there is a girl who wanders. who finds the beauty in all and finds herself in it as well. in every upturned rock and flower picked, a bit of her own is discovered as well, a new color, a smell, another layer of an endless aura. she would pull apart the stems of plants to see the water pour out, and lick the sweet of honeysuckles until she was sick to her stomach. everyone knew her as the girl who wanders, the girl whose head was stuck in the clouds, so much so that she memorized them, counted the blades of grass and watched the dew appear every morning. she was one with nature as it was with her...
until the day she began to wonder.

the facts she once knew of the earth began to turn into questions; into 'how' and 'why's, and the beauty no longer appeared, it now existed. she was searching instead of finding, feeling lost as she reeled through the forest. she thought, "why do the baby birds fall from the trees and never return? who would let such a thing occur?". every turn and twist morphed into something unanswered, her mind became filled with thoughts. it became so full, there were no flowers to grow anymore and nothing new to flourish them. now, when she pulled apart the stem of the plant, she would complain of the stickiness of it, how it contaminated her fingers. she would glare at how the dew dampened her new shoes, how the rocks made scrapes on her feet and the smell of pollen would make her sneeze. she felt grown up, but at the same time, empty (although filled with questions). every day was a repeat of the last, something always new to ruminate over and nothing to give her peace of mind.
nothing was fun anymore.
it all grew a bit too tiring for her.

on some days, the earth would try to remind her, to bring her back to it, but it was always unsuccessful. it would whisper in her ear, "please come back, we miss you..." but the coldness of the wind startled her and she hissed at the way it ruffled up her hair. there was no point, she wasn't the same girl anymore. instead of being filled with wander and discovery, she was bitter and empty. she went through life as if she was on the outside of it, looking in, barely able to reminisce on her old ways, only jealousy and sadness accompanied those thoughts...
ghost thoughts...she would call them. transparent and far away, something she could hardly imagine were real.

she would grow apart from the things she loved, too distracted to look back and rethink her actions. instead she trudged forward, only ever feeling grounded in her sleep.
ever so slowly, her sleep began to feel a bit more permanent. she would sleep and sleep and sleep, hoping that maybe in her dreams, she would find her way back to the forest. she never did.

she would sleep until her eyes became heavy, heavy, heavy, and heavier until she could no longer hold them up. into a deep sleep she tumbled...

and still there the forest did not appear.

We fight over strawberry milk
Ripping waxed white paper
And now I’m drowning in that pastel cream
Always drowning
The sickness covering me
Covering everything, sticking to the walls, the floor, the ceiling, my hands
anxiety living in my blood, staining the sink, bathroom tile, caught in the shower drain, hiding in the ditch.  The world is swimming in those ocean eyes, watering because the body knows its demise. The world is drowning in acrid breath
Perfection soaked stomach acid, throw up black paint to match your state of mind.
I thought it was going to be pretty
Like the shade of cherry blossoms
the shade of strawberry milk
Not bright red blood

“poetry choose you for us to sheaf through and find love among your words” (Pradip)

did you think that I forgot your message,
which is more than mere message, more a significant missive,
****** upon my shoulders, again, even more, a mission,
an owner’s responsibility that I choose to herein bare,
but a charge, too onerous, too awesome, to willingly bear

what skilled knowledge of this in my possess is narrow based,
more gained by loss or absence, or even conspicuous struggle,
than any vast success, thus, to be viewed with skepticism,
rather than any glory gained through a vanquisher’s scepter

more and better have essayed and assayed the
requisite sheafs that may give forth results useful to yourself,
this itinerant investigator’s ramblings are not to be deemed trustworthy or investable

that poetry hath chosen me, if correct, woe-betide me
this be more curse than blessing, for the secrecy of love
yields not its clear and present insights to my declining sight

the sheafs of which you speak so numerous
that a whole lifetime such engaged could not dent its
maidenhood and here do I both confess, here I do plead guilty
to trying and to failing, and in the confines of words,
honestly advance to all the proposition that I know nothing

to recognize and diagnose the symptoms almost too easy,
thus I designated myself foolishly as onlylovepoetry,
but recognition does not yield easy the cure of real cognition

nearing midnight and it is easier to pen than to sleep,
even a dreamless sleep, the great restorative,
make not the pen mightier than the wounds love inflicts;
both my scars and my many smooth, unused unpierced skin patches
speak only of the abscesses of true trials and
the too long absences of emotions that make
life unbearable, bearable and the happy exhaustion of near misses,
the try in try, try again

finding love in words a fool’s errand, though words offer us
seduction and definitions to our errant emotions, words
are just words and by definition, a hallmark of failure,
a precursor to cursing failings

only this I know, that to make love occur, do not hope to
stumble into it, or to find or mine its riches, for it requires of you,
both somber preparation and wild optimism,
and this contradiction controversy so inherently embedded,
will provoke more pain infusions and more poetry in
a human chain that came from the smithy new and yet, nearly broken

pay attention to thy surroundings and thy attitude and altitude
love is above ground though deep buried, the mystery scent
so faint it missed by most, myself a chief of mistaken mistook

meanwhile the pile of sheaves grows deeper and despairing

what I thought I knew I mistook and what I thought I felt,
well, let it suffice to say love can n’ere be found in thought
but lives in deed and actions and happy disbelief

put down the pen, gown thyself in coats of many riotous colors,
banish ‘never’ and ‘hope’ from thy lexicon, and begin with a smile always a smile as you walk the streets as if to say
open open says me, open sesame and let the
good works begin, for having found your captains of the muses,
your Calliope, your rosebud, lucky you,
you will need not write another word


11:37pm  January 14

i am the insanity painted across the walls.
the pestilence growing behind your teeth.
the walking contradiction.

together we are the red string, and i am the seamstress.

i tied us together during my tour of heaven;
after the angels revealed my fate
as a word prophet
sealing our fate.

...After fire
In mirror I saw
Bandaged face
Looked raw
You seemed sickened
For what you saw

A pretty face
Not anymore
The fire revenged
And let my skin tore

I was same inside
An ugly fame
You left me outside
Cause of shame

With bald head
Withered skin shed
Lashes and brows
All damaged dead

A state of blank
When you left
On a verge of
Crazy and crank

Days past, months
Then years
Doctors tried best
On my appearance

Finally after years
I walk without fear
But these eyes fill up
With uncontrollable tear

I am new,
But not forgotten
You left me saying
My face was rotten

You judged me
By my appearance
Which in years has
Drowned in disappearance

I have long hair,
Beautiful brows and lashes
With you gone, left me with flashes
My life now, with unfilled dashes...


©sim

Dizzy daydreams echo in my head
As I utter words that will only ever be
Half read
Systematic syllables that ring in your ears
And mindless phrases that sit in a gap
Trying to fill a hole they do not fit into
Words words words
A weapon so many wield like a sword
Or a shield
I am one of those people
One of those people that could talk
And talk and talk and talk
Until my throat is bleeding
And your ears screaming
And the world rings with words
Yet
I will have said nothing
It's frustrating
To never be able to say what you mean
You wish you could craft a word
But then you could only describe it with words that have already been written
So it would defeat the meaning
Wouldn't it?
Pondering existence in places mundane
As a sidewalk covered in chalk
Typing away at keyboard
Until you have reached 157 words
But you are still not satisfied so you continue to write
169
170
171
But you have still not said what you meant as words echo in your head that Might describe this feeling countless ideas and emotions
That cannot be written
That will not be written
So they sit alone in the dark
And try to light a match

I have fingers that linger
on surfaces
and a heart
that lingers
in the past
fingers that linger
in your hair
and on your shoulders
fingers that reach and stretch
and touch
and a heart that lingers
when my fingers
are done lingering