It's almost mid-December
...no more november thrills,
....just colder winds that give me a chill
and, remind me of a kind of peace...a rural calm,
in the old country days...simple celebrations
and the natural beauty of hand-made stars
hanging outside windows of houses...
their low lights seem dots , yet....seen, from
farms, ricefields, and from the old chapel,
the old chapel.....where people's most
ardent wishes, dreams and prayers, rest,
the old chapel, which sounds so heavenly,
when "silent night," and "o holy night" are sung
....in the cold hours of dawn masses...
no one feared the dark...people were guided
by lanterns.......star-shaped and lighted...
white-painted wooden Christmas trees
adorned the small living rooms...small, but
filled with that holiday warmth, shared with
family, neighbors and friends...
in lieu of those humble huts, rows of
pompous concrete structures now stand tall
over once vast pasture-lands and rice fields,
mostly gussied up with expensive decors...yet,
......bereft of the true Christmas spirit...
...silent nights, are not so silent anymore...
my chest goes high and low,
the late november winds have blown
farther away, taken over by the boldly cold,
yet, welcomed festive airs of december...
i'm always happy about Christ's arriving,
i am sad.......the old ways...they're vanishing...
Copytight November 27, 2017
Pull me closer like gravity
Let me rest my head on your chest,
So you can run your fingers
through my hair,
To calm down my anxiety.
It’s peaceful when the wind whistles
And sends me to a dreamland so deep,
When you sing me a lullaby song,
I quickly fall asleep.
Your eyes are magnetic,
Filled with such intensity,
You’re so seductive
to levitate me with immense velocity.
So invite me in, under your bare skin—
Let me explore your vehement
feelings raging within;
I long to remain, behind your golden gate—
Yet inside your inner core,
I’d journey to a place,
where nobody has ever discovered before.
It’s been a long journey, yes,
but I am still moving.
I don’t understand how to accept kindness,
and I’m sure I’m insensitive —
I’m getting there.
I’m moving past years of resentment,
piles of bitter, stinking trash and shit,
to being able to give
I’ve always been bashful about those
being kind to me,
and doubly so when I am kind
I am kind without an audience.
Certainly it stems from feeling unworthy
if kindness received,
and feeling my kindness is an unworthy
Sometimes it’s self-fulfilling.
Up until recently in my life,
I’ve never been able to give anything physical.
I’m still trying to understand if I’m
so that’s uncertain.
My birthday is soon, and Christmas is coming.
December always forces these feelings into light,
but I’m still making progress on them
year by year.
The morning sun tickles at the blinds
Light kisses along the nape of my neck
Eyes still closed, sleep fading away
But, sleeping beauty I shall play
Rough-skinned hands gently caressing the curve
of my hip, slope of my thigh
Brushing against my silken breasts
He sees a slow fluttering of my eyes
I feel a rasp of chin stubble
against the softness of my shoulder
I open my eyes to see his face
Of his lips I must taste
Lost in a passionate kiss
Ever slightly move my hips
My skin tingles underneath his fingers
On my thigh where his hand lingers
Breath and heartbeat quicken
Kisses increase, lips seek to give pleasure
Locked in desire
Two bodies now one
Move with passion’s grace
Whispered words of love
Small cries of joy, as we lovingly embrace
On a high from our connection
Drowning within the sensation
Our peak of ecstasy has taken hold
Passion's love finally released
By a rush of desire, lust, and need
Collapsing in our embrace
Hip to hip, face to face
It is then that he says
Good Morning my love
So happy you're awake :)
Writing is a narcissistic practice.
What do we aim to accomplish
when we touch ink to paper?
Mark something down in eternity,
plaster our thoughts upon and into
being so that they may be recognized,
Sort through them as we would
a scattered mess of notes.
There is nothing inherently wrong with narcissism,
no matter what people may have you believe.
I've once thought so,
cycled around to the present,
and, perhaps, will go full circle multiple times.
It is in our nature.
We think so much about ourselves.
The only constant is our thoughts
is their inconsistency
so we seek to immortalize them while we can.
We are not our thoughts;
we are the sum of everything within us
when our thoughts have settled and left and
we are empty.
Think your thoughts,
write them if you must,
then set them on fire.
Like an early morning fog
I feel this haze
Above me, below me
All around me
There is no sunshine
This is where
You wanted me to stay
I could not live there
I could not scrub you from my skin
So I painted it red
Just so I could breathe again
Not feel again
Be me again
I could not wipe you from my eyes
So I painted them black
Just so I could see again
So I could sleep again
It runs down my face
Like a race for my aching heart
You left this
In my chest
I fill it with anger and smoke
It is all I know to do
I wake up
I open my mouth
And nothing comes out
I have to go on
A moment of happiness
Of peace and all
That felt right
That was wrong
I should have known
It would be fleeting
But this is more
Than I was ready for
A ship cannot sink
Unless the water
And I let you inside
I welcomed the whole
God damn sea
I welcomed it all
And for the first time
I wasn’t afraid of drowning
It is love
That brought us together
And it is love
That will keep us apart