Once I read this quote
about how quiet people
have the loudest minds.

Now,
and only now
do I know what was meant by this.

I sit there while you talk.
Just sit and listen.
A little nod, a silent sound
of consent.
That's all you'll see from me.

Because I'm not a talker.
I'm the one who listens.
Attentively. Tireless.
An open ear
for everyone's problems
musings, thoughts.

And I don't complain
or give advice
I don't argue
or deny

I will just sit there
subtly smiling,
gathering my thoughts
inside my mind

And you are grateful
for that someone
who listens and cares
without judging

But ask me once
on my view, my experience
I will start slowly,
trying to hold back
on all the things unsaid.
tiptoeing around
so as not to drown you

And finally it will overthrow
my discipline
and words, letters, stories
start flowing out my mouth
passing the barriers that
have so long retained them.

And I'm afraid it might easily
crush you
because there's so much within me
that wants to be said
and so very few people ever taken the time
to listen.

Among dust bunnies collecting on the carpet of her bedroom are lullabies, matted into the seashell shaped ridges by eager toes.
Other mothers sing Rockabye Baby, but hers crooned the crash of ocean waves and the ballads of mermaids.
Memories like those sent shivers down her spine, cold fingered fairies dispatched to walk the tightrope of each nerve, triggering flashbacks of moment after moment.

Beneath a quilt of fallen oak leaves he found a baby hedgehog, infant bristles damp and lonely.
Some days, when it meandered curiously across half-written papers, its paws writing notes in a script he couldn't decipher, he regretted rescuing the handful of spines with the pale, inquisitive nose.
Leaves of muddied paper, though, became pages in a scrapbook, dedicated to moments more beautiful than he could fathom.

Following them were snapshots of sunsets over the lake, the first phrases from a concerto he adored, a polaroid of his fingers interlaced with hers.
Her palm met his without hesitancy, and the joy she felt reminded her of the mermaid's musings heard through the sleepy ears of a child.
On all sides it was warm and safe and fantastically real, simply because they decided it should be.

While she did say no the first time he asked her to marry him, it was only because to her marriage had grown stiff with age and its rusting hinges complained when she tried to add her own swing to its meaning.
He asked her again, of course, because she was the only person he'd ever met whose heart fit his jigsaw edges so perfectly, and this time she said yes.
Waits for the love, her mother told her; a fearless woman waits for love to ask twice.

On the winter solstice their son was born, whom they named Martin, because he thought it sounded courageous and she thought it sounded furry.
Distant waves tumbled as she sang her little one to sleep in the only way she knew how, and gave him hedgehog kisses with her eyelashes because butterflies are too delicate.
Dreams always came quickly and lingered in his mind, fantasies of whirling woodland dances and salty kisses from the wind.

They documented the unassuming; they tracked coincidence; they remembered the weight of every footstep and the cadence of every whispered "good night." They knew that even though they were obscured by the smoke of normality and stench of the future, every moment was unique. Among other things they found everything.

Sometimes I wonder
Do you ever think about me?
Because I can’t seem to get you off my mind.
Do you ever think about what could have been?
I do.
I think about how happy we could have been.
I think about how we would have fought like cats and dogs
just to make up a couple minutes later.
Because I could never really be angry with you.
Do you ever think about what would have happened if we had just listened to our friends?
I do.
I think about what our first real date could have been.
I think about how you would have ordered the truffle fries because they’re your favorite.
but how I would have had to ask for your ketchup.
Because you are always forgetting things.
Do you ever think about what our first (sober) kiss would have been?
I do.
I think about how you would have been too shy and polite to make the first move.
I think about how I would have had to lean in first if I ever wanted it to happen.
however it never would have lasted long enough to suit my fancy.
Because I could kiss you forever.
Do you ever think about what could have been?
I do.
I think about what never was.
I think about how I never told you what I know now I should have.
but I am far too much of a coward to put myself out there like that.
Because I never knew how you felt.
Do you ever wonder if we missed our chance?
I do.

somewhere in the city there is a man bearing
a dried flower in his heart
wondering where it all went wrong.
He wonders where the words that
she spoke with such conviction,
disappeared off to.
There's another dried flower
embedded in the palm of the girl who
wrote so many poems about him
that she ran out of space on the walls of her mind
and forgot how to speak about anything but.
The same man in the city who places
that weekly order of those sunshine yellow lilies
to the apartment three yards away
for the girl that no longer cares for him,
nor his smile
nor the tender petals that she recklessly destroys with
the same hands that
used to caress the arch of his back ever so sweetly.
He wonders when the flowers will cease to grow
in the crevices of his mind
when the soft pink and green and dangerous
violet will stop poisoning his musings
and for when he can breathe
and the left of the middle
will stop incessantly aching for
the warmth of her sunshine yellow hands
around his entirety.

Virtual kisses scattered across cyber-skin
Can feel more real than an actual press of lips,
Each a little pull, an ache, within.
Sensual stories do provoke a rush,
Evocative, delicious, stirring, lush,
But, there is no substitute for strong arms, encircling
a slender waist, there is no online-version of the warm sweet taste
of lips and tongue. Such precious words
Should be whispered, to a trembling, eager heart
Not typed onto a screen, too many miles apart.

Have you tasted jealously ?
its like a misshapen stomach
that swallowed jellied biros .
Are you lacking in choreography,
where your own walk
should be the more significant dance
rather than the musings of a foolscap fanatic.

In the world outside I was a rich man’s son
Behind these bars I am still a rich man’s son
My crime is more serious
But my lawyers more expensive

My food comes from home
My bed sheets are fresher
My loo stinks lesser
Because my **** smells sweeter

What I miss is who I could have got
with a little more patience with a little more love
But what I miss is myself
I will never be the same because I have killed a man.

Writing my lines
With my infant ties
Blessed with treasures
Of Muse profusions
Canned in tin
Of seizure of ink

I cling to my sheet
Narrating my hit
In me,
Millennia thirst
Broken by mercy
Given by poetry
But not by poets

I read their lines
Recite them like mine
Inspiring me
To Take bback my jagon
And shading me
From being myself.

I see myself
As a shining star
Glittering from far
Scared of war
Between the sun
and moon

I saw the moon
Flashing the land
With marvelous musings
Guiding my pen
But I suffer from
Seizure of ink

Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
      once said, “Poets are ******, but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
      dry…

Can you hear him?

(LOUDER!!!)

Are you even listening?

What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?

A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
      staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
      (who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
      a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
      but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.

"I think this is a poem you wrote on my phone (or it is something I wrote). I can't remember. It is from a time period when we were in the desert and both had working phones." - Sarah

Martin's musings
If you thought you had met the love of your life- what would you do? The heat is up our chills up and down, and the faces the old women make in drug-induced ticks, heavy noisome smells mixed with the best greatest sweetest smelling true love you've ever known.

And five times a day now you spend hours and hours entwined and touching and being touched by the greatest and softest skin cells your skin has ever been against

And with perfervid excitednees, a cold chest, but tepid limbs, you avoid blinking to extend the lifespans of us both.

Black ink sprawled across a page,
Delirious writings; unfortunate musings
-- truth obfuscated, a pink haze
a tinted hue hiding the monsters lying beneath

An oil spill of paradoxes;
what once was true is no longer,
Confused, hurt, worried
Which version is the truth
-- do you believe what you see,
or what you want to?

Crackling windows and
shattered power lines
low and grumbling.

A tree spreads its wings
and uproots itself from the soil.

Downtrodden shacks stand tired
at half staff, barely paying attention.

***** roads
dirt roads
trodden
untrodden
my humble abodes

They've hammered
a rusty nail into
the northern star
and hung an advertisement there -
It's the brightest shiner in the sky

Weeping willow weepin'
Done crying, now a sleeping fellow

frozen fingers ask for change
Never really Done crying
done trying
Never really Done

A house
split down the middle
rusty rouge and a battered blue

A solemn lady
saunters with a stop sign

Pine tree pines to the left

Pensive pencil pours
pickled thoughts to paper

Pied piper pries
sleepy eyelids

pulls sick stories
pulsating pupils

monstrously
melodious musings

making meal of my darkness

Inside, Your cancer's beating heart
My ******* shakes, dirt dust gone
I swipe the sand away. For every ounce of ****
Laughing out meaty red raw steaks and size zero thighs.

     - For everythingsobad. You rattle my dream box with your sweet blue face and your gauges for neither being an idiot or being human. Too cute of you booboo. Captivity claws at you, you big bafoon, intolerant, shuffling your predicates back and forth during your 12am nonsensical *******. So long as it doesn't interfere with your curfew.

Like soggy altered-state popcorn. Your butter catches more flies than knives, the inauthentic gestures spattering over the rhythms and rolls of your fingertips is torture to watch. Kitchen countertop influenza. A tired dictionary of sad words, poor misfortunes, tired eyelids, silty and sandy crusty inside corners of the eyes

                           .rearing privilege

countertop crawlers. inaudible coos used by muses who can't keep their musings from tangling the long distance dial tone soaring through the ears like an Italian operatic melodrama. A horse, three brides, and a funeral. One woman, a sick child, blindness, blinding caused by toxins of the body stuck inside your gelatinous fishlike eyelids. Where's there an eye bib and a lance when you need one? A nifty electric toothbrush shank with extra reach and plaque protection. You're the kitchen sink they threw in, a budget meeting with a data analysis staph infection. A government where nobody wins. All the kids grow up with thin skin and an aorta with no ventricles in it. It's like the cynical prison system that we had to survive in our 8th grade basement dungeon. Thundering, curmudgeons drugging sluggishly, **** teen thugs. Preteen pornstars sluicing cash through their meaty canals, ******* the ******* and ******* the back bare in a messy afternoon of **** *******. Crusty infectious rumors made worse by brothers and moms, eating handfuls of Norco just to keep the family strong.

You remember our talk last night about self-reflection?
I felt like I needed to do some of that without
distractions.
So I drove for an hour and went to a safe place.
The mountains were inviting, red tail hawks screeching.
The tranquility of the moment was just what I needed.

In the solitude I found the answer to a "problem" that was plaguing my mind.
I have so much love to give ...
to someone who deserves it.
So much caring and compassion ...
for anyone who needs it.
Reciprocation in feelings and understanding
that
I'm not broken.
I was hurt
and now I'm healing.

Now in that truth I saw the true meaning
Not all poems have to rhyme
not everyone is going to understand the chaos
that's in your mind
And that's okay.
Because I love myself enough
to know
when to let those people go.

I take your mind to bed
Any opinion
You ever had,
Stark naked.

I start fondling
Your musings;
I envision
Your thoughts on my skin.

Your ideas enter me;
I feel myself
Tingling
From all the talking.

All my dreams flow
You, too, are close --
Baby, let me swallow
Any last word.

words have never been enough
to convey what's on my mind
i'll never tell you
what you should pay attention to is the pauses
between my fleeting
i'm okays and thank you for askings
if you listened closely
you may have heard
my cries
there is much said in the unspoken
if you looked closely you'd see the red ring around the area just below my elbow
i'd fallen asleep at my desk again
thinking
sobbing- that's something you'd have noticed if you saw the puffiness of my eyes
then you'd know i cried this morning too
you'd know that my smile
was a mere facade
and if you'd understood that
and if you listened close to my heart's thump
then you would have noticed the hum of suicidal thoughts running through my veins
coursing through my very being
feeding into every cell
ringing in my ears
like a mantra
like a death march

Perhaps, you could only perceive me, among the crowd
to give the glee,
the butterflies
the stars
and the moonlight.
Perhaps, I was the one who could make you sightless and oblivious to the cosmic flaws I possessed
to never be able to notice the slight insecurity that creeps in
when I laugh
or smile
of not having that unblemished, perfect silhouette of the lips.
To never be able to notice the slight timidity that creeps in
when I recite some blissful moments in a loud, excited tone
“you have the timber of a guy”
remarks like such
don’t bother except
making me more uncommunicative
mute
muter
day by day.
Perhaps, you are naive
rather
laughable
To only pick me out of the clique.
Perhaps, you’ve not seen the world at all
the pretty
attractive
and oh, those girls with the perfect curves,
faultless features.
Perhaps, I love you too.
I love you too,
because I am a girl born with the flaws
spreading my vision in each corner
ever since
trying to find someone to love me too
like it happens in romantic movies.
And now that, I am convinced all of it is actually taking place in real,
I love you.
With all the tiniest of the pieces of my heart
that try to reach the trail which leads to you,
With the eyes that rummage around for you
With Me,
Who has lost everything to you.
And still
I doubt
I doubt if all this is merely a dream that awaits the surpassing end to, once again
once again
shatter it all and leave me broken,
Defeated
Crushed.

like a honeybee
i
flit and flirt
from
girl to girl
i
can't commit
easily forget
pain and sorrow
there's always tomorrow
abusing trust
it's just rust
look into the mirror
there's nothing dearer
i
have myself
who needs anyone else
toss away friends
there's always more
who cares if they're
hurt to the core
prince of pain
loves the rain
tears of grief
there's no relief
broken heart
pierced by dart
no need to care
or be fair
her heart is in tatters
but
i'm
all that matters

I look deeply at you.
I look at you deeply.
I touch the comet tails.
I witness Arided, Asmidiske
And the blessed Sun of Joshua.
I peel the galaxy off of stars.
I hear the lyric and the moon.
I feel the musings of your heart.
I light the crescents on your chest.
I harbor wolves from the snow.
I write like Neftali Ricardo Reyes Basoalto.
And I become distant, a sigh, a spirit.
I look at you deeply.
I look deeply at you.*

© 2015 J.S.P.

Following the white rabbit in his waistcoat
Listening to the tick tock of his pocket watch
Let's fall down the rabbit hole nestled at the trunk of the tree

And where you land is a room
An entire world hidden behind a door and all you need is the key
A nibble from a cake that makes you grow
And with a sip of a drink, you shrink
Insert the key and twist the ****
Opens the door to a world beyond imagination

There's a cat that grins
And with a smile, he disappears
Have a cup of tea and a biscuit with the Hare, the Hatter, and the Dormouse
Paint white roses red with the Red Queen
Beware of her freakishly large head
Slay the Jabberwocky with the Vorpal Sword
And restore the White Queen to her throne
I'm sure the ****** Big Head wouldn't like that
"Off with her head," she would say
Listen to the bicker of the twins, Tweedledee and Tweedledum
The Red Queen calls them her fat boys
Partake in the musings of Absolem
The hookah-smoking caterpillar who transforms into a beautiful blue butterfly

Let us escape to Wonderland
It is far more appealing than the real world

As I write this, I am unsure of what is next
or the next to the next
or what would fill in the blank pages
or what would calm down my inner rages          

They say, “We all write to express.”
but what if my pen refuses to?
I  try to talk but my mouth closes
excluding myself, who else to woo?              

I drown myself in a plethora of words
but none of them seems to match what I feel
My futile musings, nothing could nurse
I swear to all gods, nothing feels worse!

In the silence of the night I hear myself talk,
A song, a whisper, knowing that this peace
Is the only thing sane in the chaos that surrounds,
And in this quietness, a radiant light shines within my inner self.

And as my mind finds wings, to fly out of this prison
Gracefully gliding across calm waters of a flowing river
Finding its way into the sea,
I give my thoughts freedom from the misery of life.

As the skies begin to cry with tears of devastation
All that is beautiful, needs an eulogy for being lost in our sins.
And as coal black our hearts have turned,
The spring may never greet us with open hands
The birds may never sing the song of their hearts.

Sink me in a river, chase my soul into the wilderness,
Where my breath is shallow and my thirst is never quenched.
Alas, these musings of the night will end soon
As another explosion rocks the very foundation of my faith in humanity.

never has a smile
influenced the rate of my heart's
eclectic beating
as much as yours.
never has a touch
sent shivers down my spine
and through the recesses
of my hungry soul
as much as yours.
never has a mind
articulated such emphatic musings
and solemn trepidations
and shot them into the sky
with passion and hope and trust
only for the arrow to come spiraling down
embedding itself
into the flesh of my chest.
do not pull that arrow out of the basket
that is my *****.
let it sink deeper
through my bones,
let it disappear into my arteries
and dissolve.
let it become one with my blood
and soak up the air
that you breathe into me.
i am thirsty
and you are the only water
i want to drink.

So here I am, despite every external and internal embodiment of the contrary
My goals are being built upon and driven towards, developing tangibility cell by cell
Despite my hollow self esteem associated, they continue somehow
Which is good I suppose. I push and push and results formulate slowly across the canvas, gradually taking shape.

Forgive me if I feel like a fraud though.

Girls, old and new come to mind
I look at a photo of the first one, see a very idealistic vision, she is empowered by the life she has constructed. It makes me smile for some reason, maybe I really have let go, because.. it makes me really happy to see her married and succeeding with her little goal. She was insanity for me at one point, a fantastical representation made of old thoughts and new unreal photos, made hollow flesh through text on a screen. I was pain for her when we lived and loved together, as the impulsive decision of "us" stopped my life. She was pain for me when I left, as I sat alone and craved the fantasy of the love I once had. We grew up together, and tore each other apart on the way to adulthood.

"I'm always sorry love."

The second one well
She's just done what I did with studying, come out in to the big wide world, losing the backing of an institution. She seems surrounded by others, indulging in it, good for her. Annoys me how gorgeous her identity is, she is defined by an intelligent approach to life, a critical mind kicking *** and yet still.. humble.
I felt comfortable around her, I didn't want to gamble the brief sense of on the level for something adventurous. Sometimes I despise my lack of back bone, sometimes I perceive my talent for alienation as a factor. But I think it was more that once I tried, we could never get back to that level of conversation we enjoyed with a few drinks.
I still have her on the social network, but with the few times we met, I fear it's too late, and that she was never that interested anyway.
I hope I send her a drunken message inviting her for coffee though.

"You're awesome, I hope you know that."

The last well.. she was my recent fling. A day of intense naked closeness and getting to know one another. Lots of talking, lots of ***. She knows her bubble, which was.. superficial I fear. She was into a guy before she met me. I.. gave her my preoccupation and overwhelmed myself, an intense sense of distrust which was too early to be appropriate. I don't think she saw it through text on a screen, which is all she was to me in the end. She was nice though, honest and giving, but our conversation was always just.. trying to give each other what we weren't sure we wanted. I gave her advice at the end, new thoughts from old habits, the importance of getting that thing that feels right, in the right existential circumstances, which can be a key you need.

"Best of luck."

As I get back again to my routine, my begrudged solitude and lack of motivation, I hope that I can find someone one day who will fulfil the simple fantasy, a girl, or guy, who will wake up next to me, persuade a natural smile out of me, slap me in the face,

and say "Keep Going. :)"

Failing that, there's always tea and good work to be done.

Losing you is like waking up on your 18th birthday,
And feeling no different than the day before,
Yet knowing that something inside you is taking its course.
Week after week, gradually you become older,
In a way that can't be measured by years.
You mark out your calendar as if keeping record will stop time from driving you mad.
Birthday dinners, doctors appointments, and important obligations
Peak out from under black scribbles and abstract musings.
Moving on is when the page is full and blotted,
And it's time to move to February.
We're fated for that kind of closure, I think.
The past months aren't any less real or poignant now that they've been pushed aside,
But they can't affect me like they once did.
Missed lunch dates and last minute schedule revisions
Don't mean anything less than when they were happening,
But their significance was left, crumpled and blacked out on the face of January.
Stuck in the distant space where past months vanish.
Holding on is when you accidentally write 2012
Instead of 2013, and have to quickly distort the two
Into a three, before anyone has time to notice.
There's no sentiment attached, instead it's a testament of broken routine
And nothing more.
That's how losing you feels.
There's no wilted rose or breaking waves
To symbolize a heartache that's no longer here,
Those sentiments of emotion left along with you
And the cold, indifferent agenda of January.
I tried to fight it off as long as I could,
By pushing you into a corner of my mind,
Almost impossible escape,
Holding fast to the memories we share,
Convincing myself it wasn't over,
That there was still hope,
That I still cared.
I was never afraid of moving on,
Or losing you,
No, I knew that would be inevitable,
Beautiful, almost.
Instead, it was no longer caring that scared me:
My capability to shut off all emotion,
With the switch of a button,
Obliterate all of what we had.
It's too late now, even these words fall flat
Against my self made wall
Of gentle indifference and time.
Soon February will fade to march,
Leaving January buried deeper beneath the fabric of closure.

He awoke.

His eyes opened slowly with a purposeful slowness; an action that for most people is the beginning of their life was, for him, a procrastination.

He arose.

The floor felt cold, unwelcoming as he stumbled reluctantly to the sink. The bristles rasped against his teeth, gums bleeding out of spite.

He entered.

Breakfast—a lonely egg, boring toast—entered his body; each bite was scooped with the utilitarian vigor of one who is no longer enchanted by food, yet the relationship must continue: a compulsory marriage without option for divorce. This discomfort washed down with lemon-water.

He contemplated.

Thoughts, those musings that are feared, condemned by most and yet became the greatest of comforts for him, reminded him that one day it all would end and he would be free.

He wasted.

He stretched out his hands, offering up his life force in the daily sacrifice to the eager god that, in return, lit up with the brightness of a thousand stars that blinded him from all that he wished not to see.

He showered.

Cold water ran down his soul, icing the most superficial inflammations while taunting the deepest wounds; no matter how long he remained behind the curtain, there would be no true respite.

He returned.

The blackness beckoned. He entered willingly, surrendering himself to the dark embrace of that demonic respite, his beloved above all others.

He died, once again.

whatever happened paradise land
the one you had once promised?
you said that good fortunes are endowed
to ones who obey His demands
but those are just hollow declarations now
ones that billow up in winter's breath
if i resist, i am condemned to darkness
if i inhale, i fall prey to your lies
so where does someone like me go now?
embark on a new path fraught with peril
or stay entrapped?  suffocating in your hands?
i don't want to betray myself
but i can't bear to rip you apart

The bark of our shyness, is falling away from our trunk like souls.
We are opening our pages, to pens of other entities that are foreign to ourselves. This freeing from shackles, of what before was curtained and hidden, has allowed an expansion of feeling.
Our emotive scribbles have been the pornographic musings of other well trained eyes.
We pray that this exposure will be met with grace and sincerity.
However our minds by giving in to this release are made stronger,
and somehow more calm.
They are brewing with a happiness which will soon be substantial enough to digest.
Let this be the serotonin substitute our being has craved.
We are now safe and surrounded by warm friends who cushion our beings with love.

i yearn for you
     'tween raindrops
silkiness
    of early morn's dew,
spirit
    of twilight's mist
dark cherry wine's
    intoxication
& comforts
    of a different rhyme
those spaces
   that enchant musings
toxic perfum'd lacings
     air filled of metaphorical
blush'd smoke
    gasping for surrender
'tween honey'd breaths
         wafting in my mind
  of nectar'd
       burgundy enchantments