Under the spell of the milky way's surge
an illusion  past a zillion  light years,
among a million things dull and bright
flashing messages like crazy fireflies,
all the time demanding my attention,
how did, just you became my cynosure?
As I sit amazed like a kid on an ocean shore
foolishly start to analyze, without knowing
how to go about it, except dreaming  in poetry,
my eyes catch the same  galaxy in my veins
in your eyes churn, to catch the essence of this spell.
And I realize : you too are like me,  puzzled
about this magical conspiracy of stellar configuarations
that make the star dust within us attract each other.

You're always being surprised by people;
Maybe if you didn't have fixed opinions
and twisted pictures of them mentally
their actions wouldn't always confuse you.
We're not one-dimensional and it's about time
you reconstructed your perception
of people with the addition of new facets -
See people aren't always your first thought;
so give me a chance: realise my ability to
empathise, remind and recognize
both our weaknesses.
If you'd shatter this reflection and only see
the complex connections of the soul
perhaps my imperfections would be
forgotten in forgiving eyes.
Though if I always aimed lower,
I'd either pleasantly surprise you
or not disappoint you, so go ahead,
think badly of me - at least I can always
meet these expectations.

(C) 27/11/15
Courtney L

You were precious
like a gold ring.
And I was careless.
Taking you off and taking you on.
Until the day you slid
into the sink-thing,
and down into the black-mouthed drain-thing.
I should have tried then
to recover you quickly.
****** my fingers into that dark throat
and forced it to choke you up again.  
But I wasn't made for drains.  
I'm still not.

She's got a hinge loose.
Well, I'll tell you,
it's more than that.  
The whole door is falling off,
And will certainly take a few other things with it.
The sum failure of her small unseen parts,
Coming loose one by one.  

And there never seems to be a proper screwdriver handy when she needs one.

Like beads are the years
that we string to make our lives.
Many times choosing the forms, weights, colors.
More often taking whatever is offered or found.
Your necklace seems of pearl
light and smooth.
Easy to the eye.  
Mine, a patchwork of random creation.
Here, harmony.  
There, mismatched and oddly combined.  
But not unbeautiful.  
A strong string runs through the middle of the two.
Faithfully bearing the uneven weight
and the growing heaviness
of our ever-filling lives

--

streaming island before my vision
did i see you weep?
i know it's all a blind decision
will this soul you keep?

we are not islands, nor are we stones,
we wail at the walls,
sometimes our lives are not our own

*for we are foolish ALL.