Thinking of my closest relationships
makes me marvel at what a fool I am.
A map of the streams of my loves
would show small settlements
tiny villages where I’ve rested
from my frantic search for meaning -
spaces made by nights of talking and sharing -
spaces of kisses, cries,
shouts and whispers that kept together
the threads we coiled into a chord
of memories.

Memories of foolish leaps we both made
into a friendship, a kinship, a marriage
a co-creation.

What faith abides in me that causes
me to abandon logic for love?
It is a mystery to me
how I can stay in this embrace
despite our divergencies?

But it is a splendid mystery
I celebrate.

I’ve always dreamed of textbook conversations
Words that flow like a river or stream
Paper thin small talk
With little to no casualties
My tongue would welcome the soul
Not spit fire
Flames
That catch on pale skin
Ignite into a billion warships
The devil himself admires the disappointment
Because I can’t whisper a single word
That wouldn’t **** an innocent soul
He’s just always there
Ripping my throat open
Demanding war
Even though the peace deep in my heart
Wants to scream
He puts me on sale while my face turns
sea green
And oh, a blessed child
Wants to ask me about my day
Although my mind is profoundly shredded
My thoughts screeching
Insisting I reply
But he stops me halfway
Spits in my face
Oh, and I’m speaking like a half dead horse
Whinnying as its back is beaten
By the whip of the beholder
Still remaining submissive.

It’s not raining
But sometimes words fall
Down like rain.
Sometimes they come in a
Deluge
        Flood
               Monsoon
Or whip around like a
               Wind storm
        Tornado
Hurricane
And instead of building up, they
Destroy.
It’s not raining
And the sky is blue and not gray
And instead of bad I kind of feel okay
But the fact still remains
That we sit here and say
“We need to talk”
And yet
All we do is sit here
Surrounded by the blue
Wishing for it to
Rain
       Deluge
                 Flood        
Anything.
But all we’re doing is
Sitting in a drought.

Do you, too, like to stare at the moon,
chandeliers and *** lights?
when your eyes feel
like they belong to a sculpture
stuck in place, tunnel vision
Do you, too, make moonlight out of street lamps,
and use dreams to feed the craving
of meaningful existence?

I had always loved conversations with my head
But I don't know ,why it's not following the **** script!

Words fall asleep on my tongue
Too tired to reach the edge of my lips
So they wake up and head back to my beating heart

I sit here hoping you don’t feel my silence
Because if you happen to be listening
Then I am afraid of what I might tell you

I once poured my heart out onto some letter
Read it whenever you find yourself reminiscing about your childhood
On my tongue remains those words, the ones we stole from the graves of poets
They try to take shape into conversations, reaching my lips but still falling short
So they live out their days,
Becoming old memories
leaving behind the bitterness of sea salt

Words we never exchanged

With mixed conversations aligned inside
our expectations don't always comply.
What could be wet could also be dry,
when we see other options offered in mind.

Hesitance often slows the path we possess
but a personal pace sustains motivation, and anyone's race can turn about face.
Is it really such a lonely road for an individual to search the unknown, testing their growth.

We usually follow what seems set out in front, concurrent ideas and beliefs seep through us.
The leaves of the trees determine the falls, as time spaced apart often changes our attitude.

The landscape of life will transform with a call, through those cycles we bind to vary our mindset. Lessons for all are shown but not always learnt, as repetitive tones tend to compliment worth.

Listen to the figures above, providing purpose when we're feeling deep or down on our luck. The answers can vary and we have to choose, but there are no limits as we continue on through.

I have these full blown conversations in my head
Of everything I want said
What I feel why I feel
I even get a response
Im here to listen I understand
But when reality comes crashing in
I open my eyes and no one is there
No one is listening and no one understands
I don't know what I feel or why I feel it
But at least I have these conversations in my head

We swim in pools of flowers picked from the gardens
Grown from your words
Going back and forth between poetic sonnets
And bare laughs
Feeling pain in our ribs
Healing the pain in our hearts
I try to write sentences too cluttered to make sense of
With metaphors, like gardens
So that you may not accidentally figure out
Everything you mean to me

So that you and I can spend a lifetime together
Picking words apart
Searching for meaning and walking with the stars
Because these midnight conversations
Are too precious to be lost to effortless deciphering