Dear Harlot
You kept my soul in check.
The loneliness encased was spent.
Wonders of unending flesh.
And yet the scent is fleeting.
The seclusion returns afresh.
The ethereal heart deceiving.

What once brought sweet memories.
Now are void parentheses.
My empty arms are bare.
In addition a cadaverous stare.
Skin cold with horripilation.
Trudging on in desolation.

I long for comfort I confess.
To the skies I do profess.
For on the ground my feet shall stay.
Am I worthy whose to say.

Another harlot.
Anther day.
Not my harlot.
Not my harlot.
Not my harlot.

A glimpse of her visage I pray.
Solitude is how I pay.

The small rock representing your birth
engraved deep into a necklace
proving your worth
to the world
and to you

you,
the one sitting there
staring out into a moonlit sky
the thousands of twinkling stars
dapple the sky
as the whooshing wind whispers
belonging

You
the proud dark eyed girl
standing tall along an old wooded pier
the spray of the sea splatters your face with its salt
bellowing waves crash underneath your feet
shouting,
You belong

And You
are still here
one of many
on this earth
loved and guided
through this life and to the next
and you,
**belong

Some value money,
Some value time,
Some value success,
Some just want to feel fine.

Some give their all,
Some give only half,
Some give none,
Some give more than they have.

Always on the run, we aim and strive,
Running on empty, yet we never arrive.

But what is our goal?
What leads to fulfillment?
Giving the world
One hundred percent?

We lose ourselves trying to gain,
And then we're lost, but who's to blame?
Giving our all in search of bliss,
Is success found in emptiness?

You deserve balance,
It's your life to live.
So oh, please remember,
Emptiness cannot give.

You are the silence
in an overflowing room,
overlooking the brim of
the glasses full of art that
are about to s p i l l forth
from you able hands. i am
the low murmur of voices,
ebbing through an empty
room - no shortage of
"excuse me"s or of
cleared throats.

You are love, when love
disguised itself as ink and
ran freely through pages
in lines that looked a lot
like poetry, only if
one looked. i am the short
staccato splutters of syllables
splattering and spoiling
fresh canvases of pure
imagination - rendering them
u n c l e a n,
        u n u s a b l e,
                u n d e s i r a b l e

you and i, we swirl through
pages and mics and minds
and crowds and rooms and blinds
like no shackles forged from doubt
could ever bind us.

And so death comes,
with crimson tides,
with cold harsh steel,
and graceful strides,
with burning pain,
and sweet release,
but at least this feeling,
will come to cease.

There's something about
opening a bottle of colour -
knowing
that any way it spills
won't spell A-R-T at your hands.
let's call it the audacity of trying,
and
move on.

Same thing for a lump of clay -
lying in front of you,
waiting for creative violence,
but you know that your thoughts
don't have fingers,
your ideas don't have arms.
let's call it the pointlessness of wishing
and
move on.

Don't look at the camera -
the eager buttons waiting,
glinting in the hope of your touch
a lens waiting to be turned -
knowing that your eye can never
translate your sight into art,
your vision will never equal
an image.
let's call it the imperfection of waiting,
and
move on.

My last hope is a pen.
my fingers rush over it,
finding solace in known grooves
where my fingers have settled
time and again.
i call it the comfort of a story.

and this time,
*i stay

You disappoint me
time after time again.
It doesn't bother me anymore.
I'm used to it.
Or maybe i wish i was used to it.
Maybe i should stop wishing
that you could be the person
I want.
Maybe one day you'll realize
the damage you have done.
But i don't think you ever will.
Cause time and time again
you never say sorry
when i tell people who you are
i say no he is not like that
he doesn't care what i feel
he doesn't care what hurts me.
He is nothing more than a child
stuck in a mans body.
Doesn't understand the effects of his words
and the earthquakes that he starts.
I am nothing more than a tiny
little house to you,
and you are the volcano
that sits right across from me.