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i want to be
the stars in your sky
and the sun rays
that shine on
your face
and maybe even be
the air
in your lungs
and i want to
be one of the reasons
why you smile
why you wake up
and want to be more
than who you are
and i want
to be the soundtrack
to your happy days
and i want to
make you feel
things you've never
felt before
and i want to
maybe even
own a little
piece of your
heart.
~

the true art of loving is
to never stop touching!

touching, holding,
caressing, stroking...
such is the nature of
love's connection;
a twine intertwined
through touch,
the stringing,
the *******,
the fingers that clasp,
that reach out to grasp;
oh marvelous,
tenderest touch!

why is it that
any of us stop?
would we,
could we,
if we really knew?
that touch was a gift
one of the few
that gifts immortality,
gives liberality;
indeed,
would we
ever,
or
never
stop touching?

and God could only
know why
we would ever ask
to be left alone,
cold as a stone,
the untouchable we;
how could we deny
that one, that only
who for our heart longs
truest mate of our soul.

babies need it,
toddlers do it,
children want it,
teens use it,
young ones wish it,
lovers gift it,
mid-lifers pine and
seniors return to it...
there is never
a stage or
a cycle of life
where we should
or ever could
cease to be needing it
ever stop touching
or being touched.

for touch is
love's connection,
the umbilical chord,
a neuron cable,
the neutron bundle,
oh blanket of hope...
it feeds us,
a life line,
an air line
that needs us;
a love line to
the divine
that renews us,
and will
inevitably,
ultimately,
eventually,
totally
hold us,
as we walk
the path through,
eternity past,
present and
what is to come!

for touch...
indivisible from love,
and love never dies;
love never ceases!

yes,
the true art of touching is
to never stop loving!


~

*post script.

we watched so many who loved
stop touching through the years
and then wonder what happened
as embers once hot grew cold.
touch is a gift,
to be shared
and not hoarded!
it took me so little time to learn
your syllables and cadences, to
memorize your  vowel sounds
and predict the next breath in
your  sentence  but  i  am
starting to forget and
it feels so good
feels so good
feels      so
good
I'm not scared to move on anymore, Ryan. Even you could not take away my will to keep going.
Curtains,
an invention made to hide,
to protect.
Curtains
are made
to give a sense of security;
isolation well-deserved.
But
Curtains,
can be dangerous.
Curtains
can keep you from the truth,
keep you from your life
outside your life.
Curtains
can make you feel stranded
and helpless.
Curtains
can make someone go crazy,
crazy enough to take a bottle,
keys,
and a gun.
Curtains
will make you drive around for two days,
THINKING
about your two sons.
Curtains
will make the hot fat tears roll down your face
in embarassment and pain and agony.
Curtains,
will put that one bullet in the gun,
put that gun to your head,
and pull.
Curtains,
will blind,
and lie,
and ****,
and tear,
and rip,
and hurt
you,
if you let it.
I wrote this for Momma Renee. She committed suicide this weekend at thirty-five years old, leaving her two boys and a trail of tears. No one saw it coming. She took anti-depressants because her doctor thought she needed them. She stopped taking them and made stupid decisions. I am typing this at 12:44 am because I cannot sleep. I love and miss her so much.
Another sleepless night
3am, a bit beyond
the witching hour

A time of quiet reflection
Remembering dreams lost
& Creating dreams to be

Thinking of past sorrows
Anticipating tomorrow's
Joys

Another sleepless night

Contemplating Life's mystery
And
Marveling at the
Wonder of it all...
2/8/2015
KetomaRose
 Jan 2015 aubrey sochacki
ryn
.
A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's the tears that trickle with radiance through words.
     It's a treasure trove that hides but longs to
     be found.
          It's a book shelved high that wants to
          be read.
               It's the freest of all birds caged but
               unbound...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't beat to the capable strokes of the artist.
     It doesn't pump in the most vibrant of
     colours.
          It doesn't wield a paintbrush to
          translate its thoughts.
               But it can see through the eyes of
               painters...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It doesn't conform to the conventional parameters of lyrics.
     It doesn't bind itself to the requirements
     of musical harmony.
          It doesn't follow the conventions of
          genres.
               But it sings its voice loud without
               restrictions of melody...

A poet's heart isn't like any other...
It's an open secret, that whispers in metaphoric codes.
     It's an exploding universe, that merges
     back into galaxies.
          It's a sought after painting, that boasts
          of unfathomable beauty.
               It's an everlasting song, that echoes
               within the poet that embodies...
.
Dedicated to all of you...

If you're reading this...
This is for you...
.
No one chose to iterate
Or elaborate to me
The vast unending sea of grief
We tred; trying to breathe

Our paths bisect and weave to form
A beautiful tapestry
That on the surface gleams and glows
With possibility.

Beneath, time tugs each thin line
Until one snaps and breaks
One little thread removed and gone
Left havoc in its wake.

Something once so beautiful
Unravels, sags and fades
Parallel to how the Sun
Sets each dying day.
 Dec 2014 aubrey sochacki
Natalie
do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.
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