"deceptively" poems
Oh it's all hanging threads,
Hanging ligaments with drops of red:
Vines without poles - flesh without bones.
Events roll out in scarlatine flashes:
Eyes in crowd flap down their eyelashes
And in silence the suspense grows strong;
The bricks are set, the façade is over,
But from within, the house still lacks a structure:
One penetrates rooms without walls.
A memory from the depth is brought up,
A storyline used to link so many dispersed dots:
Leaves are flying free as the childhood tree rots...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging sources, hanging roots:
Scars over the sun revolving in loops.
And the conduit narrows down,
Leaks a single bolt of light to glow:
An empty room as throne and crown
And a thorn, pain escaping death,
A frown of estrangement in the face
Of all that's known - what's most unknown.
Spectators stare deceptively
While promises of relief are spared;
They too are suspended in the air...
Oh it's all hanging threads
Hanging loose, hanging dead;
Waiting for the artisan to ease the noose.
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
I miss you,
West Texas,
You more than most.
I miss people
And things
But I’ve never missed more,
Than I’ve missed you.
One day, I’ll return to you,
And we’ll be together until I die,
My dear West Texas.
Some say your deserts are unbearably hot,
And I say,
It’s easier to make shade
Than a fire.
Picturesque cacti,
Blooming in the spring,
Sunsets that put oil paintings to shame,
And wild mustangs escaping man’s unyielding possession,
Just like me.
I can see them running along the dusty banks
Of a wide river in canyon carved by the Great Artist Himself,
West Texas,
I want to drive a rusty old truck through hot afternoons till frigid nights,
Miles and miles of sweet loneliness,
Until it’s just you and I,
And I can watch your brilliant display of stars move
Across the endless horizon.
Desert owls,
A serpent’s rattling warning,
Creatures that crave solitude,
As I do,
Emerge in the night,
Like the neon lights of lonely bars in the middle of nowhere,
Sweet prickly pear in perfect harmony with Jose Cuervo in my glass,
A tribute to my lonely West Texas,
Singing me a tune of cicada chirps and desert winds,
And the jingle of spurs on concrete floors,
As the men,
As old and covered in sand as the bar itself,
Make their way in from isolated jobs miles away,
To listen to Tejano,
And sip on that cactus nectar,
Distilled by the Great Bartender
For a night like this,
In my West Texas,
Perfectly lonely,
Perfectly perfect.
I just want it to be me and you
And your hot red sand,
I want to see those yellow blossoms bursting from the deceptively spiny hands of desert life,
I want to hang a dusty, wide brimmed hat above dusty leather boots when I come home,
I want the sky to explode with color,
As a reward for enduring a long day of the heat,
And when the rare jewels from heaven fall, and nourish your cracked ground,
And peace is sworn between all animals,
Predators and prey,
For that moment,
So that all may celebrate the loving dew sent by our Great Caretaker,
I want to dance on your planes,
Twirl in the rain,
And let the drops fall between my lips like the crevices of your canyons,
Brought to life when you are,
Slumber when you do,
Live each day as you live,
My sweet West Texas.
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 10:32 PM UTC
Tissue Paper Snowflakes
like tissue paper snowflakes i
break easily
i
get caught up in notions of things like love
and days like tomorrow
and promises like tattoos dyed into the skin of lovers
stuck in memories like first dates and love notes and make up ***
like tissue paper snowflakes you
are unique
you
are one of a kind.
in kindergarten they told me no two snowflakes are the same
even though probabilistically speaking
you are almost guaranteed to have a twin.
like tissue paper snowflakes you
want to be cold
you
want to be but don’t have the strength.
you could not support the weight
that is frozen water
that is imperviousness to nonphysical things
like longing and sorrow and elation
and things unlike make up ***
like tissue paper snowflakes i
am deceptively fragile
i tear
from things that are crushing
like dreams
and lies
and arms wrapped tightly.
i weaken from over use,
i ignite from things that overheat
like cigarettes
and us.
like tissue paper snowflakes we
are from one sheet
we
once bled together
our crooked edges match to form
straight lines.
like tissue paper snowflakes we
found beauty in ordinary roots
we
created texture from flatness
and
complexity from things that were not complex
and
like tissue paper snowflakes
we are weakened only by our own accord.
Apr 30, 2012
Apr 30, 2012 at 10:34 AM UTC
rain love fell a dream tonight
you were not there, but felt close
seeing nothing in mist of trouble
walking cloud of forgotten shrouds
no one, dank street, cruel houses
no dry place no cats about
wearing red and yellow slickers
long while cats hidden entire
wandering one wet world
slick pavement sky so asphalt
empty windows gaped calling
out deceptively catch the unwary
windows, concrete, no trees
mother's voice laughs soundlessly
no signposts, no streetlights
oddly forlorn, my hometown
unmarked, without direction
darker than hell's moonless night
this is my town, my place
one learns, find a way
feel the way, march in tyme
crawl slowly out the pier
knowing bay so full tonight
use poet radar
you will not
fail
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 8:25 PM UTC
I thought you cared for me
Because, your words had always conveyed that to me
I was supposed to be your best friend
However, our relationship, you decided to end
You said you were my sister
But you left me feeling rather bitter
Because you cared only about yourself
And left me hating myself
For something as minor as a Facebook comment
Never did you have any good intent!
I thought you cared for me
But it was never "we"
It was all "you"
Our friendship had no value
Because you were obsessed about yourself
You and your anaconda sized ego
Which you could never let go
You and your precious Mumbai Indians
Were the only **** sapiens
Who truly mattered to you
Apart from your "bestest friend"
You, would he blindly defend
As though you were a Nobel Prize winner
While you were actually a sore loser
With an extremely domineering personality
Masked by a deceptively sweet tongue
I thought you cared for me
But you never let me be
Because, all that mattered, was your precious image
Often, would you take umbrage
Over relatively insignificant matters
Such as me not marking you present
When you were LITERALLY absent
No wonder, did you have your haters
Because, YOU came before everyone else
Never did you take a pause
And empathise with anyone
In fact, YOU were everyone!!
I thought you cared for me
But you never truly cared for anyone
You thought you were a special someone
Who deserved all the attention in the world
On the other hand, often did you fold
At the slightest hint of pressure
Though you were so sure
That you were always right
Oh boy, never were you a pretty sight!!
I thought you cared for me
But you never took the trouble to understand me
You called me your best friend
But I was nothing more than a means to an end
Because you were a narcissist
And as a friend, one of the worst
Seriously, accepting your offer of friendship
Was nothing short of a mishap!!
Anyway, you will get what's coming to you
Your friends will eventually leave you
And then it will be just YOU
Left to fend for yourself
As you deserve to be
Because you are so obsessed with yourself
However, the world is for all
It's time you learned that
Once and for all!!
Mar 3, 2024
Mar 3, 2024 at 11:30 AM UTC
Transparency of your soul looks me in the eye
and I can see the weight of the world
breathing possessively
as you whisper why.
I can read your thoughts better
than I can read your lips
and there is no question
as to what the words mean
delivered.........
with your each and every sigh.
I believe someone told you
the world wears a veiled smile
and attempts
to cling deceptively to your every breath
like a warrior breaks all stillness.
Yet, I see that you are not afraid
to sit and think
about how great men can fall in a moment
when preyed upon...........
by life's unwillingness.
Come with me when your heart aches
from standing in the shadows
of those thoughts
that have been tucked away
in the air you breathe.
Always remember that our time
waits in a path of sunlight
lying beyond the stillness
that will never fade
from all.........
that we can feel
and see.
Yes, the fingertips of happiness
strum my words
setting fires ablaze
so you can see me looking
into the transparency of your soul.
Everything is well-defined
even if it seems out of your control
and there is no need to apologize
when the weight of the world
keeps you.....
from feeling whole.
Apr 23, 2012
Apr 23, 2012 at 3:33 PM UTC
Little unforgivable creature now.
Grime of the Scottsdale mellow.
I never belonged here;
not in this magnificent, foreign place
where they grew;
not in the calm and relaxation
their family, wealth, and happiness offered.
Not me.
Family history: poor and dysfunctional.
Personal background: self-destructive and anxious.
Still I was offered an opportunity
to become someone better,
a step up from the wasteland I knew,
and most importantly,
a new home without memories.
I clung to this safe haven
and hid myself away.
thinking I was clean,
I built walls in my pretty new refuge
to keep the tarnish away.
I wasn't clean then.
I'm not now.
I brought this filth with me,
under my nails and in my clothes,
in my memories and between my toes.
It festered and multiplied,
perfecting this chaos in time.
Now again, I seek escape,
from all these mistakes
that were made along the way,
to any foreign world...
or sanctum without a cage.
I thought I was better than this!
...And yet like a snail,
I have left a trail of slime
all while mistakenly thinking
I was leaving it behind.
.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
In the silence and misunderstandings that separate us
I need to believe there is a place where we can meet
a place of mottled light where the only shadows
are painted by ancient firs who conspiratorially lean
open, welcoming hands down to greet us.
It is a place where all thoughts of judgment and jealousy
are simply too petty for consideration
love being implicit in the moisture of the air
words are unnecessary for our eyes reveal
everything we ever want to say.
Fear and resentment are unknown here
we refuse to recognize them if they slither
into this haven while we are sleeping
restful, innocent, unworried
history does not exist, the moment held is enough.
If this vision were dispelled, my soul could not sustain
reality’s weight. I would be battered, fragile
as a spiraled whelk on deceptively smooth rocks
splintered by hate and unwillingness
to be as the sea, fluid and graceful, all encompassing.
Will you come with me here?
Or is the hour too late?
We can meet in this hollow sacred space
and begin again, let loose misconceptions
clouding the life we share.
The path is faint
trust your weary heart
it will lead us to each other.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
I dipped my extraordinary toe into the cool waters.
It was colder than I had expected it to be.
And as I glowered at myself
in a mirror of sorts,
I discovered I wasn’t alone.
Deceptively perfect
and perfectly sculpted.
A body of total glory.
A glistening aura,
with freshly chopped wave.
A glistening fauna,
amongst all the flora.
Irreverently so,
she fit no humanly mold.
A creature to truly behold.
I behold the true embodiment
of the truth and the good.
And I certainly remember
the tales of the crude.
*Tatter becomingly of thy soul.
Please don’t develop an interlude.
Ive been laying while dying
underneath old coal.
Please woman.
Call my name.*
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 7:00 AM UTC
Colors spin and whirl around
Lines begin to blur
In the distance and
Something pushes
Against me
Pounding incessantly
I’ve had enough and
It won’t stop
Up ahead sadness washes over
And carries away colors
Diminishing
Leaving grey streaks
Bleeding
And blistering
In the evening rain
Darkening the sky
Painting it the color
Of your heart
Remember when
Happiness was reality
Not a memory from storybooks
Deceptively simple
Seemingly easy
Just out of reach
Out of range
Out of sight
Elusive
Intangible
And the harder I grab on
The more I want
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
True love. Is it normal,
is it serious, is it practical?
What does the world get from two people
who exist in a world of their own?
Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason,
drawn randomly from millions, but convinced
it had to happen this way — in reward for what? For nothing.
The light descends from nowhere.
Why on these two and not on others?
Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does.
Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.
Look at the happy couple.
Couldn't they at least try to hide it,
fake a little depression for their friends' sake!
Listen to them laughing — it's an insult.
The language they use — deceptively clear.
And their little celebrations, rituals,
the elaborate mutual routines —
it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back!
It's hard even to guess how far things might go
if people start to follow their example.
What could religion and poetry count on?
What would be remembered? what renounced?
Who'd want to stay within bounds?
True love. Is it really necessary?
Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,
like a scandal in Life's highest circles.
Perfectly good children are born without its help.
It couldn't populate the planet in a million years,
it comes along so rarely.
Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there's no such thing.
Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 8:17 AM UTC
Tired
I can't explain it any other way
Not sure what's going on around me
I'm in a cloud today
Frustrated
That's what I am
I can't seem to do anything right
And I don't like where I stand
Deceptively calm
That's how I seem
But if you pushed me too far
I might start to act mean
Angry at myself
That's all I'll ever be
Nothing that I feel inside
Can affect anyone but me.
Exhausted
My raging emotions do this
I just can't see why I run
When it's for peace I truly wish
Tired
I'm back where I began
I'm sick of trying to do it all right
So from my knees I will stand.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Traveling (with Frost) down the lightly trodden path,
with shoed soles sauntering over thawed earth,
twisting down the narrow trail,
away from the prying eyes of tour guides—
Encompassed by flowery heads who mirror the sun,
who burst forth with fluorescent green necks
craning from the dirt,
delineating our path in cascades of springing splendor.
Sensing the ostinato of ambulant waters crescendo,
we soon break from the budding foliage—
To be greeted by gentle winds
and the lapping of placid waves
who break onto the languid shore
onto shoed and socked feet,
who sense holy ground and immediately
kick off their bindings—
To sink into the earth,
and gritty sand reaching up between toes;
the water deceptively inviting,
is greeted with delightful shrieks in its refreshing chill.
Secluded in our cove,
we gaze over the waters where to our right
rests a breathing reconstruction of the Dove;
we stand awed before these waters
both the settler and the native.
What gods were praised on these lands,
and in these woods,
and in these skies,
and in these waters?
And on March 25, 1634,
in the promising onset of spring,
what had they to sing in the calm airs
as the settlers crossed the threshold of the Potomac?
She whispers,
“Funny how the water appears green on the shore,
and clear on the river.”
--St. Mary's City, March 10, 2016.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
Step in and rest wearily
Your troubles here are the best
Every image your fear does possess
Such pretty illusions
Poses and all sweet scents
Where too are all the roses
And the thorns they don't bite
When you're safe from all your doubts
In this room comfort seeps deceptively
Till your dead
From the inside
Out is but a grave
In the comfort zone
Artificially boxed restrained
Air short getting shorter waning
All the once pretty flowers
Their colours run down dreary
Till sludge is climbing up your legs
No lock no key but deception
Has claimed another chapter
Of what life may still claim
Time for motion of ones will
What does willingness will for
With some distressing emotion
A heartful of determination
Shall give rise to some clever
Quick thoughts in desperation
Beware of your next step
That such is beyond the
Zone...
Of deathly comfort!!!
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
Every story I write
has a quiet boy who loves words
and a girl he doesn’t quite understand.
She has a laugh that ricochets
and she makes the quiet boy smile.
She looks like algebra but is more like calculus.
She is deceptively hard to solve.
You don’t see her fault lines until you think you already know her,
but her plate tectonics only cause aftershocks,
never full earthquakes.
I always thought she was me,
always thought I wanted to be
that kind of captivating.
Enough to make the quiet boy happy.
But then I met you
and your quarter moon smile.
I always thought the girl was from some coast
but the first time I saw you in a bikini
I realized you don’t have to be from California
to have drops of seawater glow like individual suns on your skin.
I want you to drip dry
on my clothesline arms.
I’ll hold you up to the sunlight,
let your bare legs dangle in the wind.
I want to straddle your fault lines
and hold you through the tremors.
I always thought I wanted the spotlight
but I’m content
being the quiet one beside you.
I thought I loved the boy who loved words
and I wanted to be enough to inspire him to write
but you make me want to get published just to share you
with the world because
something so beautiful should not be kept secret.
You said you wanted to make the history books
and you will, but for now
I hope my poems are enough.
You are rainy day inspiration.
I thought I was the girl
but it turns out I’m just a quiet boy
who needed someone to
inspire me.
May 11, 2011
May 11, 2011 at 1:06 AM UTC
Sometimes it’s hard to breathe.
Sometimes the world closes in on your lungs like the
mountains need your breath and the ocean wants your soul.
Moonbeams of indefinite prosperity gleam down upon your skin like
a bridge made of children’s dreams.
They dance along your goosebumps, trying to calm your racing heart.
You cannot see,
you cannot hear.
All you know is the deceptively comforting pale, white walls of your world,
but you do not live in a world,
you live in a cage.
You have never closed your eyes and let yourself be
guided by the wind,
an everlasting pool of transparent anger trying to rule the world,
but never getting farther than vice president.
You will never know the deep blue waves crashing methodically onto the shore,
howling and groaning their way through a job that they will never finish.
Oceans can be selfish, you know.
They own 70% of the world and they’re still not satisfied.
Their deep blue rivers of fear snake their way under our skin and into our veins,
never content until we define ourselves by anxiety and pain.
Cages may hide us from the waves, but they also shield us from our own hidden hearts,
wallowing in the loneliness of pale, white walls with a transparent roof that yields
only to prosperity that is no longer indefinite.
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:21 PM UTC
He fumbles with the **** and clicks the door half-open,
blinking silently at us as we pile out of the van,
his owlish eyes peering.
He struggles to find words after so many long days--
good words for his grand-nephews,
words of strength for his grand-nieces--
and Chinese words stumble out.
He stands silent for seconds,
halted in the midst of a sentence,
searching for the English.
So we try to fill the still house with life and noise.
It is grey and large, with blank, staring windows and empty beds.
Our laughter does not echo well in its long hallways,
muted by the weightless, suspended air.
We eat at the kitchen table, and I watch him.
He seems so strong sitting there,
deceptively powerful,
corded arm muscles and heavily veined hands
and silver hair, carefully combed
in a wave that was dashing forty years ago.
Then he stirs,
stands and shuffles slowly to the sink.
The illusion of strength falls away.
He is a worn old man--
tired and sad.
Quietly I wait behind him as he washes his hands,
then pauses, confused,
wrinkled eyes
querulous and vague,
and slowly washes them again.
The rhythmic movements of his once sure fingers
rub in an unchanging pattern
from when he was young.
I remember many years ago,
--when I was even younger than now--
I remember him looking at me,
I remember seeing my dark and warped reflection in his wise, laughing eyes.
I thought surely he was the most dignified of men:
alive and slow and gentle,
quietly commanding respect,
his amiable face in permanent creases
from too much kind smiling.
Now those wrinkles have faded.
The faint lines no longer trace across his face,
and his house is quiet.
My great-uncle is alone.
Alone
with the countless photos of her.
They are fading slowly in the streaming sunlight--
together.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
He had wandered far in his truth quest.
A man by law, with 19 years he can attest
and ended up stuck in the west.
With limited cash in his name,
as he had abjured his family's fame.
Since his beliefs differed in his chest.
The family ideals were deceptively lenient.
Kindness was taught but he had never seen it.
His views were seen as unnaturally scenic.
A family that preached their branded acceptance,
made the man sing their praises and dance
with their rhythmic rants.
Maybe he is just a rebel;
A phase where instead he sings treble,
because the bass is in a bubble.
His head shakes and dusts rains,
falling just like earthly remains.
The ideas caused by yesterday's pains.
Heartful man, take care in the west
Listen as lives differ with the rest.
Make a pledge and mind the dread
Keep a level head.
Keep a level head.
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
I had pictured that I would be strong enough to leave without remorse,
as I had to "challenge my prospects of life",
like everyone would say,
I needed to smoke out who I really was,
and not find myself crawling back to you,
but it was after I had packed up my life into small obsolete card-board boxes,
that I realized how trivial and small I really was.
I felt so alone.
I longed to feel the familiar shape of your body pressed up against mine,
to wake to your bright hazel eyes,
to the smell of your mango shampoo engolfing my senses,
to hear your breath harmonize with mine,
and to intertwine our legs into a maze that neither of us could escape from.
I missed you.
But you disconnected from me,
and when I rolled towards the middle of the bed,
and found it empty and alone,
experiencing for the first time that the receptivity of our hearts had grown apart,
like the un-uniformity of a puppeteer getting tired of old dolls,
and cutting the strings of the marionette,
at the perfect spot,
in order for me to feel the pain and deceptively obvious sadness,
of not wanting you to leave.
With you gone, I feel as though my world stopped.
Cliché as how I always thought that I would be the one to leave you,
but I was wrong.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
Satin runs from dried stains
in torn reminders of convenience
Morning tastes of stale sweat and disappointment... again
Displaced retribution is a punishable offense
sentenced in hangover flashbacks fusing pain in lust heavy deviance
coddling complacency, impaling the nuisance of a persistent past
That serrated double edge glistens with humility and humiliation
licked clean by ravenous canine
flinging leftover apathy on unwitting pawns
Feeding on the deceptively needy
blinded by intoxicated cliches
mistaking release for emotion
Condemnation bartered in stolen commodities
Toilet water hydration reconstitutes enough to bleed
behind neuropathic armor and addiction to the nether
Feb 9, 2017
Feb 9, 2017 at 1:24 PM UTC
I've learned you're good at poker, but you're no player,
this, the second time I've seen you; sizing you up, I like you.
Competent, aware, smart, unassuming. You're fit, tanned; obvious you take care of yourself.
Don't spend too long in these smoky sunless rooms fishing for money,
sitting for hours with pale coughing gamblers and their deceptively friendly banter.
There is only one other woman, her arm inked with a script tattoo Bad Jamie
One guy asks just how bad are you?
She replies, I'm so bad I drink milk straight from the carton, and the table chuckles.
But all joking aside, you're the chip leader and I'm only interested in you.
I raised from the Big Blind, I'm serious with pocket Aces, and everyone else folded.
You on the little blind stayed in; you could have anything, with a practically free ante.
I don't know why you've stayed even this long;
something tells me you want to see what I have.
The flop comes and the table tries to contain a collective gasp, three 8 s roll out.
All the potential of infinity between us,
and I'm holding Wild Bill Hickock's dead man's hand, black with bad luck.
Wow, how to manage this.
I've had no success of anyone staying with me before.
If I slow play it, hiding my cards close to my chest and check it down to the river,
he would fold at any hint of what I have,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***
If I come on strong, and he thinks he didn't catch anything or he's not even drawn to the river;
he would fold,
and I’d be left just wishing with nothing in the ***
I study you, ascertaining me
with a look on your face like you just may have found something good.
So I do something totally unexpected, just say the truth outright
I've got a house full of dealbreakers.
You're looking at me as if no one else is in the room, and with a smile in your eyes you say
Lets not call them Deal Breakers, lets call them Deal Makers.
...... and I'm All In,
You call, but then ask *chop the *** be equals?* revealing
once-in-my-life quad eights, all that infinity in your hands, and the Queen of Hearts.
You say, hey, lets go... and as we're walking out into unspoiled sunshine,
you reach into your pocket, show me a few sparkling diamonds in your palm and ask,
you want these?
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 3:55 PM UTC
the Ethiopian woman
shunned
for pulling rope
from between
her legs
in a manner
suggesting
the rope
has a beginning…
whose dead newborn
has the attention span
of the sadness
we register
as patience
in the guerrilla museums
of health
we are apt
to attend
on the backs
of men
who smoke
during
so they can chat
after
the cesarean.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot announced, “settle in, our flight time to Atlanta will be 9 hours.”
The Gulfstream roared down the runway and in a moment the tops of trees flashed by. We climbed quickly, and banked. Paris dwindled, the Seine became a string of blue, the world a patchwork of colors before we punched through a layer of hair-like cirrus clouds.
My roommates and friends were all a-chatter as we lined up on the runway but as we ascended, they grew quiet.
Thoughts of Peter ran through me and gripped me like a serpent. The last time I saw him he was dressed in a summer outfit I bought him - a short-sleeve, pale-pastel-plaid seersucker shirt, kentucky-derby breaker shorts, pop color flip flops and a straw fedora. His sweet-face was all grin, he looked like a deck gillespie. Meow.
When I think about Peter, my skin tickles, my pulse accelerates, I’m confuddled. I think about the disturbance that moved through the air between us when we met. We were strangers, but a magnetic flux seemed to roll off him and break against me.
I didn’t let it show. I drew in, looked away and became quiet. What else could I do? Later, when I described it to Sunny, our meeting seemed like nothing. When I described it to Lisa, it sounded like too much.
Of course, my choices must be consistent with my ambitions, but I want Peter to come to Athens, so badly. He was a human placebo, for me, in otherwise stressful times. Now I want to be with him without school pressures - to see what that’s like - and get closer, a lot closer.
I don’t want commitment, but I’m saturated with desire. All I want is a fun July or August - with him. I seldom reveal the businesslike hardness I have buried inside. I want this and I’m ready for derp.
Peter worries - about money, about gender roles, social positions and what’s apposite. I don’t care about any of that. I want to give him a free month, like an amazing gift. He’s so male, so deceptively complicated, fragile and intoxicating.
I really need to think about this, and work it out - HA! - like I can think of anything else.
Jul 3, 2022
Jul 3, 2022 at 8:58 AM UTC
There lies a bitter truth beneath the rose
Which one is not always able to see
As their eyes cannot see past, the beauty of the face
hiding the stinging truth that lies beneath
The deepest passion radiates from eyes that glow and shine
Into those of quickly pursuing souls
Warming their hearts but not warning their minds
Of the piercing thorns that lie beneath the rose
Their hands so swiftly reach to touch the loveliness they see
their eyes are blinded to the thorns that lie beneath
She has captured many, holding wisdom great and true
Yet only thorns into their hearts did she bequeath
Take caution when you reach for the sweetest rose
With petals as soft as the morning dew
This loveliness you see, deceptively hides what is beneath
The sharpest thorns, may lie in wait there, just for you
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 6:47 AM UTC