The longer I remain alone
the more I feel natural.
©shadeofalonely_girl

As I grovel at your feet
And follow your every move
With gashed and bleeding knees
Begging for something that should come naturally
For me it does,
The lust
The longing
The desire
The urge
And the yearning
All the things you have no idea about.
All the things you ignore
And push to the side
Just like my wants and needs
My feelings
And my longing for you
All in a pile labeled
“who gives a **** for whatever happens to this”

I wonder why I’m the sorry one
Feeling horrible for wanting

Like a cherry branch in the wind, you
dancing to the iridescent tune
of whichever direction it moves

Why fear death?
It's natural,
It's biological,
It comes to us all,
wether you want it or not,
sooner or later,
nobody stays to tell the story,
when they go,
they say nothing and never come back
we try to reach out and nobody answers or calls,
guess we have to look for it in the yellow pages.

You make me feel like the man I've always aspired to be,
And the little, scared kid I used to always be.

At first, I wasn't sure,
Too much running through my head.

But once we were there on your couch,
Sharing warmth and asylum.

My heart raced like it hadn't in years,
My mind going a thousand miles an hour.

Once you fit your hands in mine,
And curled up beside me.

It felt safe and natural,
Like we had been here before.

Your genuine smile and cute laugh,
At every terrible joke I made.

Your smell remained on my left shoulder sleeve,
And your phantom fingers softly brushing.

It all felt natural.

It all felt right.

At least for tonight.

~S.C.Kelley

Thursday, October 11, 2018
6:01 AM

I wanna think god's thoughts, and Mr. Newton, Issac said,
After him. So I joined the queue.

Fundamental heretic is what I am.
Jesus was a heretic. Ask any Pharisee.

Evaluation and appraisal, worship and praise,
who told you to do that? A shepherd kid?

A lonely boy under the stars in a peaceful valley,
beside still waters. Like, Bob Dylan at twelve. Singin' along.

Worthy, so worthy, sang the boy, never knowing the role of
y after worth in setting the appraising price or prize.

What's it worth to know death has no sting? A song?
Then sing, soft, don't wake the dead.

The twisted, weathered maple in my front yard doesn't care what the passersby may say
about his missing branches and hanging limbs

He drinks sweetly the nutrients he needs
He breaths unweighted without thought
He absorbs the warm rays that fall around him
He grows in all directions, without restriction, hugging the wires as if to welcome them into his space
He sleeps when it is dark and wakes up when the dew starts to glisten

That strong, grounded maple in my front yard
I didn't know
I had so much to learn