"reminice" poems
If I had a time machine, there is only one place I would go. To the meadow, where we would launch dirt clods, back at the boys. Then climb and hide in our woodland suite, where no boys could annoy us. I would like to see our fortress again, and pretend, that we were still friends.
If I had a time machine, I would try to go back to when you cried. Because your bearer was more of a bear than a mother. She didn't understand, but I took up the stance, and we marched our way through the madness. I would like to smoke a cigarette on the rooftop again, and pretend, that we are still close friends.
Goodbye my sister, my childhood friend. We have ended the games we pretended. We both have homes now, lovers now, bills now. Our barbie village blown up into living breathing reality.
And we,
Incapable of seeing each other old, In the new mold. Everything that I'm told makes me so proud of you.
And I'll wait, while we migrate, through different schedules and rituals. I'll be at the front gate. Once I have my Tony we dreamed of and you have your fashion line we seamed up, in every major cotour city.
It will be then, that we'll emerge back together again. Helping each other through hospital corridors in replace of wadding through muddy shores.
There will be two glasses of wine, one with your name, one with mine, where we can rewind, and reminice about time.
If I had a time machine, I would quickly jump to the future and sneak a peak at us. Just as we imagined it long ago. Both sitting in our rocking chairs, just above the front stairs. As the porch wraps around both us and the house. A glass of whisky in one hand and a shot gun in the other, prosting to the old ways and the new days
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:33 PM UTC
The beauty of life isn't captured in files nor profiles.
It's in a blink or a thought of a distant place.
It lies in emotions that reminice of a time not yet spent.
It is a few seconds in a multiple uncaptured frames.
It lies in the ignored existence of composure.
It influences the untapped recognitions of appreciation.
The beauty of life is not about me showing or telling.
It's only about a few thoughts that inspire ambitions.
A few dreams that elevate fantasies.
The beauty of life is about me in a second painting a picture of elegant brush strokes,
the motion of the eye that composes a visual symphony,
it is an organised cluster of sounds that co-ordinates the performances of all other senses.
It is about leaving open a beat of the heart, only to fill it with the energies of the living.
The beauty of life isn't about searching for joy,
but learning from memories of both depression and tranquility.
It is about the heart losing weight,
the smile gaining width and height.
The beauty of life is about the value of sorrow depreciating.
For me it's about ploughing joy from seeds of madness,
or overturning a frown into a thing of beauty.
It's about dreams that don't need me to sleep and nightmares that have no back up files.
The beauty of life...
As much as I try to define it,
the statements always have a questionmark at the end.
So forever I search, for the beauty of life...
Jul 14, 2011
Jul 14, 2011 at 8:19 AM UTC
I wish I could write poetry, cause I'd write it all about you. But you're not mine to write about anymore so now I don't have a clue...
Anymore.
Random words laced with emotion. Like silver lined clouds, sprawled across a page. Anger and rage bound together with hope and love take the stage.
Which won't hold any meaning anymore so I shan't even bother.
Well, why not? I'll give it a go.
Whilst I reminice the best of times. Where unrequited feelings were a distant memory, but now they don't seem so distant anymore I find.
Where my thoughts are confined, wrapped in vines so tight it's hard to confide.
These Thoughts... They rest upon my shoulder, with the weight of a thousand boulders. Yet I present to you this story, this allegory, as delicate as a dove, and as pure as it's feathers.
A lover's Peril is hard... for I am soft. An antithesis of sorts, but the feeling of pain is making me stronger.
For each time I find a picture, or a hand written letter is like stepping on a land mine. The shrapnel of memories dig deep in the battle line, yet I'll soldier on and look at every picture. Redefine... that loves not lost because I'll keep in touch with the best of times.
Where do I draw the line? I ask myself.... When the sweet tune fades away from the chorus line, I tell myself... When the lonely path winds from a jagged beat, to a single straight line, I tell myself. Both the end and the starting line.
Your not mine anymore, and I still don't have a clue. How a lover's peril fares or simply, what to do. But you remain at heart however, and that part is true. Which is more than enough, So I think I'll continue.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC