"discussed" poems
I wish I could be as vibrant and bold as a sunflower
Wish my petals could stretch towards the sun
in hopes of growing. I wish these pale painted
faces would stare in awh instead of disgust.
I wish I was as yellow as a sunflower
or maybe an oddly pink tone fleshed with red
I want my color to be praised not discussed
like dirt being picked out of fingers
I have come to the realization that I am a sunflower
Beautiful, bold, and magical
My brown petals stretch out from limb to limb
meeting at my bud with a smile so dazzling
and eyes small but fill with love and hope.
I am a sunflower in the boldest of ways possible
like coffee with no sugar no cream. I am loved like Jupiter
loves Juno, My brightness is appreciated like a full moon
at 12 midnight. I could fill a whole field with my petals
just for your grazing but you don't deserve it.
I am a sunflower. What are you?
Oct 13, 2016
Oct 13, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
The world is a fast changing place
Everything changes and keeps on changing till the end is reached upon when something is achieved.
Seldom when the end is reached upon there still remains more to be achieved.
Along with time comes experience and maturity.
Often it happens that when something is achieved, yet a larger part of the picture still remains to be completed.
At this juncture starts the beginning of something new,
definitely keeping in mind the prior experience.
Changes taking place in the outside world are part of everyone’s life.
It’s destiny, something written in destiny, part of destiny.
It’s fate.
Once everything is discussed, decided, reviewed, revised and a conclusion is reached upon, time now to take the necessary line of action.
Think about it and think again
Everything going on in the mind has got some reasoning and accordingly respond towards change.
Think about it and think again.
Review the past, revise, rewind and recognize the past.
Always keep in mind, never remain forever in the past.
It’s obvious to think about present in the present moment of time when something is going on in the mind with regards to the future.
It’s serves like an alarm, a wakeup call
Certainly there will always be something to look out for with regards to the future.
Always it’s important to keep in mind the right moment in time so as to ascertain the future.
Hope and anxiety go hand in hand
When there is a hope for something positive to happen in life, then at that moment in time the mind becomes anxious.
As of now what else needs to be done in the present with regards to the future, definitely there will be something else to look out for with regards to the future.
Nothing changes on it’s own, absolutely nothing
When a change happens it comes along with time
Efforts have always been made in the past when a change takes place in the present.
Different is the present, different from past.
Different will be the future, different from the past and present.
When changes are taking place in the present always keep in mind a desired line of action needs to be ascertained and then taken.
The right step when taken at the right moment in time makes all the difference in the present and also along in the future.
So even if one step is taken at a time always make sure it is taken with a positive frame of time
Irrespective of the changes taking place, an efforts always need to be made to achieve the aim, which has been ascertained by the mind prior.
Positivity attracts positivity and then the desired change happens
So always accept a change with a positive mindset, then move ahead towards what has been ascertained by the mind prior.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
Saturday.
what a glorious time of week.
laundry hangs on the clothesline,
the ghosts of the week left to dry
as we softly stare out the window, chalky panels
between crusting paint. Attempting to
listen to the silence,
muffled by words, we discussed
a day free of demands, and the boy
in his blue shirt, with his ball.
If I were to wish anything on anyone
it would be a year full of
Saturdays.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
walk into the room
With your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked
And you say, who is that man?
You try so hard
But you dont understand
Just what youll say
When you get home
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
You raise up your head
And you ask, is this where it is?
And somebody points to you and says
Its his
And you say, whats mine?
And somebody else says, where what is?
And you say, oh my god
Am I here all alone?
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
You hand in your ticket
And you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you
When he hears you speak
And says, how does it feel
To be such a freak?
And you say, impossible
As he hands you a bone
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
You have many contacts
Among the lumberjacks
To get you facts
When someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect
Anyway they already expect you
To just give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations
Youve been with the professors
And theyve all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have
Discussed lepers and crooks
Youve been through all of
F. scott fitzgeralds books
Youre very well read
Its well known
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you
And then he kneels
He crosses himself
And then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice
He asks you how it feels
And he says, here is your throat back
Thanks for the loan
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
Now you see this one-eyed ******
Shouting the word now
And you say, for what reason?
And he says, how?
And you say, what does this mean?
And he screams back, youre a cow
Give me some milk
Or else go home
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
Well, you walk into the room
Like a camel and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket
And your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law
Against you comin around
You should be made
To wear earphones
Because something is happening here
But you dont know what it is
Do you, mister jones?
7.4k
I met with a man today,
although
not so much a man as….
a boyish adult.
He told me he liked me,
or perhaps “loved” would be
a better description.
I was showered with things that most
people would love to hear constantly:
Compliments.
I…..am not one of those people.
Now, that’s just the oversimplified version.
A more detailed explanation would go like this:
I met with a man today,
although
not so much a man as…
a boyish adult.
We went out for lunch,
and left there around five hours later.
For the first three,
we were doing all right.
Managing to have pleasant conversation
we even discussed our views on religion.
The last two hours
however
I am not sure how I managed to endure.
He told me he had "fallen in love with me",
and that every word I spoke had him falling deeper.
I explained that I have absolutely zero interest in any such things
*(love, romance, all that jazz other people crave,
you know how it is)*
I however, am not capable of feeling those sorts of attractions.
(don't want to be either)
As I spoke, he would reply by saying he was falling harder...
that I was pretty, handsome, cute, beautiful….etc.
Not a word of what I said went into his head.
***And I knew it from the expression on his face,
that I was only being viewed as something to conquer.
To…..”fix”.***
That made the compliments even worse.
***I hate compliments to begin with,
at least ones in regards to my appearance.
For me, they are one of the worst triggers
on my extremely long list.
So is being treated like I’m broken.***
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 3:20 AM UTC
whereas by dark really released,the modern
flame of her indomitable body
uses a careful fierceness. Her lips study
my head gripping for a decision:burn
the terrific fingers which grapple and joke
on my passionate anatomy
oh yes! Large legs pinch,toes choke—
hair-thin strands of magic agony
….by day this lady in her limousine
oozes in fashionable traffic,just
a halfsmile (for society’s sweet sake)
in the not too frail lips almost discussed;
between her and ourselves a nearly-opaque
perfume disinterestedly obscene.
5.9k
We need to learn to see ourselves
Through someone else's eyes
Because our vision is always skewed
And all mirrors tell are lies
The things we hate are always things
That other people love
A smile, a laugh, beautiful eyes,
Or simply the lack of
It seems we all take a vow:
If it's not discussed, it's not there
But everyone feels your pain
And to hold it in isn't fair
We need to learn to take compliments
And when we look in the mirror
Focus on things people love about us
It makes life so much easier
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 12:59 AM UTC
there's ethical idealism:
where ethics is discussed...
there's ethical relativism:
where ethics is practised...
there's ethical realism...
where ethics is quantified
as an improbability;
and then there's ethical
absolutism,
where we supposedly
"progress" -
in this scenario are
the laws of physics actually
suspended:
whereby oculus qua oculus
is replaced -
a loss of an eye is "relative"
to 10 years in a cage...
really?!
ethics is
ideal, realistic, absolute or relative...
we're encouraged to live
in "realistic relativism"...
never in an absolute realism,
since realistic relativism
only compares itself
to ideal absolutism...
and nothing more...
ever watched that film
secrets in their eyes?
you ever wonder what
ethical idealism is to the ethnical
consequence that can absorb
a realistic libra?
i can only believe in
ethical absolutism,
ethical relativism is horrid to me...
relativism adorns idealism,
absolutism adorns realism...
a life sentence is worse than
a death sentence,
whether justified or not,
prison is sadism,
but at least ****** is simply ******
a space-time intact,
a ****** penalty is not
inhumane, nor a ouija board...
it's time for time,
space for space,
the actual punishment comes
with the missing adrenaline rush
of the unexpected reception of the wielded
weapon...
either send these jealous plonkers to
siberia, or sentence them to death,
for you are no more than they are,
nay, you are more...
you're akin to cats toying,
playing a sadistic games with half-mutilated
mice...
this is why i abhor
ethical relativism of the crucifix...
hence my belief in ethical
absolutism in the paragraph of realism,
which is perfected, by
being exacted, and never, ever,
being leisurely discussed,
on a farcical palette with a grimace
to boot: ******* a lemon;
compensating the horrors within
minutes, is never compensated
with ordeals that last years...
which is why i find the death penalty
an act of authentic humanity,
and not this quasi-humanitarian
act of pardon, ******* hypocrites -
i abhor the caged rat
more than the rat gladly nibbling
on a dead corpse...
at least there was passion
in the ******
waiting for death penalty is like killing
a vermin with poison,
disposing them with nonchalantly...
the wise maxim states:
ledo ferrum sicut id est calidi -
strike the iron while it's hot...
death is the dawn-broker -
a new tomorrow promise -
left intact, the fermenting process
of ethical dynamism takes over...
then again,
the supposedly "evolved"
preferred moral relativism to moral
absolutism,
because there was no
moral realism to speak of,
since morality could only
be talked about in ideal terms of
the supposedly so, supposedly
fashioned via: it ought to never happen to
me...
and then it might, and then:
oops... argument sinks like a wet fatty ****
into shambles of keeping up with
the presupposed pillar of argument
being "impenetrable";
hey, genius, back to the blackboard!
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:50 PM UTC
Don’t read this if you’re squeamish,
Or if you’re eating food at the present,
Since some of the subjects discussed in this poem,
Are let’s just say rather unpleasant,
On the subject of donating organs,
Or the subject of organs at all,
It’s not unusual for my claims to leave,
Some subjects feeling pretty appalled,
Now I’d say that most people die,
In fact I’d vouch that it happens quite often,
But when my time comes, set has my sun,
I want all of me in that coffin,
Now I get it, I’d save lives if I donated,
And I don’t mean to sound like a **** (yes I do),
But the unmissable flaw, the foot in the door,
Is that not all of my parts seem to work,
My eyes are screwy, my heart’s far too cold,
The state of my lungs’ll make you shiver,
My kidneys too small, I'm not sure I have a pancreas,
And don’t get me started on my liver,
And let me tell you with a face like mine,
Not showcasing this beauty’s a sin,
But it’s awfully hard to have an open casket,
If I’m not sporting any of my skin
It’s selfish and weird I know that,
But my eyes are where my soul is exposed!
…Yeah actually my soul’s pretty tainted,
Can someone make sure that my eyes are closed?
I only want those I love to have a part of me,
So if I’m forced, if I’m forced, to partake,
-
-
-
They’ll be frying up my organs,
For refreshments at my wake.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 3:22 PM UTC
Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes:
Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose.
Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed
The ground-bass is reciprocal mistrust.
The names in fashion shuttling to and fro
Yield, when deciphered, messages of woe.
You cannot read me like an open book.
I'm more myself than you will ever look.
Will no one listen to my little song?
Perhaps I shan't be with you very long.
A howl for recognition, shrill with fear,
Shakes the jam-packed apartment, but each ear
Is listening to its hearing, so none hear.
5k
we escaped
the ravenous crowds of the beach
the secrets seagulls screech
that discussed the implausibility
of you leaving with me
you walked
with the sound of the coast
the deep ancient sea
clearing its throat
to call you home
furthering the distance
from me
to you.
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 9:49 PM UTC
I grew up in South Auckland, Takanini
the only Pakeha in the caravan park,
I learnt how to be tall, smart and skinny
how to raise the end of my sentences in an arc.
At school, we were told words held power;
but for teachers words were flowers,
and my friend Cruz had two brothers
Harley and Davidson - they belonged to Black Power,
their fists tattooed with something like “Smother”.
But there was never violence on our street, gang was family;
I usually never felt more at home around Bourbon,
loud Reggae, bags of **** and men so manly
they’d cry over love, and I wouldn’t get a word in.
Though my Father votes National and thinks Michael Laws is right
so moves us to Dunedin where it’s ninety percent white.
I stopped reading Lenin and picked up Rousseau
became a vegetarian, thought it was so cool you know,
even wrote a blog that discussed rise from below.
But I’ll never know below again
until I’m drunk in an old shed at 3am on a school night
singing along to Bob Marley in Maori,
sunk deep into the mattress propped against the Harley,
the one you and I would cruise on until dawn together
as police took to the streets in riot gear -
we’d get lost in the country and learn to smother
our thoughts in starlight then stagger over,
listen in to the darkness,
and just slowly breathe
the crisp, cool air of the kiwi tundra.
They say New Zealand has two flags,
but in the country, when you’re blazed
on the benefit, ****** on the disdain
for positive discrimination, you can pick out
all the small bright koru unfurling in the stars.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
You walk into the room with your pencil in your hand
You see somebody naked and you say, "Who is that man?"
You try so hard but you don't understand
Just what you will say when you get home
Because something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You raise up your head and you ask, "Is this where it is?"
And somebody points to you and says, "It's his"
And you say, "What's mine?" and somebody else says, "Well, what is?"
And you say, "Oh my God, am I here all alone?"
But something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You hand in your ticket and you go watch the geek
Who immediately walks up to you when he hears you speak
And says, "How does it feel to be such a freak?"
And you say, "Impossible!" as he hands you a bone
And something is happening here but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
You have many contacts among the lumberjacks
To get you facts when someone attacks your imagination
But nobody has any respect, anyway they already expect you to all give a check
To tax-deductible charity organizations
Ah, you've been with the professors and they've all liked your looks
With great lawyers you have discussed lepers and crooks
You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books
You're very well-read, it's well-known
But something is happening here and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, the sword swallower, he comes up to you and then he kneels
He crosses himself and then he clicks his high heels
And without further notice, he asks you how it feels
And he says, "Here is your throat back, thanks for the loan"
And you know something is happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Now, you see this one-eyed ****** shouting the word "Now"
And you say, "For what reason?" and he says, "How"
And you say, "What does this mean?" and he screams back, "You're a cow!
Give me some milk or else go home"
And you know something's happening but you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Well, you walk into the room like a camel, and then you frown
You put your eyes in your pocket and your nose on the ground
There ought to be a law against you comin' around
You should be made to wear earphones
'Cause something is happening and you don't know what it is
Do you, Mr. Jones?
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
We know desire is never just,
That thing which want which we discussed,
We would not want to destroy trust,
But what we feel is lust.
Pure lust.
Just lust.
Emotionally quite non-plussed,
We do the deeds that breed disgust,
When dreaming dreams that turn to dust,
On coming face to face with lust.
Pure lust.
Just lust.
We take deep breaths, try to adjust,
Resolve of iron turns to rust,
Although our heart strings are tight trussed,
We know that it is lust.
Pure lust.
Just lust.
Our feelings tell us that we must,
Accept this thing upon us ******
But deep inside we cannot trust,
This thing we know is lust.
Pure lust.
Just lust.
But we say we shall not be rushed,
Disclaim emotion, quite august,
And we have therefore’d, so’d and thus’d,
But honestly: we know it’s lust.
Pure lust.
Just lust
So, shall we take it all on trust?
Enjoy the deeply desired ******
Of pure emotion, warnings shushed,
And give our bodies up to lust?
Pure lust?
Just lust!
I lust!
Feb 6, 2020
Feb 6, 2020 at 6:30 AM UTC
I cannot believe the **** culture that exists in these modern times. We, as Women live life thinking that our rights have have come a long way since those times when we had little to none but have they really? Have our rights gone anywhere when we are still, now WARNED about **** when we are told ‘you need to be careful, you’re vulnerable, watch out for **** Why is it our responsibility to not be ***** why is it not our responsibility as a nation to educate our young Men on **** to educate them on a Woman’s right to say ‘No’ and to not have it ignored, argued with or discussed, to have it accepted, respected. Why is this placed upon our shoulders, something for us to guard against, something for us to worry about as we walk down a street, as we walk through our towns and something for us to be blamed for when we wear a short skirt, a tank top, tight jeans and are therefore ‘asking for it’. I was warned about being ***** today on the bus, an old man said to me ‘you be careful, you watch out, a young woman with a body like yours’. This is the body God gave me, this is the gender God gave me, this is the woman that God made me and why should I therefore have to protect myself against being ***** because of it? This is **** culture and it needs to change NOW.
How can this be accepted? How can we ignore this when we have daughters, granddaughters, sisters, nieces, friends, sons, grandsons, brothers being raised with this perspective, this ideology, this **** culture?
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
I was mad.
I was mad about being second best.
I was mad about taking a second place in your heads.
I was mad about what you discussed behind my back.
I was mad about realising how mad it all made me become.
I was sad.
I was sad about how excluded you made me feel.
I was sad about how vulnerable I had let myself become.
I was sad about not feeling as important to you anymore.
I was sad because I felt so alone without you.
With you.
I was tired.
I was tired of seeing them push me aside.
I was tired of being interrupted for your gains.
I was tired of being used to broaden your shoulders
And widen your egos
I was tired of seeing her face and hearing you laugh at her words.
I was wounded.
Wounded because you left me all alone when I needed you.
Wounded because you chose them over me. And her.
Wounded because I had finally found my place and they took it from me.
Wounded because my mistakes were haunting me.
Wounded because you were hurting me, neglecting me, rejecting me.
Now you've come back to me.
Come back like I predicted.
Come back like none of this ever happened.
Come back like she was never here.
Like I never asked you that question.
Come back like we were never different.
Come back like my heart is still yours and yours is still mine.
And now you smile at me,
Talk to me,
Laugh at me like nothing ever happened, nothing ever changed.
Like we will still remain
The same
And I don't know what to think anymore
Other than what love is made of.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 7:58 PM UTC
An age old chair, in seasoned teak wood
carved, a perfect work of art, nothing less than
a masterpiece, and a reminder of so much past,
sat regally before our wondering eyes, tempting
on the central court yard of my ancestral home,
where generations lived.
Wanting to sit like my grandpas of yore
I found a carpenter, perhaps the last one for this work
who understands the air that surrounds the chair.
We discussed the concept,
design and the kind of wood
it has to be made,to create a replica
to bring back the grandeur of times past.
But then, found not an easy task it is
"Do you deserve it ?" the bearded
carpenter, was so blunt in his skeptic stance!
He puzzled me with his questions
Yet we were keen to give it a try.
The adamant carpenter relented
after many sessions of questions
and answers, perhaps my passion
did the trick, his eyes made me believe.
He promised to make me a chair
(The kind none would dream in this age)
as if it's a mission divinely assigned,
"You need to change a lot to deserve it"
he insisted, suggests a series of
purification rights "for your confused soul"
"To fit in to a chair like this , fulfill
all it's demands"in my ear he whispered
as if I am the chosen one for an ancient throne.
An antique chair shaped by the imagination
of my distant ancestors, now changes me
and without slightest resistance I submit;
would I ever know what is happening?
Aug 15, 2016
Aug 15, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
my grandfather from liverpool
and my father too
sat in the kitchen
and discussed nothing new
tired from a long day on the busses
he fell into a trouble slumber in
his arm chair
he thrashed and fussed
we his family would quietly gather
cries of protest and stifled incredulity
cut the warm air
the great grandfather ticked..
(before television
or we listened to arther askey)
he was a proud man
with right of way..
he told the boss to f himself
if he were n´t a gentleman..
what he would make of this
world today..
so,he went through his day
and we tried not to laugh
the man who earned his wage
tired of this ********
i guffawed and he woke
he fixed us with his pale
beautiful eyes..
and later the next morning
in the lovely little back
garden
in the hushed roar
he said we would be friends..
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
Two lovers died tonight.
Together they sipped glasses of potassium chloride.
To others their love was unjust,
to each other, their deaths were a must.
In a jungle of segregation,
they were forced for permanent separation
one that they both could not adjust.
To each other, their deaths were a must.
They decided to take a firm stand,
held glasses of sorrow in each hand
and as they both had discussed
to each other, their deaths were a must.
Two lovers died tonight,
to each other, their deaths were a must.
Aug 28, 2013
Aug 28, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
Some voted for freedom from that rusty EU shackle.
Discussed immigration issues they were unable to tackle.
An establishmentarian North, South divide. When poverty strikes there's nowhere to hide.
Deep trenched anger rising from the disenfranchised vote. The pound devalued as the right wing gloat.
Uncertain times causes a global ripple. Bank of England acts to avoid economic *******
But what of our neighbours? Our brothers in arms? Democratic victors, do they know who this harms?
Young against old, divisions laid bare. Political wrangling, do they really care?
The Prime Minister resigns and a new chapter to be written.
Democracy wins in a diverse, Great Britain.
Jun 29, 2016
Jun 29, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC
Brackets
Your mum picked you up in daddy’s BMW,
we had to wait an hour while they scrubbed the brains of another son off the roof of the 125
(Why they built a multi storey car park on top of the bus station is a mystery to me.)
You carefully colour coordinated your files and scrutinized your revision schedules,
we watched nicked CCTV footage of two blokes smoking crack and burning down the bowling pavilion next door
(the old boys never did raise enough to repair it.)
You snubbed each other because of different tastes in jumpers,
we watched acid casualties talk politics with football hooligans
(a hastily rolled joint bridged the obvious gap.)
You lounged in the common room in your study periods,
our lesson got cancelled because John had been smashed in the face with a fire extinguisher
(and our tutor used to be a lifeguard.)
You worried about fashion and discussed the injustice of last night’s X Factor result,
we watched Neil’s head crash into his keyboard after he’d scoffed all his methadone in one go
(again.)
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
Familiar touch turned stranger.
I've been missing you lately, you know.
No I still don't love you...
But I wasn't ready to let you go.
I know that you're no good.
So pathetic you'd actually cheat.
I mean... I feel so awful for her...
We were both just thinking selfishly.
Selfishly... I guess that's it.
You selfishly wanted me then.
I selfishly want you now.
I wanted all your promises.
The friends we could have been...
You even wrote them down...
I carry the note in my wallet.
Broken words written in pen.
I keep it to remind me,
That a kiss will never make me feel that way again.
So wanted.
Your lips.
The focus of my attention.
Even in the photos I keep.
Your touch was the most gentle.
And yet also the most firm.
"How do you do it?"
I often wondered.
"I don't want you to knod your head.
I want you to tell me that you like it."
You taught me to use my voice again,
When for years I tried to fight it.
You showed me your heart
And told me your fears.
We discussed our families.
You let me see your tears.
You asked about my scars...
Why, when, where?
Even the boyfriend of six years...
He never noticed them there.
Maybe that's why I miss you.
Because you're unlike anyone else.
Everyone sees your outside.
But no one knows who you really are.
And now that we are close again,
You couldn't feel more far.
Promises, they're like me.
Always broken, never complete.
Sad because everyone that uses us
Are just about deceit.
But you've taught me too much to hate you.
Well...I guess maybe I love you a little now.
I wish I could keep at least friendship,
But the curtain is slowly closing now.
I try to say my last lines,
But you've already taken the final bow.
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 1:48 AM UTC
She often thought that, in a morbid way, loving someone was like death.
The parts of yourself that you reveal and give, wrapped in silver tinsel and flowered paper, can be broken, stolen, or returned worse for wear.
Sometimes love waters the beautiful parts of people, allowing them to grow and twine their way into everyone’s smile. However, the same effect can be gained by the famine that rejection brings, drying the beautiful parts until they are no more than the
husk of the darkest humanities seeping into snarls.
What makes love dangerous, is the allure of how easily you could get hurt, rejected, tossed carelessly aside, or broken, but you’re taking a chance on another human being having the compassion not to abandon you in the gutter along with every other heart they have wrung dry.
The trees we carve with hearts and initials are almost like our tombstones, waiting for the date to be scribed underneath, of when he stopped loving her eyes or she stopping drying his tears.
Our memories are deposited regretfully at the sites we have marked with our love, the diner where he first saw her drinking coffee, the library where they shared their first kiss, the grassy patch where they lounged and discussed their children and wedding. The memories and emotions we leave in these places are the fragrant lilies and roses stained with our tears that we drop at the grave site; allowing ourselves to be overcome with the sting of losing someone forever.
After you lose the emotional connection with someone that can rarely be re-forged, you go through the grieving process that’s special and selective for every individual. The length and intensity of the grieving stages varying on amount of betrayal, nostalgia, affection, broken trust, and anger that came with the initial passing. Sometimes it’s the denial stage that clings, your mind intent that they will walk back into your life next Tuesday like a maelstrom hasn’t wreaked your lives.
So, in a morbid way, she often thought that loving someone was like attending a funeral to look at a mirror box, with your heart nestled inside someone else’s hands.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 1:24 AM UTC
Aunt Lottie had a slow and careful walk
every step could jar
the delicate balance
of the fragile grand piano
she had swallowed.
It was no ordinary instrument
it was entirely made of crystal
which added to the fears
of its disturbance
or destruction
by the simplest slip or stumble
or missed footing on a step.
It was a slight inconvenience
she had taken in her stride.
Matters concerning the said piano
were only discussed in hushed tones
on Wednesday afternoons
and only with her dearest nephew, Ludwig
who sensitively seemed to understand
the precious nature of imagination
and the tickling discomforts
of digested furniture and such things
as fancy may create.
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 1:24 PM UTC