear.
For the smiling moon,
and troubled midnight
will never disappear.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:01 PM UTC
Sundays, too, she got up early and let her feet lead her through the dusty alleys of that small town
It was a luxury to have this kind of time alone, silence was vital food for her soul
Enduring the weekday demands to relish a few hours of nothingness, rare meditation,
An escape from a world of momentary necessity
The sweet morning air that kissed one’s skin now turned heavy and stagnant
Back down again through the same storied streets that,
Had become unbearably hot by the noon-day sun, the pace of life slowed accordingly
A weight came over her, the sort of fatigue where every exhaustible cell in your body yearns for rest
She would wander all day if she could, meandering over ground hallowed by history
By now the shadows of the afternoon had casted their long, lanky bodies behind the old chalk buildings
The pulse of life reached a complete pause, as if away on vacation in a more hospitable place
Everything bent, decaying, surrendering to the heat, and everything marked in contrast by the sun’s glare
Here, she stands straight and strong, gazing into the burning face of the oppressor and giver of life
And deny it the desire to win this vague war of attrition
When rung out on the floor she’d smell of autumn and satisfaction
Speaking to me she’ll tell of the faith in self, strength in solitude, and love of something greater than we dare to know.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC