"partaking" poems
Upon the dark night, striking three;
A tick representing each step in time,
but time overwhelmed by a trinity
of peace, and a plan greater than one's wildest dreams.
As the trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
a bird sings unto the dark night her song, unique, sweet, and free-spirited
Another beauty upon the night, a tulip,
blossoming, not fully grown, in admiration of this free spirit, the bird.
The tulip observes from a distance the song the bird sings
A praise, a never ending thankfulness
"Thank You for the trees,
Thank You for the waves,
And thank You for me," the bird sings.
In awe of the song bird, the tulip longs to grow, to blossom, to fly, to sing;
Oh, the joy, the praise, the song she'll bring
when fully grown to exemplify her thanks to the three
But, Hold! The clock ticking three, a breath He takes.
The songs of beauty the bird once sang
are silenced more than a whisper
Oh, dear, wilting Tulip; she wonders,
"Why?" she misunderstands, "Why has the bird's song been hushed?"
Oh, so joyful with praise, the songs she sang,
but now unto another Audience, unheard by the flower;
However, the sun rises, the flower realizes,
A new day is upon her. The trees clap their praises unto a summer wind, and
Waves flood the skies with their roaring rumbles of exaltation,
Just like any other day.
Partaking in full bloom overnight, grown, she hears the call of three:
You're unique, sweet, and your free-spirit will sing,
for the steps of time past quicker than the steady rhythm of that clock ticking
Fly free, song bird,
Your legacy will only grow sweeter with time
As the bloom of a tulip smiles and praises the One unto which your song once thrived.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 2:08 PM UTC
Empty hands and love wasted
Wasted, the state of being wasted
Drunk on love
Or high on life
Perhaps intoxicated with the idea
Breathing in the fumes of both
Hookah and happiness
Crushed up pills meant to calm anxiety
Only calm their mind
Not the body, not the syncopated motions
Not the actions in which they're partaking
Crushed up pills, crushed up souls,
Uppers and downers so that maybe
While their mind is numb,
Their body sure isn't,
Maybe for a moment they don't have to think
About what love actually is.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 3:05 PM UTC
**The allure of everything bad
The allure of vices that nullify circumstances which make living seem sad
The 'Hollywood' cigarette, the hard liquor... ******* crystal ****
All very romanticized but in reality, isn't that really just a self-induced slow death?
We don't talk about it, until we watch from the sidelines
If only for a second
When partaking one repeats quotes like 'it is what it is'
'I am not a quitter'
You've built up a tolerance for one, so you beckon
The bartender to pour you a second
Social trend like a hot topic on twitter
So now you want more
You ignorantly jab the needle inside you like you don't know what your signing up for
In a sense you don't, for you choose not to
Addiction entraps... but who?
Not you
And the moment you decide to go cold turkey
It appears more enticing in another movie, or in the hands of a fellow druggie
Impossible to reject
Relapse... rubber band effect
Yet even he that doesn't use gets a little curious
One day the stress becomes too much to handle, he's peeved
He's furious
He's heard of pills sold over the counter, and also of those available from dusty cobwebbed shelves
By dealers with hollowed out eyes, ghosts of their former selves
In an alternate reality
Where 'it's all good'
It's all about finding solace in one happy, high family... 'It's all hood'
A distorted image of zoned out smiling faces
Floating around in temporary elation
These vices have comforted and haunted many, way before our so called 'X-rated generation'
The druggie, the alcoholic or the *** addict you see... could be your's or someone else's dad
Or it could very well be you or me
Seduced by the allure of everything bad
I write this expecting it to be misunderstood by many...
For a judgement between bad and good
I myself could be affiliated to one of these vices... or many
Someone reading this may have already renamed it 'The allure of everything good'.**
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 4:01 AM UTC
I've always been in place,
in situ
Maybe (just maybe) ...
I'm sui generis?
When my lifeline intersected with spacetime on this continuum
I found myself moving toward a collision course with duality and non-duality
Moving towards a zero-point
What are we talking about?
Nothing (Rafelski & Muller, 1985)
As a geographer, the mimetic expression was dualistic
As one plane flowed through another;
as fiat lux flowed through Medicine Rock
I found wisdom
I further explored the duality @ this place
(also known as University of Lethbridge)
The U of L is an interesting duck
It walks like an Albertan university
It talks like an Albertan university
But one of these things is certainly not like the other
The U of L got its chops as a house of learning for the Liberal Arts
Follow those roots and you'll see conduits to another spacetime known as UCBerkley
U of L memetics share material memories from the birth of the Free Speech Movement (1964)
And as Arthur Erickson drafted up his plans for Canada's centennial gift to the Province of Alberta, I'm sure he would have been partaking in the pleasures of this particular spacetime
I'm sure at the very least that he was listening to Hendrix wax on about Castles
As Erickson designed this modernistic monolith called University Hall
There were influences such as Arthur C. Clarke and his novel 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)
He was certainly knowledgeable of the Blackfoot stories of the Old Man
And of course as an architect he would be versed in gravity and how built structures on a slope tend to creep toward base-level
Strange but true, Erickson's first degree was in foreign languages
So what I see is Canada's premier architect wrote a poem for us in 1968
In a foreign language
And that poem would be expressed over the next forty to fifty years
Some of those primary poetic elements were:
Berkley, California
Hippie Movement
Creep (or gravity)
Base level
Blackfoot creation stories of the Old Man
Jimi Hendrix poetry and his savage musical genius
"and so castle's made of sand melt into the sea, eventually."
So let's reinterpret that line to be more U of L centric
(through my glossy apertures)
"and so monolith's made by man melt back into god eventually."
........ ....... ...... ..... ..... .... ... .. . zero~point . .. ... .... ..... ...... ....... ........
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Some get that way by playing it safe,
memorizing mantras, righteously abiding by rules,
some get there by cutting seams,
lost in purposelessness, partaking of
ether, marijuana, alcohol, or anything
that's buzzy enough,
some find their sweepstakes in curls,
in fantasies, on the internet, or in the aftermath,
some claim the spoils, some gracefully accept
determination, some divorce their wives,
some happily raise their pulse to the heavy metals,
some review albums and cut down the ********
some write love stories for our grandmas,
our moms,
our ex-girlfriends,
some find it in politics, right winging, left winging, chicken winging,
some in bomb threats,
some find it in supremacy,
others in melting pots,
some cheer up over breakroom chitty-chats,
some in **** ***
some in sympathizing with pedophiles trapped in iron lungs,
some when they have hit the bottom rung,
some by rationalizing,
boosting themselves above half-wrongs,
to coast on the half-rights,
some by breaking up,
some by declaring war,
only to get discouraged, yet proud of the scars,
some kids dance to experimental music,
some write blogs about capitalism,
some find it kicking it with bitter vegans,
others while murdering their parents,
but everyone is a winner,
everyone is right,
everyone has earned the paycheck,
the vacation,
the **** wife,
and the key to eternal life.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 8:03 AM UTC
superb partaking of private delicacies
yet always keeping track of the skyline
keeping senses alert, never fully falling
I allow myself to get hurt each time that skyline changes
not because I enjoy the pain
but there's just something about you I'm not willing to lose, not that easily
so, I swallow ******* and suppress the ego and take the whipping words readily
whatever it takes
there may come a relinquishing moment when I can just give and let it all flow
free fall, like a kite almost
but for now, when shadows may come and place arms round the heavens
****** sun rays from abode and kiss the air into a messy cloudburst
and leave the sky taut with approaching footfalls of fiery thunder claps
I take it all and want it no other way
I accept the paradox fully
the pattern has been set
it is consistent
this mega beautiful skyline over me hovers so discreet in plain sight yet blind to all
I see the veins on the back of your hand, and blood veering sideways towards impossible thoughts
yes
a line upon the horizon tells me never fear
a stringent fire walk simply tests the mettle coil
discoveries in life confirm nobody is alone
as deep and low as it gets sometimes
the highs, oh! the highs outfly the roof
take what you need from life now and from me
yet take your sweet time
until the day I see your eyes reflected in that skyline
and your lamp beckoning on, into this frame
your skyline tastes so good
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:12 AM UTC
[Fanfare, obviously]
This poem should begin with the call of a bugle,
as is fitting for an ode of Braveheart Macdougal.
Children of Parklands, take heed and be wary,
as I relate now, in verse, a tale cautionary.
Benigna Murdie was a most virtuous lass,
blesséd with promise and a penchant for sass.
To peer pressure she was admirably immune,
and ne'er did she bow to the temptation of goon.
Nary a drop of ***** has e'er passed her lips,
save for politeness and church-mandated sips.
Yet even the mightiest fall-- what a pity!
(harder than I did that night in the city).
So I hope you all glean a moral from this,
and your interpretation does not go too amiss.
But all is self-evident, to quote Descartes,
so allow me to recount this tale from the start.
She hails from a country renown for their piety,
for their pacifist ways and universal sobriety.
The Scottish are known throughout the land
for their temperance of character and lightness of hand.
And our poor Bennigles was no rule-exception,
she subscribed quite wholly to this perception.
A more reserved and reclusive girl you've not seen,
virtually a saint at only nineteen.
Passed out on the couch, liquor was never the root,
only strain from the studying and academic pursuit.
A paradigm of virtue, a pillar of purity,
no “that's-what-she-said's” to compromise maturity.
But that all changed one day touched by fate,
when Rachel realized that hedonism's great.
She took to the streets to revel in her glee,
and legit nothing bad happened cause this isn't tv.
Alas, now I'm drunk and the screen is a-shaking,
perhaps of wine I should halt my partaking.
I cannot continue with this facetious ode,
as we all well know that this is a total load.
But I'll miss you, my Brit, and our shitshow nights,
our Australian exploits and your culinary delights.
Sorry I couldn't finish to detail your demise,
but perhaps I'll conclude after an Australia-reprise.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 6:20 AM UTC
a real estate agent
is the person to talk to
if you want a house
with a nice ocean view
listings of these kind
of properties are rare
there's not many on the market
which isn't very fair
residing on the scenic
North Carolina coastline
would most definitely
be ever so divine
as the sun rises
I'd look out over the bay
to catch a glimpse
of the yachts sailing away
upon my two storey deck
I'd read a book
whilst partaking of a serving
of salad and roasted chook
I'll be on the phone
to the realtor this afternoon
so he can line up a sale
for me pretty soon
near the seaside
is where I want to nest
living in a bush locale
isn't all the best
to smell the sea breeze
wafting o'er my yard
that would be a fabulous
tip top draw card
where the brine rushes
into the sandy shore
I'd so love to be situated
there forevermore
my pots and pans are packed
and ready to go
I'm just waiting to hear
from the realtor Mr Row
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
The ****** Lost
The ****** of Soul – does it work
Like Nakedness of Flesh in flashing World?
This shameless question worthy is of Talk
For Answers are so ravaging and bold.
Disclose Enclosures, Cloths unwrap,
Partaking Tastes so openly dare:
The ****** of Flesh – a mighty step
To Nakedness of Soul, a potent Pair!..
All Visual is hidden – take a look
And blindness of the sight by Darkness washes:
********** flow running like a brook,
It starts when Star falls down like a brooch.
The covers follow it like Mysteries, –
Their Names are ridiculed, Oblivion-like:
Be longer, Milky Way of naked Bliss –
Be burst of Lightning, you, releasing Strike!..
In Mirrors Naked ****** reflects,
In Revelations Nakedness get ****
And let the envy Ignorance neglect,
And let the jealous Ugliness be rude, –
The Flesh of Soul seduces Soul of Flesh
To let them live in Triumph of the Worth:
It gives the World initiating Flash
The shame of which for so long is lost!..
Jan 7, 2021
Jan 7, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
He liked to travel after the
War, he said
His father had explored Japan
With a friend and two local lady guides
Happily snapping culture shock
Soaking in the landscape
Partaking in practices exotic and strange
They went to a sushi restaurant, and
This is before they had that stuff in the cafeteria
Calamari alarmed the two
Polite tasters but face contort and twister
His father a dab, his friend: a bite
The girls laughed and finished the squid, raw alright
And they left, owner eyeing as they go
New tourist destinations but
Their stomachs start to plummet
The girls drop sick and writhe and twitch
And kick
As he gets all three to the
Hospital, where he is suspected
Manages to get authorities
To the restaurant, where owner
Sees two ghosts walk before his
Face, and random ****** cyanide
Lies waiting
The girls went violently
His friend had a piece removed
His father, still going strong
Though he’d always been
A little gassy
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:22 PM UTC
“I don’t believe in love”
She says
As I speed through a yellow light
She presses her first two fingers to her lips
Then touches the roof of my car with them
She shuts her eyes
I don’t ask her why
I just trust her intentions
In the same way I don’t believe in anything myself
Save for the passion that takes hold of others
When they believe
I like what that looks like
The word believe when broken down
First means to live
“Be” means to exist as
Or to live
And “Lieve” means love
And I think about the bravery it takes
To believe in anything
And the bravery it takes to love
And how that same bravery is made by love
How many stupid things have we done
Just by loving someone?
How many arguments are there against a belief
In anything?
I don’t believe in god
But I believe in you
When I watch you do things
Like superstitious knee **** reactions
To keep the light yellow a little longer
So on the ride home I do the same thing
As the sun bends it’s yellow into red over a horizon
That is kissing our sunburnt necks
Because I want this car ride to last a little longer
Even though we say nothing
And you don’t ask why for the last fifteen minutes
I’ve had my fingers pressed to the roof of my car
A satisfied smile pressing back my cheeks
You just trust that I feel this means something
So maybe you don’t believe in love
But you believe in something
And by doing so
You are partaking in love on some weird level
Subconsciously
Like breathing
But I want this car ride to last a little longer
So I say nothing
Let the wind **** the silence like white-noise
It’s as close to prayer
As either of us
Will ever get
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 5:28 PM UTC
Her terrace was the sand
And the palms and the twilight.
She made of the motions of her wrist
The grandiose gestures
Of her thought.
The rumpling of the plumes
Of this creature of the evening
Came to be sleights of sails
Over the sea.
And thus she roamed
In the roamings of her fan,
Partaking of the sea,
And of the evening,
As they flowed around
And uttered their subsiding sound.
1.9k
Have you ever met someone who makes you want to be a better man?
Who makes you want to try harder, be smarter, run faster, jump higher, and soar farther? Who makes you insides feel like they are on fire, just by breathing the same air as she does?
Have you ever met someone whose each smile is etched deep into your memory? Whose giggle gives you goosebumps? Whose eyes cause you to smile for hours on in just because your eyes have met them? Whose lips remind you of a strawberry so sweet and sour that it seems forbidden? Whose skin seems to outshine the sun and out glisten the moonlight off a steady riverbed? Whose silky soft hair seems to redefine the color of the night sky and whose smell seems to linger on my mind for days? Whose small petite frame seems to house the most elaborate and beautifully built universe which is her body?
Have you ever met someone whose gaze seems to see right through you? Whose one whisper can alter your conception of reality? Whose one word can make you fly to the sky or fall deep into a black hole? Whose beautiful body is only outmatched by her radiant soul and her bewitching mind? Whose every venture seems more magnificent only because she is the one partaking in it? Whose every breath inspires countless of people, but she is not aware of it? Whose heart seems so big that it encompasses the entire universe and like the universe is constantly expanding?
Have you ever met someone who to be just friends with would make you happy for a lifetime? And to be more... shutter... that type of euphoria can only be felt by the truly lucky.
Have you ever met someone?
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
Staring at every corner of your face.
Your eyelids shut so tightly.
The edges of your lips so still.
I crave to know what's in that brain.
You rest so still, as if you have never known of any living hell.
As if you've never heard of the battle.
The war partaking so constantly inside of me.
I am so envious of your nights.
My home is sleepless.
As far from your familiarity as possible.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC
It's pretty simple you see,
I like chain-smoking, snuggling,
And drinking "caw-fee";
I belong in the sixties and I write weird poems,
I believe it's good to help someone out,
Especially when you don't know them;
I enjoy doing arts and crafts ,
And keeping a bucket list,
But the things I love the most,
Are taking bathes with you,
And partaking in a good kiss
Oct 19, 2012
Oct 19, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
Yesterday’s but a drop
In the ocean of the past.
Its sorrows, joys, triumphs, defeat
Highs, lows all crushed to a uniform
“Consistency” In the crucible of experience.
And so every so often
With the frequency and urgency
Of reaching yearningly for a cookie jar
We reach out to the repository of experience
To live through once again
The moments that inspired either awe or consternation.
Each waking moment, we replenish the contents
Of this cookie jar so it never runs out
Thus partaking of its essence into the unforeseeable future.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC
A lonely girl fell in love
With the city skylines in
the horizon of time and
Distance. She lived for
Taking walks & watching,
Listening, being near all
The different stories who
Talked like she couldn't;
She had never learned to.
Her solitary soul found
Peace in pacing streets;
In passing and passively
Partaking in this company.
Perhaps a small smile or
A windswept "hello", she
Was happy. Always near
But never with, just this.
She needed nothing more.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:01 PM UTC
“I want that one” I exclaim pointing to the unicorn on the bottom shelf. I choose this one because she seems sad because all she’s ever seen was peoples feet. I pick her because maybe no one else will buy her because she’s at the bottom shelf and taller people wont even see her. She is soft and white and has cotton candy pink horns, hooves and bows around her neck.
“It looks cross-eyed” my brother Charlie observes in a critical way that night at dinner. He’s just upset that he didn’t get to pick anything because it isn’t his birthday. It doesn’t matter though, the new member of my stuffed animal collection is named Sparkles, and nothing anyone says will change that she is my new best friend.
After dinner everyone goes to walk the dog and I bring Sparkles, because it would be silly to leave her home by herself. We drive down the road and pretend to have tea on the beach. To my happiness, everyone sits in a circle. Sipping on tea and complimenting each other on clothes we aren’t wearing, food we aren’t eating and things we didn’t do, I’m surprised that even Charlie is partaking. The sun begins to set and we begin to pack up, or rather my Mother and Father pack up while Charlie holds Sparkles by the scruff of her neck and threatens to throw her in the bushes.
“Sparkles is gonna get lost Em, too bad you cant catch me” he cries running towards the thick brambles.
“Stop it! Stop! You’re hurting her!” I screech after him, desperatly trying to overcome his head start. But i’m too late. By the time I get to him he is already preparing to throw her into the prickers.
“NO!” I yell as I watch Sparkles get launched into the 8 foot tall bush of thorns.
I shove Charlie into the bush, which results in cuts all up his arms and back.
“Emma,what are you doing?!” my parents exclaim coming at the sound of Charlies cries.
“He threw Sparkles”
“Thats never an excuse for pushing” they scold.
“But..Spark”
“No Emma, you should have thought of that, we have to go fix Charlie” im cut off
They don’t understand. Sparkles made it so that everyone drank tea together, and stood for the small things to be noticed. She was my best friend, we were both small things standing up to big people. Of course they don’t understand. Big people don’t know about small people problems, they only know about fixing what has been broken. I want to rewind to when we all were talking about the fantasies of castles and secret twin siblings, where we were all small people for a minute.
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
yesterday's afternoon tea party was a hit
there were some rather tasty tid bits
cream cakes chocolate slice and ginger biscuits
they were well received in my stomach's pit
my tea was served in a large crockery mug
in which a little sugar cube did sit so snug
I sipped on it slowly with a grin rather smug
twas such a delight partaking of an Earl Gray slug
afternoon tea parties are my cup of tea
and I so enjoy their wonderful spree
I'm planning another one with much glee
for my cousin Fay and her friend Mrs Bentley
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 9:08 PM UTC
Who the **** do you think you’re talking to?
Going through the motions
you think you’re walking through?
Like lacking emotions,
makes up for the fact,
you make up your facts,
in hopes that no one crosses you?
Or shows you respect
that no one has shown you.
Cause you don’t show us.
I guess nobody told you,
being so low on life's totem pole,
in the sense that you’re light in heart and soul,
means that absolutely nobody,
could ever be below you.
So quit looking down, you’re bound
to find the older you.
The one you abandoned,
to show you’re a grower too.
Aren’t you proud now the whole world is over you?
I hear it in your words and see it in your eyes.
You’re weaker than you show,
"know it all" is your disguise.
Went to grow, to fall.
Taller hopes but not to size,
of the man that lives inside,
that heartless, aimless, shameless guy.
Not hard to shape the reason why,
he tries to shame when people try,
just to be themselves,
he needs some help,
with seeking decent vibes.
Addiction at it’s finest
find this person spineless.
Crying, and denying, asking
why in times of crisis.
Yo, just know man,
I mean it as i say it.
This the program,
get with it no debating.
I swear to ******* god kid,
I'll rearrange that face.
You’ve never seen this rage from me just yet, oh ******* wait!
Keep doing what you’re doing and
being such a ****
Being such a *****
is gonna get you hit.
I’ll hit you then I’ll quit,
pack my **** and ******* split!
Partaking in the shaking,
of your habit baby fits.
Complaining on the daily,
like its cute or something crazy.
Kid go find your ******* self,
before you tell me how things may seem.
Use that ******* brain,
for more than your berating.
Elevate yourself.
Hell won't be waiting on your "maybe".
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:49 AM UTC
~
Summer dawns
just beyond
the screen door,
across the porch
Dew swept lawn,
emerald weave
shimmering moisture
collecting foot prints
strolling towards
An arched entryway
gingerbread trimmed
covered in jasmine
alive with rainbow
flutterings of
butterfly wings
partaking of
nature’s pure nectar
Beneath it a
flagstone walkway,
abstract stones,
assorted shapes
and patterns
meandering through
lavender and hollyhock,
daisies and tulips
And upon it
you and me,
hand in hand
watching the sunrise
wash the sky
in floral hued quivers
as we welcome the
morning together…
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
I pick this Earthly slide into Summertime, this season to begin, propels forward in all sense of Time, history retrograde, etched in Stone for Centuries, Coded in DNA, programed Circadian bodies, impressions applied geometric thickly glazed coat, generously slathered across my Retinal Screen.
Setup complete for me, attuned to Solar frequencies, aligned to cohesive Cosmic driving motion spiraling Syncopation with all partaking rotational bodies, all timers set to synchronous, all ties to everything celebrating their teamwork well done.
Activity accelerates, as does the heavy heat, both inseparable, together climbing ****** into sunburnt sweat, steaming, sizzling Sunday barbecue to reflect the Flesh boiling together in sympathetic Celebration of our Seasoned Sun.
Longer days accommodate for memories and fun, commemorate the Force of Season, into swing, will soon be swung, centripetal to glaze a different gaze lathered across my retinal screen, reverberate through Atmosphere, redistribute composition, smooth bottlenecking, flowing out yet emptying to take fill of what flows in.
No change of Season, nor change of Heart, no redirection ever knows emptiness, no moment leaves a Void unfulfilled.
No moment when the smooth Transition stutters to a Stop. The sync is in the constant movement bringing balance in equilibrium by shifting tides, Spinning Stars locking in, programmed by Primal Cause, the Synchronicity in Everything, so Summertime comes, this Time in which we rejoice, knowing it's all been planned, beautifully executed by mechanics of Nature.
Trust in understanding a Power much Greater is in Control, we are here simply for the Experience.
...Not to much more, just in attending to the Transitions of Ourselves.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 12:50 AM UTC
The description of my affliction grasps the friction of a worthy depiction to my addiction in a position feeling the infliction of my minds worst prediction..
Unleashed skeletons distinguished in the flight of pelicans severing the embellishing of savored intelligence longing for sweet repentance revealing relief that goes the distance..
Searching for clarity that never ending morality my mind takes on high hilarity in the crushed arms of polarity assembling the modularity of my brain screws in chastity releasing all of the bottled-in charity of my restless audacity...
As all that's buried beneath takes turn within my rocky caverns that burn I release my tactiturn of the aches and pains the spurn I've been able to learn bounty of my earn comes to term as I yearn for freedom of silent concern if I can disinfect this germ like cleansing the embodiment of the smoked sherm I will be clear of the uncoiled fern slithering about as a pristine worm..
Deeply inside my head I've swum like the graceful swan in the pond that I come to grow fond classified the demimond upon no formed bond twisting my thoughts my top has spun uncontrollably making me dumb my darkest secrets tucked in the gun behind the chamber of obligated fun partaking of the glazeless bun that's so scrumptious to my tum tum I can never find riddance playing the war drum but if I fail now my utterance is done now if all coincide with my tone I may finally speak out and be gone...
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 3:21 PM UTC
I miss you, I want to see you. But not because it’s “couple season” – not because it’s cold and gloomy and city lights explode with hands conjoined. You are worth more than the missed holidays, more than the occasions spent without us being in the company of one another: Hallowe'en, my birthday, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, probably your birthday, too, as well as Valentine’s, and our anniversary.
On these specially marked days, I feel a certain emptiness as you, my beloved other half, is not present with me, yet that which is not emptiness, for you still fill my heart plenty. In these times, I feel envy as lovers are so obviously visible everywhere, yet that which is not envy, for they are not you. I may suffer from your absence but I don’t suffer from jealousy. See, I love you, this one man who cannot compare to the likes of any other, this one man who strangely loves me back, this one man who’s mine and to whom I’m his.
You are so very special to me and you mean a lot to me. I love you, I lurve you, I lava you, ILY (code), I <3 U (symbols), je t'aime, saranghae (Korean) – I want to say it a gazillion times and it wouldn’t be enough, and yet I don’t want to say it because it’s only an ensemble of words, an expression that is just too common, overused, cliché and weak, whose (level of) meaning doesn’t remain constant. Perhaps I could keep coining new ones, but then again I don’t want to be simply, mindlessly uttering or writing them like so, as if out of habit.
I want this so-called “love” to be conveyed in such a way that – a tap on the shoulder, a homemade dinner and handcrafted gifts, a random drive, a silent gaze, a goodbye hug and a goodnight kiss, my sleep-mumbling in your ear and your snoring on my nape, and the sharing of clothes – would melt our heart and let us fall a little deeper, therein meaning exponentially more than a mere, verbal, three-worded clause, “I love you.” That’s the kind of love I want us to be… partaking in.
Today, eight months later, (although I am still thirteen hours ahead, still 8,070 miles East, and still not in your arms…) at the last stroke of the small hand, we both wave and bid farewell to 2015 and welcome and gaze at 2016.
I’m thankful that love found us, I’m glad that we followed, and I’m happy that our relationship remains in the present.
May the new year be full of goodness!
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC