Please,
Pass me the straws of hay I have dropped along the way.
I cannot create the bale I once envisioned.
There is no structure to build or shape the person in my blueprints.
I’m fumbling with the straws I now have left.
It is not enough.
I can only create a feeble braid,
One that will not hold the shape it makes.
I need help to find the parts that have blown away,
Grasped by the wind out of my hands,
The pieces that fell onto the path,
Ones I walked past and never acknowledged.
The breeze continues to blow,
Ripping at my hair,
Tearing my screams of loss from my mouth,
Disassembling the last of my straw,
Leaving nothing but empty palms.
Holding emptiness.
Knowing only emptiness.
Jan 4, 2022
Jan 4, 2022 at 6:50 AM UTC
What sort of love is he? What sort of love does he have?
He’s a honey type of love. One that covers your brain and heart with sweetness, dripping in every little crack and exposed area that is available to be filled. Using its pure golden goodness to take you over and make you melt.
He’s that type of love that wraps you up when you need it. Soft to the touch, lingering on your skin. He bottles up his kisses and affection to show you just how much his love can be preserved, and used time and time again. It’s a medicine that is the most effective and will always guarantee being the cure to any type of sickness or sadness.
When he walks in the door every day after work, it’s as if the whole world around him goes slightly out of focus. He is the only thing in my vision that is in high definition. Every part of him wants to steal my heart, right out of chest like the little mischief he is, just to hold it next to his big beautiful heart.
His love is the one that keeps me on my toes and bubbling with excitement, fizzing like pure sparkling water on a crisp summer day. Refreshing and authentic, yet it dates back to when our souls met eternities ago, where it is also filled with depth and memories like spring mountain water.
It’s a complex sort of love. Not a complicated one, but complex. One mixed with so much diversity and paths, meshed all into all sorts of branches of emotions. All interconnected with one another, touching and feeling anything and everything. Together.
He’s the warm bath I slide into after a long hard day at work. There to soothe and comfort me after a day of stress and worrisome thoughts. Helping to relax my mind and muscles simply with his radiating warmth.
His love is ecstasy. Our nights are filled with laughter where our stomachs are cramped with internal smiles and children's giggles. Our fingers are tingling with numbness and our noses are bright red after running in the cold summer evenings hand in hand.
He’s the type of love that is eternal. The one I have been searching for since I knew what love was. Arriving on my doorstep to scoop me up and take me away. He’s the love, I will love forever.
Nov 12, 2019
Nov 12, 2019 at 7:41 PM UTC
i promise you it isn't just a teenage love.
you'll be endlessly told these
stinging words,
by people who have never known,
let alone felt anything like you have.
don't believe their clouded pessimism
they are frosting your eyes with.
listen with the pulsing.
listen to your chest.
hear those beats inside of you?
feel the warmth and heat rushing through those
veins of yours.
listen.
trust your instinct,
your throbbing heart sings for them.
through every separation,
you'll feel the pull back to their
energy...
soul...
their living, breathing, being.
the nails people will hammer into you,
thud hard into your skin with the words
of hopelessness.
pry those rusty nails from your skin,
and push them through your
feet.
grounding your inclination
towards the feeling of longing.
they will stain your mind like drops
of spilled ink.
not watered down,
but pigmented,
overpowering deep smudges of emotion.
once you know you know.
don't doubt the feeling.
you know.
trust that.
Aug 18, 2019
Aug 18, 2019 at 7:19 AM UTC
boiling water has been poured over my head...
my head is burning with hot thoughts of broken love,
dripping down my face are
tears....
.... or the boiling water that was just tipped on me.
i cannot tell.
my hands are cold with negligence,
frozen fingers from the ice forming on my
finger tips....
.... or from just not being held.
i cannot tell.
i don't know what is what.
dissociated.
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 3:18 AM UTC
our weeks and weekends were full of light,
your dashing smile and my
shining eyes.
painting our life ahead,
with vivid blues and yellows.
i knew things were going so well,
everything picture perfect,
so well framed on an art gallery
wall.
one dark and stormy night,
a couple of days after another journey
though the gallery,
you ripped the frame off.
your eyes were glasses full of hurt,
your smile slipped off your face,
no vibrancy was painted on you.
i still don't know why you took the painting down,
when so much dedication and time was
put into making art.
i am hurt.
my colours have faded.
the picture unexpectedly went from perfect,
to shreds.
i will never know why.
the artists of this once beautiful painting,
will never create another piece together.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
my insanity is my
best friend.
with her hand on my shoulder
she guides me through
the heavy curtains
of sanity
into the thrumming void
of insanity.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
it was a constant thrumming
a nonstop humming
it was pumping through my almost
bursting veins
once was a wild flame,
it had no constraint on my
wandering brain because it
was wild
it is now tame and
cultivated.
the flame is lost and no longer
lives
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 1:41 AM UTC
our love was an orchestra that
played in my lungs,
you were the conductor
and you made it felt like the
smoothest flowing
symphony.
divinity and pureness was soon rid of
and the violin strings
sprung and snapped my
throbbing heart strings.
you played me wrong.
you dropped your arms,
stopped conducting the music and
left me.
silent and aching for more melody.
you ended our song.
it was abrupt and you dropped
my instruments and
scratched my brass eyes
with salty tears.
im an empty theatre without you.
noiseless and open to silence.
Nov 29, 2017
Nov 29, 2017 at 3:16 AM UTC
i get down on my shins to pray for hope
to talk to almighty
god.
the reply is slow and the
air is
blank.
i hear a whisper of cackling
of laughing.
the devil replied first to
my prayers
and now i have a
knife in my grip held
at my reflection in
the mirror.
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 8:44 PM UTC
why so distant loved one?
why so blank and astray?
i hear your suffering
ringing in my empty ears like
bells that once rung.
i hear your music of tears dripping,
as slow
steady beats onto your
clenched wrists and your
struggling sniffles almost
symphonic and
melodic.
only you can make your
pain look like the most
exquisite beauty and
create jaw
dropping harmony.
i miss you.
Aug 30, 2017
Aug 30, 2017 at 5:46 PM UTC