"reciprocation" poems
I just stood transfixed, letting her eyes light
the smothered wick in me that needed the oil of love
with anxious stutter I asked, "Is your name Grace?"
"It really is, you are right there, but pardon me
I am Grace Fallen" I took it as a joke and smiled,
"Dear fallen flower, your grace resurrects my crucified spirit"
I have seen them all, blooms, perfect, fragrant,
the ones that catapult one to momentary bliss
with a wink, a word that touches somewhere tender
or share love, fresh like butter, that seems gushing from the depth
that not even expect any kind of reciprocation,
blowing like fragrant breeze, caressing drooping trees.
Women with such luminance ,bless their ilk
whom one only could think as incarnates
came down to lift this miserable world
up from the quagmire, the ***** pit it has fallen
because of the absence of feminine grace in abundance
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
Mesmerizing glory.
Snowflakes falling down on us like old memories.
One touch, and you're frozen.
Not because of the hate,
but because of the love.
Sadness is intertwined in our fingertips.
Three words. Eight letters.
I love you.
The words will forever hold true but the fear of them keeps them inside of us.
I cannot bring myself to understand why people are so afraid to love.
Demolishing demons dancing upon bare bodies at night while young women and young men are spending more time on physical interaction than emotional satisfaction.
Satisfied with lusting one's surface is something I can't comprehend,
I'd rather love your core.
My appetite is growing because I'm starving for your soul as if I hadn't had a meal in months..
and to be honest, I haven't.
Because no matter how much I eat, I can't seem to get full.
And no matter how much I drink, i still thirst for more of your mind, your body, and your soul.
I may have lost someone who didn't love me,
But you lost someone who truly loved you.
I am done searching for the light at the end of the tunnel because I have discovered God in the darkness.
I loved you at your darkest.
Slowly flicking a switch to find the bulb had blown out,
I loved all of you..
and all of you loved it.
Reciprocation is all I pray for at night and as day break arose,
I found myself loving the darkness once again.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 4:43 PM UTC
Sometimes the words I love you swarm like hornets behind my teeth, a phrase so heavy it only has eight letters just like I lost you.
Sometimes in the pause you take before you speak, I wonder if you’re fighting to keep down the same things as I am; trying to swallow a confession that seems less like a secret and more like stating the obvious.
We were funny, we were bad at holding hands, I hated when a car goes over the tracks, you had this way of making silence the loudest sound in the room when it hit the floor.
I made a home out of your hands just like how many beautiful things go without reciprocation.
We seem to have found fault in being whole, somewhere alone the way, we’ve started enjoying breaking things;
Like my ribs when you’re gone and I want to know if you can tell the difference between the absence of my voice and silence.
You are the only thing I’ve ever let go that makes my hands ache.
I’m still trying to piece together what made you lose your faith in me, was it how everything starts with gritting teeth and everything ends with you walking away? I should’ve known, the way you used to hold my back like you were checking it for exit wounds.
It took me 2 car wrecks and 6 shattered mirrors for me to realize that the world has so much more to say when it is silent;
if I didn’t bruise so easily, if I wasn’t looking for a way to be made of a river, if I needed the silence to mean something, then I would ask you to build me out of quiet revenge and goodbyes that stick in your sides like tree branches, I would need you to build me out of reasons to believe instead of reasons to be afraid, I would turn my kneecaps into strawberries in exchange for potter’s hands so I could mild you a bulletproof spirit.
It was silence and your lighter, I was cold, you were drinking; that was our backbone.
You were alone, I was going too fast because sometimes you don’t have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
I am afraid and you are warm; this is the beginning of a forest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in.
I spend nights up until my body can’t handle itself any longer,
mornings have come like a hammer to my head-
instead of my face, all I can see in the mirror is an unfamiliar expression,
something like a dead battery.
All I ever wanted was for you to be my fire, I am tired of these old lives and would like to see them burn.
Mar 9, 2016
Mar 9, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Although reciprocation would be ideal
it does not have to be all or nothing.
If I can be
as a single flower is to the meadow
then I am content.
Apr 21, 2021
Apr 21, 2021 at 2:11 PM UTC
Spring blossoms gentle acceptance
Of vagaries of desperation
Like variegated autumnal leaves
From the core of the stone of floods
Undeclared truths
Affirmative requests
There is chaos as a whole
In the expanse of the unending.
Fear fades mystically.
Death and boredom leave your lungs ...
There. Exists
Justice and pleasure... .
.... thoughts of living, laugh in the face of Death.
all the thoughts of failures
Conglomerate and are cast away
Into a deep trench
the soothing currents lull
Sinking green verdure.
Embraced by the biosphere
And forming a reef,
Thereby even your failures succeed.
Even now your image is being painted on the dull white canvas of my love.
Violent storms may rend the world
scattering lesser unions,
There is endurance in our madness...
Laughter, the golden bird, with bejewelled feathers,
Leads to the oasis of truth, in this desert of deceit
Reciprocation of sensation
Every intention to remain
And the rapidly ascending choir of broken angels sing the song which massacres despair.
And the body I wish to settle
Caressed by the deepest dark of night
Birth of the morning
The genesis of pleasant daydreams
Calm, hope ...
..... And a sense of success
Blue morning justice cascades
With dispelled illusions, and realized wishes.
Everyday upon wakening
I discard hate
As love, is mildly colored supple flesh
Withdrawn and plunged, into the crack of a stoney heart
Space infinitum opens before us,
On the petals of the lotus
Space through which two beings connect
No matter the distance.
We know that beneath this dull white nightmare
Dwells a vibrant black dream,
That is neither evil or good,
But just is.
On the workbench of despair,
Disassembled hearts are heaped.
In this pile I dwelled for an age of pain,
Until you plucked me from the pile
And made me whole again.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 6:14 AM UTC
**@@@
@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@@@
@@@@@@@@
@@@@@
||||
||||
||||
||||
** |||| **
XXXX |||| XXXX
XXXXXX |||| XXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
ON THE UNEXPECTING
A BOMB IS SET IN
WAIT • IT CAN
SHATTER ANYONE
RICH • POOR • SMALL
OR GREAT • THERE IS
METHOD TO ITS EVIL
THERE IS FALLOUT IN
ITS WAKE • THERE IS
|NO RECIPROCATION|
THERE IS NO GIVE "N
TAKE • THERE IS ONLY
SELF-OBSESSION THE
BOMB OF POISON KIND
IT'LL MESS 'ROUND IN
OUR BODY IT'LL MESS
AROUND WITHIN THE
MIND • HAVE A FUNNY
FEELING CRAZY BUT IT
|BE TRUE • THE LOVE|
BOMB DROPPED IS A
NARCISSIST AND
GROUND 0 IS
YOU**
SoulSurvivor
(C) 7/20/2016
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
1.
Quite far you are,know not where, time and space remain fused,
But, our love is still a wild flower, that takes new avatars
Fully bloomed, defies sun and rain,other vagaries of seasons,
This love is beyond the thrills of flesh, not even nocturnal togetherness.
To plant a kiss of love on your lips,the wind will be my messenger,
With a gentle caresses you will be reminded how my lips felt on yours,
In reciprocation, with your scent wind would envelop me on return.
2.
Our love has faced many harsh climes, still we persisted,
Fallen down and walked again limping, long distances,
Our love has martyr's blood running through veins,still brave, sings
The song we loved, not together, a new light our love had found.
Beyond the point of togetherness,love is indestructible, defying logic.
3.
My flesh and blood would wither away,yours too have the same fate,
Your beating heart and mine,one day will embrace stillness.
Love has to live beyond the tunes of heart beats and our lives.
In wind and water, earth and fire, all over the vastness of space,
Millions would come together,in life, in death, sing love's paeans
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 9:01 AM UTC
My Lucifer, unwitting Muse, dog-eared Vonnegut,
afrobeatnik third eye, howls escaping
from your headphones, wailing about secrets, about infidelity,
about analyzing life until there ain’t nothin’
left. Then you shuffle by in your black and white Adidas,
hair in twists, wearing the striped sweater
of nihilistic intent, quoting the rants of Holden Caulfield
in your blog like you never didn’t know him.
I never asked to know you, to want who I can’t have
when I can’t even love myself. And every fiber
Of my being yearns for reciprocation. What is there
to return? What is there to feel, you meditate on truth,
fallen angel in the parlor of rebellion, blasphemous goodbye,
bright and morning star simpering like crickets in the palms
of daybreak. Your musicality radiates from subway chatter
and overheard profanity down El Camino Real.
I take in your ballad at my post office mailbox,
in the abandoned echoes of daydream monologues.
You’re a philosopher, exploring theory of mind, a cartographer,
mapping the labyrinth of your deepest desires.
Tell me again about desires, demonstrations of divine sadism. Tell me
about human empathy, the animated faces of wordless expression,
the metaphysics of free will, my beginning and my end,
alpha and omega, my fortress in the land of chic.
Blasphemous hustler, let your idealism simmer, your wit, your mojo,
I come to you an amateur, a neophyte, a lowly scab
in the strike against ignorance. Give me my melody, my song,
my one-hit-wonder of all that is cliché and unknown.
But I can’t be the other woman, your girlfriend, your aspiring
Playboy bunny only 10-bucks-a-throw. Your highness-who-yells-
his-ideas-into-the-ears-of-echoes, your every quirk spellbinds me.
Each day I wake to your entourage vibrato.
I am held captive by your brooding stare, empress of liberal
doves. You visit in my dreams when the sky is a force of darkness
viewing light through peepholes, your flaws an aphrodisiac, a love drug,
a fast hit in the basement from the ecstasy of words.
Aug 1, 2012
Aug 1, 2012 at 5:37 AM UTC
the coffee is warm
as it slides down my throat,
the heat spreading through my chest and
down to my stomach i know
the sun is rising somewhere up to my right,
amber rays hitting my hunched shoulders
and back,
but my mind is focused on the lines swirling in front of me,
words strung together just begging
to be said aloud,
letters floating all over the page until
they take the shape of
my best dream and worst nightmare,
my apologies and angry rants and
all the times i’ve fallen in love without reciprocation
and the boys i’ve hurt and people i never want to forgive.
i write about early morning sunrises
and late night stargazing
and all the feelings i’ve never felt,
strangers i’ve never kissed in
foreign streets but i know
one day these letters will float off the page,
take shape in
a little place called Reality...
but for now,
it’s just me,
the coffee,
and my poetry,
melding together under
the rising sun.
-a.c.b
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:06 AM UTC
Fond of love? Is it not?
With whom do I speak about?
Is it the heart?
A mere transaction between the heart and the love that it gives
Takes
Moves and listens to each
And every
Single
Day.
I feel…
Yet there is no presenter.
No one to share,
No one to give.
No supplier, provider. There is a house,
Yet it is no home. No place to reside.
What I feel is an experience worth the ride. I bought plane tickets this time.
A one way ticket to wherever it can take me.
Prescribe me the medication, the antidote.
Respond to my prayers with a challenge, rather than a definition.
Give me the reason I long for, simply
Because I ask for it.
Love.
Give it to me.
Feed it to me,
Make it melt in my mouth, at the tip of my tongue.
Let it linger,
Whisper my name,
Romance at the calm of my voice.
Feel my words against yours.
Trial my heart.
Adore.
Bestow upon her the
True
Meaning
Of
Love.
The distinction between a kiss,
And a hug.
The conceptual, intangible evidence that she is looking for.
Hurt?
Pain?
No more.
What I feel is the reaction to love.
There can only be pain
Where there is a heart.
This can go on for as long as it can be taken.
I have been beat up by love,
Yet I refuse for it to take advantage.
It will challenge me indefinitely, until I learn what it dares not bring forth at ease.
Afraid, withdrawn. Confused,
Wishing for a moment. My heart is weak.
Tired of the constant reciprocation of negative energy feeding at her.
Eating her alive. Heart.
Love,
Striking her.
Take it. Take it.
Not for an eternity, rather,
For a moment.
Stand up and fight for it.
A feeling deep inside waiting to let go. Please,
Take it.
I dare not wish to fight another day. She says. She says
She loves him.
She says that she wants to be with him.
Another heart to hold,
Another heart to handle.
Another heart to feel, and be loved by.
A heart scorned by the misinterpretation of the mind however. An emotion that remains,
Sitting
As if there was no other place.
Without love I do not seek to be found. With it,
I am everything. I am a journey with no end,
No signs telling me where to go, what to do, who to love and who to be without. Love.
Shut up and take it.
Barr up the doors! Continue to hide in safety. Create your own world,
Within the lies you constantly tell yourself. Day to day
You sit and embrace your own heart,
Your own hourglass.
In hope of one day someone else loving you the way that love does.
The word is simply a word.
The actions are actions,
And the pain is pain.
The feeling is feeling,
The emotion is emotion.
What is love is love,
What gives what receives are what we call motivation.
Fond of love I am.
It is not pain that I speak of. It is the heart.
Worthy of any and every transaction between itself and love and I live in it
Each
And
Every
Single
Day.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:58 PM UTC
To look, or not to look: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to forsake
The entertaining of such fanciful thoughts of love or lust
Or to pursue them against all odds of a benign response,
And by seeking, obtain? To look: to see:
Maybe more; And by a sight to find
In the glitter of an lined eye the interest and wanting
That impels said actions; ‘tis a reciprocation
Devoutly sought. To look: to see:
To see: perchance to lose: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that subtle glance what times may follow after
Whether the ice is broken or the heart instead,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of a choice to peek;
For who would bear the hurt of a scornful return,
A finding that the goddess is a medusa,
A turning of the fancies to stone,
A realization of disinterest, a knitting of the brows
A frown’s beginnings on a face so fair,
When she herself might her peace make
By refraining to meet the intended’s eye? Who would want
To face a rejection that is in all chance,
But for the regret that comes with a chance not taken,
Leaving what could be as what could have been
Forevermore, which makes us turn
And face the one to one million
Than never to face it at all?
Thus fear of rejections makes regretters of us all,
And thus the resolve to be one of a million
Is weakened by weighty o’erthought,
And an attempt to contemplate her soul through her eyes
With this regard are abandoned,
And lost to remain as fanciful thought.
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 10:51 PM UTC
Face me...fixedly eye to eye, four hands intertwined in infinite reciprocation, articulating...
Osculate my mind with your intellectual parlance, ardently and with hedonistic electricity arousing my neurons, titillating my synapses, sending lustful charge down my nerves.
I crave to feel your utterances surge through me, course throughout every bifurcation, and transude from every last pore of my flesh.
Grasp my heart with your loquacity, embracing so passionately, that our beats become one resonating cadence whilst exchanging harmonious rhythm.
Caress my flesh with cognital poetry woven from emotions existent only to us.
Trace my veins with every word born from pain, contentment, angst and tranquility... pressing their vehemence into my bloodstream, surrendering my pulses to ******
I yearn to listen to you make me moan, as I arch my back, tilt my head and release in silent screaming ecstasy... sating you with visual affirmation of our sapiosexual affair.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:58 AM UTC
“Sir, this mole seems to be growing and spreading”
Suhail stopped the scissor and comb, and said
“It’s a bit grown than last month and even then, I noticed it spreading”
Suhail is my hair stylist for the last about six years
I have seen him growing from a Hair Analyst to Specialist to Senior Hair Specialist
There is something more than the generous tip that connects us
May be my willingness to abide by his experiments with my hair
Or reciprocation of loyalty that bound us every month
Surprised, I asked him, “What mole are you talking about?”
“Don’t you know the black mole on the back side of your left ear” puzzled Suhail
“You go and check with Madam, may be its my feeling only”
“How would madam know about it Suhail, she doesn’t cut my hair!”
“Arre Sir, you too!” Suhail had a vicious smile on his face
“Come on tell me” I prodded him with the same viciousness
We got into wayward pastime …
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When you lay down on her lap in those afternoons
And she combs your hair with her fingers
And when you fall into that muddle of sleepiness and excitement
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When she comes from the back as on paws of a cat
Hugs and hold you tight with her hands
And press her face on your shoulder
Her eyes would lock it”
“Arre, Sir, they get to see it…
When those drenched lips move away from your lips
And the craving teeth leave a hickey on that earlobe,
Her eyes would lock it”
Suhail finished the haircut and I left tipping him as usual
The drive back home searched through the labyrinths of memories
Of caressing fingers, tight hugs and hickeys
Why didn’t she mention that mole, ever?
“Honey, you never told about that Mole,
Come on, let me see and let’s go to a Dermatologist quickly
We can’t take these things lightly; the doctor may even suggest a biopsy
Biopsy is fully covered in your mediclaim, isn’t it?”
Sep 1, 2017
Sep 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
"Yell that one out when you get it" she said in what she considered her most calm and gentle tone. Her calculations were wrong though. What she considered calm and gentle still seemed animated and intense to her audience.
By this grade and age most children have been trained to raise a hand to answer class questions or request the floor.
She began realizing more and more that she spent her days within a room of tiny robots, in a building of tiny robots, in a town of various types of robots... situated in a galaxy of dust that accumulated on the surface of the Great Petrie Dish.
This was not where she wanted to be.
All along his path he grabbed the sticks that called to him. There were many in this area which was surrounded by concrete yet, enough nature inside to forget the dull grays. Still along the way he traded these sticks and twigs for other sticks and twigs that he placed earlier in naturally occurring hammocks cradled within the bark of an old tree knot or between two inviting branches.
Each stick and twig that he moved was followed by a message of gratitude and the intent to do no harm. A pinch pull of hair from his arm was placed here in reverie of balance and reciprocation.
Walking by, I noticed this and waved to him thinking, "wouldn't life be a little better if we all ran around in a circle and enjoyed the healing power of play. It feels good to let go." Then I thought to myself, "that was totally awkward. I just waved like a guest walking onto the stage for a visit with Oprah".
I was fat non- hippie backwards hat fried from acid tabs and Hendrix Stuttgart posters for hours while rewinding the instrumental track that followed the song "drug store cowboy" on a dubbed Justin Warfield tape over and over again. Those years floated me from the village on my floor to adult ADHD and a far off gaze.
The neighbors hate when I run around my back yard shirtless chanting and banging a drum on rainy evenings.
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 7:39 AM UTC
I left my whole life behind
To be your companion
Your words are often hurtful & unkind
I’m slowly slipping into a bottomless canyon
My life is not my own
Since you make all the decisions
This marriage makes me feel so alone
I’m drowning under the weight of these impositions
Walk a mile in my shoes
Maybe then you’ll understand the gravity of my situation
7 billion people but it’s you I choose
And yet there’s not the slightest bit of reciprocation
I long for you to embrace & liberate my thoughts, my wants
Or to a certain degree engage in discussion
But the ambiguity of your response
Holds me back from communication
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 3:09 PM UTC
writing love poetry in/on time of hatred
<~>
not for the absence of love, for there is sufficient out and about,
in the eyes of children who cannot hide their glee at your surprises,
tousled morning hair patted down almost into not-a-horror-show,
a shapely body in a black one piece suit, that speaks of hints and
mischievous frolic, a summer night~right of taking, reciprocation,
god’s coffee delivered bedside every morn, with kisses of tenderness
but
**these are the days when hatred speaks loudest,
volume of volumes,
and the hypocrisy runs blood red in the streets and we we wonder
has the world learned nothing from the horrific history of the prior
century, the absence of easy solutions for those who reject in the
provident supply of the low humane treatment of a world where the
word
society
is a mirthless grimacing joke**
maybe that’s why I I turn on the love songs and music, a soupçon
of cherishing, a wail for its absence and loss,
the thrill unique it provided,
and may yet again, and to just remember, remember, remember!
why we obsess about crazy love in the artistry of our lives
so, I will force myself…to write of tenderness, let sneaky,
much needed,
sentimental in…
oops, looks like I already did…
Nov 10, 2023
Nov 10, 2023 at 8:40 AM UTC
You seem to know where you're needed
to whom this command addressed is a crazy me-man,
a street walking big DaVinci ibearded mumbler,
the kind you would cross the street
before the smell is close enough
to sending you running, not just
politely walking fast but a souped up
hi-yo silver away!
this guise no surprise,
you must and do
already know where I’m needed,
sealing the pact with a yellowtine post-it
writ in simple block letters ordered in a brewed cafe,
my latte arrive states my name as**
come see me
come to the time the place and the date
and prepare oneself for twenty and fours
of rigid interoperability as our systems
interface reach the pure state of 100%
ultimate wordless dialogue
communicating
in with by
perfect silence
heaven
you will write a verse,
my reciprocation
is already prepared
this terse repartee
will many spawn poems generational
for your family amazing and extended
an elephnat never forgets,
his servers are a rolling stone
with no direction home,
capacity unknown
every blade sighted retained,
and every sensate glance
a phrase seeded
departure will find me clean shaven,
pressed jeans neat,
and shod in well worn dockers,
cloaking my innate invisibility
when the children ask who was that,
you’ll sage reply
one new who knew where one was needed
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
I sit here contemplating altruism.
I wonder why I get frustrated when there is no reciprocation.
Teach a man to fish, he will steal all your business.
Give a beggar coins, he can only buy a pint of Guinness.
I'm ******* tired of this **** Somebody is living their dreams by taking mine away. I'd rather be beaten and hit than give up one more day.
Like trying to play guitar for others, just to be told "You ****
I try to ignore the deterring phrase, "You'll never make a buck".
Teach a child love and tolerance, he will be abused and stepped on.
Give a loser a second chance, he will steal from you when you're gone.
Altruism doesn't exist. It's in my nature to share this exhibit.
Too bad it hurts me, feels like my belief is somehow complicit.
I hope I can see what I should give, and what I should prohibit.
Judge my charity, my gifts, my intentions, these words from my lips.
You call me an altruistic ******* But you're just a selfish piece of ****
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 3:30 PM UTC
I have a gift for you; okay, it's no
big deal. It's just a little something you
might want to have around when feeling low,
when life's just thirty different shades of blue.
Afraid the present banged around a bit
while I was on the way to meet you here.
Two corners rounded off; they look like ****
the huge dent in between came very near
to breaking what I wanted most to give.
Be careful of the other pointed end;
it's sharp, and I'd be devastated if
my battered treasure hurt a trusted friend.
Reciprocation's needless, I don't mind;
you haven't got the heart to give in kind.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 6:02 PM UTC
An intensity of a thought, and the intimacy of feeling produce the sound,
The announcement, immediate and incomplete, but monumental -
The outpour of falling words, running from my mouth like water droplets from the clouds…
A leap towards faith and freedom, towards the excitement of uncertainty -
Experiencing a brief moment of weightless resilience,
Strong, proud and fearless…
Fiercely crashing into their destination without restraint,
Saturating the contents,
Slowly falling, seeping down further –
Layer…
Upon layer…
Hopefully finding welcome,
Hopefully finding reciprocation.
It starts with an intensity of a thought, and the intimacy of feeling to produce the sound...
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 1:34 AM UTC
You were freer than a free verse
And even sonnets could not keep you.
Tonight we got drunk on papayas,
Sitting on the sidewalk sipping
drinks, careless laughter
exploding from our mouths when
the moon split itself
Down our throats. In the messy
medley of the night I felt you on
my skin, remember:
How I lost myself in the fine lines
Of your lips where you claim
Your flaws fall into.
How I tried to swallow them like
apricots and how - in almost exact reciprocation
Of the same passion -
your eyelid moves which say:
I love you as much as I love God.
You are four light years away
And tonight I got drunk on papayas.
This is not a poem because
Sonnets could not keep you safe
And free verses compete but lose
Their flame, for
Like a landslide you let love slide,
I let love leave then.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
We circle around you in absolute awe
Adoring your every murmur
Loving you so completely, almost jealous
Wishing we could be so fresh.
I gather you in my hands, an infant saint
You embrace me with innocent reciprocation
Finding sleep easy in my trusted arms.
Not by genetics, but by love, I guard you
Playing mother for the needs you cannot speak.
Now is your beginning, the slow decline of your novelty.
More perfect now than you ever will be,
Rolling around softly in your untried possibilities
Smiling laughing at nothing, everything
You stare out at us whole hearted with wonder.
But one day, you will no longer need to be mothered.
You’ll stretch out your limbs to leave,
Learn the words to wish me goodbye.
We’ll ship you out, a predestined bundle of reeds
Out to float the river, and find a wife to replace me.
It stings to imagine you then, heavy with age.
I wish you would forsake tradition
And remain a tiny ornament of this family
An emblem of purity against the contemporary.
I know you will outgrow your nurturer
But someday I will be the one in need, helplessly tired
And then you will be to me, what I once was to you
The child will become the giver, the plant become the seed.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 2:43 AM UTC
it feels like you have my heart poised, perfectly, between your thumb and forefinger; rubbing and squeezing and pulsating until blood is drawn and the warm fluid slides down your wrist.
whilst you aren’t texting back, i’m emptying the remaining pieces of myself into a cup of coffee. each swirl of the teaspoon is another uneasy breath expelled; i pour milk into my stained mug in the same vain that i pour what remains of me into your open mouth.
i don’t know if you want it; maybe you like your coffee black but i've never given you that option. pouring and pouring and pouring. pouring myself into you without permission, without self-awareness or a need for reciprocation. i try to water you like a plant whose roots are already swimming in water.
i think your mug might be full already but i can't stop, i want to but I can't withdraw. i'm going to pour and pour and pour until you never touch another cup of coffee for the remainder of your days, till the smell makes you gag and cafes' become scorched ground.
at this point coffee is the only thing that it feels like i know; my organs floating amongst pools of sharp, bitter liquid. i push it longer and longer and longer, the hours between meals stretch into days stretching into lightheaded bouts of fainting. but it’s okay because i feel like i'm floating. so empty and sparse that i could keep pouring myself into you for an eternity and you would never get too full, your cup would never overflow from too much of me.
but i'm tired. tired of guessing and crying and starving and giving myself to you. i am not a watering can and you are not a wild garden. you are beautiful and I am hollow, the lifeless impression of what could have been lying in the freshly seeded soil. you are the budding head of the snowdrops in the spring, i am decay, rot and debasement.
you didn’t ask for it, you didn’t ask for any of this; you wanted me to stop. to stop trying to embed myself into you like dirt under your nails. but that is the crux of it all my dear; i can't and i don’t know how to. so i keep going, i kiss your bruises and clean your wounds; pouring and pouring and pouring.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
I am sitting in my studio
trying to get to you.
Gazing at smoke
drift off this beautiful ember
All
the way up
to the ceiling
slowly
filling the room
Hitting this without you,is just not as exciting
I guess
I
hit
myself
beat
myself
to this high point
to this fluffy cloud
All though
all alone
I am content
slowly drifting
away.
To a place
No one can tell me negative things
if they did
I probably
would not care
My mind
uncontrollably goes
to this wonder place
you know,
that place
where any idea is cool
and everything is,
you know
positive.
But
Lighting my bowl
flashes me back
to that moment
you know,
the reality
that you are not here
simply, cause
you do not want to be.
Quickly
pulling myself back
to a positive thought
I start to tell myself
what you have done is really no big deal,
and how you make me
smile.
I grin.
You know that cloud
I zooted myself to,
the figment
that I created
I fell from it
I fell so hard
I have no idea what I could be feeling
feeling?
Feelings,
As crushing as it has been throughout the years
I have never been ashamed of these feelings I have for you,
that I just simply can not explain,
why?
I understand,
you do not believe
these feelings,
at times
I do not even believe these
things
to be mine,
someone must of put them here,
maybe you did before you left.
Regardless
I can not believe
how consistent they are
how selfless they are
how unchangeable they are
cause
of
how
you
are.
~~~~~~~~
How you were unaffected
by my feelings
I hesitantly
showed you.
There was
no reciprocation
of your feelings cause,
you could not even feel for yourself.
But
without words spoken
I knew
there was feelings there
that you denied
Cause
what was there within us
vibrating back and forth
was so potent
so vibrant
so tangible
it could only have been denied status
but
could not help, but to have been seen.
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC
I've lusted after countless women after my ex.
Often gave myself a magical thinking high.
Oh how I can be whisked away by the perfect girl.
Truth is perfect people don't exist.
Some people can leave you more scarred than you originally thought.
While others aren't even capable of what you're in need of.
We have to be careful not project our needs onto others.
Chances are they can't fulfill those needs.
You're in control of what you need.
Getting what you want takes patience.
It's about finding someone that gives you a mutual reciprocation.
Anything else is just called magical thinking.
A mirage.
Choose to live in reality,
chances are it's much better than you're fantasy.
Oct 31, 2022
Oct 31, 2022 at 4:20 AM UTC