Road Trip: Thinking it's about time (find yourself within II)

This particular poem was born as a one line response to a message.  But in many other forms, half written, it exists still, un, unfinished, waiting for the next burst energy, the next holiday time, to reach a new finish line.

This is a different but similar to a poem posted on June 2nd, "Poetry Round (find your self within)"

Any error of omission is unintentional, but know that this took many hours, until fatigue won. If you never told or revealed to me your location, know that you will be called out, to and unto me, in another poem, called "your banner is my flag."

Fact about me:  You design me.
-------------------------------------------------------

th­inking it's about time for a road trip.

create an excuse
(reasons, I got a plenty)
to stop by,
to show you another side of me,
for a drink, a meal,
and some kind
of exchange, of
form and fluids,
manner to be determined.

to come to Minneapolis,
watch you create a heated sensuality,
verbally, from melted snowdrifts,
a hot time to be had
by all the poets
of the mini-apple,
I want to meet
and celebrate ann victory.

travel to Thiruvananthapuram,
tour the treasures
of gold and diamonds,
from whence come
the bejeweled poems,
that have earned visits from
thousands upon thousands,
pilgrims, devotees, followers,
to partake at that, his,
special temple.

Gomer, Gomer,  & MJJ,
I am in your Florida,
no, sorry, not in Ocala,
near to your homer,
and I feel you springer
ten times in the
November sun rays,
that have me locked
in a full Nelson,
your productivity,
endless,
a sea of orange sunburnt words,

Tennessee,
The Carolinas,
Georgia,
The South,
I rise with it,
now, again,
that I will need a slow
sunny all lazy summer long to
learn y'alls ways,
see the wolves,
in your forests,
helm the riverboats,
navigate the quaint tides
of Charleston,
the special places
where they heal, le ville,
where the ashes of
burnt children,
retuned to be whole.

learn y'alls ways,
walk in your boots,
of seeing poems
using your special
southern saber words.

missed the original
Thrilla-in-Manila,
but rest easy, assured,
that hotbed of creativity,
where I check the
PH of the mc waters
to comprehend its
wisdom and now, it's sadness,
will be an illustrious destination
on my itinerant itinerary,
stopping by Makati City,
after all,
it is writ in the good book,
this island,
the PhilippineS,
is the birthplace
of the letter S,
Samples: samson, sally,
and So many others?

in Nevada City,
which is of course in
krazy California,
wager philosophy, romance,
be available for
succinctly seeing
works in progress,
from which I
will imbibe,
so **** deeply,
may have to
stay awhile for...

while I am there,
will need to do
a search and
Hug Mission,
to find a special man,
his unkempt prose,
his mortal rhymes
disguise not his holy worth,
even to the grassy
cal-stratosphere,
to the mesosphere,
will I high fly,
to find his sweetest spot,
then and thereafter
going looking
further on to
Humboldt County.

in Leeds, in West Yorkshire,
(Hamphshirians, Northamptontonians,
patience please)
built foundries and factories
over the magical forest of Loidis,
near to the river Aire,
yet still hides a
magical sorceress of words,
casting spells over
men and beast.
no one has seen full
her half-turned away face,
but when she summons,
do I have a choix
other than obey?
even if I get lost,
my sorceress,
you know,
I am on way too.

to get there,
will fly I must,
to Heathrow hell,
will do it,
just for you,
faithful friend,
a man da gotta do, what
a man gotta do...for you,
but first a stop off at the
London School of Economics,
Hampstead as well,
for a tutorial about sonnets,
or sams in wells,
even if I come
in my bare feet.

even in New York Upstate,
a man da gotta do,
what he mulls over in his heart,
be not surprised at a knock upon
your door, to make comparative notes,
about each other's tattoos.

in the South African veld,
hid in the highland grasses,
crouches the poetesses and tigresses,
waiting to ambush you
with words that must be seen
to be heard, to be well understood.
perhaps I'll come at ester time,
under blue indigo skies over,
a golden landscape,
seizing all the gems
that can be seen
only at 3:00am

leeward,
north to Canada,
must I, transgress,
country of my momma's birth,
fly from Montreal to Toronto, Calgary
then over to Vancouver.
Canada,
a dangerous place for me,
cause there are beautiful
souls up there,
and maybe even a
warrant to
repossess mine,
they want their
poets back.

double down by ferry,
me to Seattle,
to see a man about river,
in the Pacific Northwest,
where I have happily
drowned so many times,
that The Lord is complaining,
am hogging all the baptismal waters,
but when reminded that
nothing lasts forever,
here tomorrow,
gone today, walk on,
I add my tears
to that river,
before hitting the road.

on that river,
gonna drive me a kayak,
down Daytonway,
on the Yamill River,
see a gyreene marine,
watching me do a beach landing,
in Willamette Wine Park.
he will teach me to salute,
I will teach him how to
shake hands,
and learn from him,
it's ok,
to stand down.

man o' man
there are a lots of poets,
in these here parts,
this grand
Pacific North West,
looking for one in particular,
who will be quite easy to spot,
as he is my very own
soul brother.

will be easy to find,
though we have never met,
he will be on his kayak,
I on mine,
tho when he paddles,
somehow he manages
to hold
never letting go
of, his lovely bride,
his best half's hands.

this will a problem,
for I must teach him how to
shake two handed souls,
while hugging and paddling,
even bailing,
with an old dented pail
simultaneous.
but you can teach old dogs
new tricks, even the ones,
that can't spell
rhymers.

have mercie on me Ohio,
like a mother has to her daughter,
done a three year sentence in Cleveland,
but no jail can hold an NYC boy,
but if requested, yes I will return
to set fire to the *Cuyahoga,
again! he he he...
but do not s mock me!
(now you know why the FBI loves
my poetry, my biggest institutional fan).

souls in torment,
where you be,
where you hide,
matters not where
you physical reside,
for we have found
each other
in each other words.

You, who live in
your very own
personal hell,
I think we met there,
because
yours was
mine too,
tho not found
on any map.

maybe I will meet the
Empress Josephine Maria,
rowing on the canals of
the Netherlands,
no longer will she be
alone.

but then again, some
very special things,
like
the purest of love
are on no map,
they are everywhere.

while in India,
will seek the many musings of many lips
of aged rhyme men
and complicated charmers
so I may kiss them
with spiced humors
to pour and pour,
more and more,
upon this western soul,
mysteries of the east,
to Kashmir, Bangalore,
wherever I must,
even take a praDip in the Ganges,
I will go, find you,
un-hide you,
among the
teeming millions,
millions of
jokes and rhymes,
that make the
world spin brighter.

in Germany,
all the university students
speak English,
in Wiesbaden, they know
poetic beauty is not in the format,
some in Bamberg,
with a peculiar
Missouri accent,
which is nicht gut Englisch,
so study hard the real way,
speak the language
the new yorka way,
which will require
study abroad,
which is quite funny,
now that I think about it.

but in Mo.,
the native drums roll,
long and slow,
making words
I know
better, different,
in a way never saw before,
leaves me asking for,
mo', mo', please?

to get there, to Allemagne,
land of my forefathers,
a ship I will take,
from Southampton
across the Kiel Canal,
before I depart,
will have my hair cut,
my words reworked,
by her Ladyship,
whose keen eyes and
maternal instincts,
see the joy of life in every
Livvi little thing.

Watt am I going to do if
I need to find a Tecumseh,
taker of my naked poems,
and enlarger of them,
so truth by her,
all revealed,
we are all naked
at least,
twice a day?

In Nepal I will purr at the words
gleaned from the markets and
train stations where
voyages from Lalitpur to Katmandu,
start and end,
where there is a miracle almost
sixteen years young,
where they call their schools
future stars and little angels,
so why should poetic miracles not be
as common as its subtropical clime?

though I despise the
Dallas Cowboys,
not my  America's team,
nonetheless there is a young woman,
a true rose of Texas,
who waits and writes
so lovingly of her airman,
in Afghanistan, I have placed
their names first,
in my nighttime prayers,
hoping to be there,
schedule my visit,
to witness his safe return
and their
joyous reunification.

there are no Mayans in Maine,
but poets of similar name,
kould be, mae be,
Julia's in Jersey, new,
in Auckland,
there are poets
who don't know it,
and Down Under, too,
where getting high is easy,
getting high at
and on words
well marshaled ,
but **** sure I will be
peering and prring,
all the way.

Oregon,
don't be gone,
those wide eyes shut,
when I come by,
who knows when I
will pass this way again...
on my way to Phoenix,
where sunrayes bend to the
desires of dessert breezes.

Kentucky to Korea,
one long road to travel,
but middle son,
if you can do it,
so can I, and,
I will follow.

in a beautiful city,
unsurprisingly called
Belleville,
the leader of the band,
still leads us in belle 'noise'
and when he finishes
fall leafing us in song, he still,
rises up in the mid of dark,
prayerful haikus to write.

off to Rogers, Arkansas
to meet an Italian from Mexico
who specializes in skinny poems,
something one day I will be too.

maybe I will go to
places it snows,
there are so many,
but your photo,
and tattoo trail,
clues, will follow,
no matter how hard
you make it a mystery.

you, who live in just
the world,
don't even think,
that crazy dotted lines,
unstraight,
or huge plains,
are sufficient,
to hide your
moody dust trail
from me!

somewhere in the USA,
roses grow in ground
that needs the
watering of tears,
though this place
is hard to find,
ha, turn around,
that is me,
tapping you,
on the shoulder!

will find you,
as I am searching for
a lovely pair
of stockinged ankles,
each with a heart tattoo,
but I sure could use
a clue,
before this hobbit searches
all the shire,
derby hatted,
to find your
heart real, and the real you...

my mode of time travel?
why I am just
a dude on a rocket ship.

Wisconsin,
look for my ruby message
in the snow,
in the dust,
in the sand, the skies, the sea,
but will you answer me?

Pittsburgh,
patient, you've been,
you thought I forgot
all about you,
chimera  at the intersection
of three rivers,
all you need wonder,
upon which one
will my ship arrive
and why you still disbelieve
you are not a poetess!

ME oh my,
you too, a hidey hole got,
but, we are strange, we humans,
we would gladly bleed to please,
If we could but find
a combination of
new words that
would your heart gladden,
your eyes tear,
your lips wear,
a smile of pleasure
at our offerings poetic!
but still I know not,
the where!

Lagos,
where
I shall climb the tallest skyscraper,
calling out in Yoruba,
where is my Temitope?
where is mine,
worthy of thanksgiving
so I may carry my Popoola,
my pole of her of
written wealth?

Mombasa, Singapore,
Maryland, Rhode Island, Kentucky,
Huddersfield, Connecticut Joe, Ireland,
South Dakota,
where the merry elders
well ken somethings
about a moon and tattered clouds,
something about children and dogs,
and something about letting
tomorrow's wait.

Milwaukee, Atlanta,
chuck, in *PA., friend to all,
to all those scattered across these
United States of America.

can we dare not mention
"The Shaq" of Malaysia,
South Sudan, Pakistan,
of course not!

Suburbia,
beautiful, black San Diego, Detroit;

The BBB's -

British Columbia, Brazil, Breendonk, and
B'kara!
the goodness of *Boston,
flipping out in Flipadelphia,

did you think I would forget ya?

those of you hiding among 64 stars,
the groves of L.A',
on the lanes,
the special land of I-sia-Bella,
fellow citizens of Neverland,
those of you 'at home,'
in the land of nightmares,
concrete boxes,
those who post without a doubt,
and in the box,
this who think your birth year
is an identifying mark, not,
you never fooled me,
will visit each and everyone.

even and especially,
the grays of crosstown
NYC,
the red writers of my hood,
the tylers too.

I am exhausted,
forgive me well,
if thy locale,
I did not explicate,
for the hour is very late.

yet thru subtle fissures
in the clouds,
look for a tired old man
on the wings of a
chariot drawn by angels,
bringing you a dictionary
full of new words,
a present for you,
but truly,
a present to himself
for from it,
your future poems
will come.

*but the sun has come up,
so now I sleep.

I’d just finished my fall-term exams. I felt at once both played-out and relieved.
Ever felt like just falling over? Didn’t I deserve that small treat after what I’d achieved?
No doubt our floor was ***** but dust, in blonde hair, isn’t easily perceived.
I was lying, relaxed, on the cool common room floor in sedate prostration
when my boyfriend arrived. He was eager for some post-exam reunification
but I lacked the energy for synergy, the motivation for combination
or even flirtation. Which left him grumbling with male frustration.
He suggested, “Why don’t we go out for some libation?”
Oh, what a smooth-talker - that’s practically a direct quotation.
“Oh, sure,” I said, “ply me with ***** and into temptation!”
Side stepping that, he proclaimed, “It’s time to celebrate and the start of vacation!”
I held up my hands and he pulled me upright, “Ok.” I said in resigned assignation.
A shower and change of clothes soon had me refreshed and reanimated.
How sad I’d have been to miss the end of term conversations imbued by holiday decorations
and I offer this to you, my small, winter, college-based narration.
In the hope that you’ll be inspired, even if you’re tired, to celebrate your own holiday occasions.

Happy Holidays Everyone!

Six Minutes

Created: Jun 18, 2011  2:27 PM

Finished: Jun 18, 2011 2:33 PM
-----------------------------------------------

In every breeze, in every blade waving to me,
I hear the poetry that encompasses;
the insects brushed off my tattered t shirt
are eavesdroppers, premature sightseers,
over-the-shoulder peekers,
wanting a preview of what has just been scored
and written up and how big a part they have.

shadows upon the lawn,
dancing a modest but frothy salsa,
my heart lips speak peace unto us all
and my eyes see my dear ones, beside me,
in my envelope of words, you are embraced:

to all, I say now you are bound to me
by thoughts of tenderness no lawyers can sunder,
that needs no caveated blessing from
city clerk or prepaid spiritual diviner.

my forked branch twitchs where wells,
nay, reservoirs of all cherished natural vitals
are awaiting for us to drill and drink,
raw, direct to the bloodstream,
which when warmed by a warmth
I have no words to describe other than
it is given and stored within for consumption
when sad moments arrive,
and when called upon, restores and soothes
when hugs and words cannot,  
but for now, for knowing, for keeping.

you though distant, grow closer,
and I will ride through the nite
with two lanterns to announce our reunification
after so long, what could be better
than to fall upon your neck, and lips parted,
whisper words of thanksgiving

The bonsai garden flows
Into my soul. The
Smell of
Cherry blossoms and
The sight of bamboo;
The faint pattering
Of the stream
Reunifies
My
Heart
           And
                  Mind.

I
cry for peace
for the love of God.
tears push through my lashes
I see the truth, clearly now,
the only discovery, myself.

I
smile at the grey sky
laugh with the thunder
of Earth, of our souls.
embracing the clouds that
keep us cool, and with water.
grey clouds used to
bog me down, like a lead foot,
held to the ground.
to have eyes to see through those
clouds,
to see you and me and our Sun.
she greeted me this morning.
I cry.

I cry for every I love you,
every embrace,
each new bond created,
all weaknesses overcome.
I cry for God, the tears of love.
the tears of the clouds.
my body combining con del mar
lifted high above, released on skin.
lighten the load, cleanse the core.

I cry, I release my God essence
back
to the whole, never disconnected,
loaner tears.
never mine to share
nor mine to keep in,

I've come out, deliverance desired.
my tears rush out, overwhelmed
I have nothing to offer, we are one.
all I know, you have. I am you too.
self realized, patterns breaking.
consistency is the key.
I walk and I cry and I smile and I laugh and I love
I love. the specifics of source
only to be understood at
reunification, and so I walk
and I cry, beyond faith,
into the truth of God.

it would be a quick
and beautiful death

out the rift in the space ship’s hull
and into the cold black abyss
a few instants of breathlessness
of desperate lips gasping
of wild eyes searching for
a reason
and then the calm
a reunification with the universe
that brings with it the realization
of how quiet it is out here
how far the void extends
in every direction
and how small
you really are
in the face of even the tiniest
cosmic body

then you will be torn apart
so quickly, you’ll never even know
brought back to your natural state
tiny pieces without order
atoms flying erratically
through the chaotic darkness
and though you may will to fight it
I much advise using
the second or two you have
to make peace with your existence
and be happy to be part
of something
so much bigger
yourself

HP 5000 (a thank you note to you, yes, you)

Less than half a month ago, miracle, knocked on a door, a beggar looking to share the little I had, was embraced full on, and now, my addiction to celebrating life in words, is stronger than ever, for found a new kind of joy, community, and these words writ last year, rise up and in the clouds I see them fully formed, ready, ready, so ready, to send to you via the sky, my slow and steady messenger, and that sun shower, worry, not, my very real tears of gratitude


"my heart lips speak peace unto us all
and my eyes see my dear ones, beside me,
in my envelope of words, you are embraced...
you though distant, grow closer,
and I will ride through the nite
with two lanterns to announce our reunification
after so long, what could be better
than to fall upon your neck, and lips parted,
whisper words of thanksgiving"

Thank you.

1.
A seducer snails’ past
Her Calling mission has reviled
Undoubting triumph

2．
Olympic monument
Reunification spikes
spirits of justice

3.
Her calling mission
Transmit to earnestly love
Unveiled the truth

4.
Harmonize rhythmic move
with a secular ring
She performs a wild ballet 

5.
The waves of light
Transparent erase recreation.
Wind swirled her faith

6.
An entire steel
fairies bumble, tumble, fumble 
in bloom white

7
Mysterious sketch
An angle of 17 degree
legendary explore


8.
136 meter measures
holly patient in affliction
ego human mind

9.
Fantasised loop
how sad that it’s not aware
tremble gamble dreams

10.
Clouds rumbles
He moves toward the sun 
Gold torch, birds crowd

11.
Calatrava attribute to Gaudi
The earth’s great sketch trick
eyes to hip in glories.

12.
Emotions are tides
Barcelona was heir to full
gazing at distant galaxies

Do you remember how happy were we?
We were together and enjoying; you agree?
You used to hold my hand while walking,
Having a fear that no one will catch us holding.
But we used to hold hands,
Not caring for anyone’s reprimand.
We were in our own land of happiness,
We were together with the complete craziness.
I hope I Can see you again,
before I go then.
I don’t think I will be happy without you?
I think always your memories will come anew.
I can’t forget you,
I always think about you.
Stalking on your picture,
such a relief that I remember about our adventure.
Arguing, not talking for hours, then back to normal,
Not ruining time with the old arguments that were not actual.
I always think about you, can’t wait to see you again.
I wish everything will be fine with no detain.

I usually write when it's raining
When it's raining I'm usually right
Wrote my heart on my sleeve while complaining
When and why weave the unknown archane art
Without measure of meaning or pleasure
Above and beyond anything we thought
Outside of the encircled we're drawing
With all wonder as is fervantly caught
Bringing forward a motion of knowing
Beyond knowing mercy as serverity's stair
Reunification of all being
Exhalation from and into the aer

We moved back into the residence yesterday - we were jubilant - and had a slumb-over last night, to celebrate our reunification. We woke up joyous, on the right side of the same bed (slumb-over), and we’ve been bouncing off the walls ever since.

We’re in the ‘settling in’ phase, restocking our Keurigs, getting our same-’ol furniture in the same-’ol places, picking up our books. In this liminal space, between sugarplums and sutures, our shrinking free-time will sag with increasing weight. Even last night’s normally fabulous martinis began to taste metallically laced with formaldehyde.

Once we’re settled in, our leisure will begin to have the tight, mangled fit of a borrowed jacket. “We’ve got to gear up.” Lisa said, just this morning and even as I type this, my eyes are flitting between my dog-eared copy of Gray's Anatomy and the mcat prep hub.

Classes start in 5 days. Free days burn bright, but disappear in a blink. Time is a precious coin.

slumb-over = slumber party.

you unfollowed me
which in this generation is
akin to alienation,
it shuts down the waves of good vibrations
and signals the immediate effective termination
of friendship.
in a click of a button,
the tap of a screen,
and everything we've worked toward,
wasn't what it seemed.

you moved away
we never spoke again and i feel like
that's my fault.
why?
you're the one who
ended communication,
gave no explanation and even
closed off an opportunity for reunification,
but it's my fault.

you burnt the bridges
that supported you on the
epic failure that is your journey.
you never tried hard enough
you complained too much.
i believed in you.

i still believe,
with zero proof,
that you could pull yourself from
the rubble of your lies.
and walk through these streets,
head held high,
as a champion of your own design.

your dreams are still attainable,
and i hope the severed lines
of our friendship
was something that pushed you
to be more than you ever thought you could be.

i still believe,
with zero proof,
that you could still put others
first, for a change,
and set forth on the life-changing
journey you wanted.

i hope i was the toxic friend
that was holding you back.
at least then,
i can accept the death of years spent
together, with nothing but love and support on
my end, and nothing but self-diagnosed
illnesses, self-hate, and self-deprecation on yours.

Ordinarily approximately sixteen days
of barley, hops and malt brew
to ale any even those who cannot chew
the cud subsequently most foods I eschew
courtesy maxiofacial malady
or lack of teeth perhaps even a few
that goot yanked out

after misshapen choppers grew
from uncommon body sites,
and I declare constituted hue
man dental dilemma –
somewhat dire oral issue,
yet now tis time to party
and imbibe whether gentile or Jew

in this 210th anniversary,
sans revelry nobody knew
boot beer brouhaha
actually named from German locale loo
cull hamlet that now sports
more’n 6 million stein ways that moo
after getting punch drunk

to rejoice at German reunification
October 3, 1990, hence new
reasonable rhyme referred
to occasion as unity day
held in an area Theresienwiese – phew
what a mouthful field, or meadow,
of Therese), where carousers queue.

Often called Wiesn for short,
located near Munich's center to gorge
on a wide variety of traditional food such
as Hendl (chicken), Schweinebraten (roast pork),
Schweinshaxe (grilled ham hock),
Steckerlfisch (grilled fish on a stick),
Würstl (sausages) along with Brezeln (Pretzel),

Knödel (potato or bread dumplings),
Käsespätzle (cheese noodles),
Reiberdatschi (potato pancakes),
Sauerkraut or Rotkohl/Blaukraut (red cabbage)
along with such Bavarian delicacies as Obatzda
(a spiced cheese-butter spread)
and Weisswurst (a white sausage).

the love of my life
my only love
my only life
ripped away
forever
the loss of her presence resounds
a reverberation echoing
through the halls of memory
each one so bittersweet to my mind
a laugh, a sigh, a tear i cry
the most horrible pain
ever endured
wanting
wanting
an end to this pain
an end to this life
needing
needing
a kiss
a hug
a new beginning
awaiting the new future
and the reunification of the twain

I swallow your silence,
the one ubiquitous drink
in this maelstrom of ambivalence,

see-saw of coming and going
as if elastic bands
snapped back

before we clinch what we need.
If I think, submerse myself
in the small pool of memories

in a sixteenth of the brain
occupied by you, I can almost recall
the waves of your voice,

each inflection, and your face;
now that, honestly, tricky somehow.
The weeks become a sludge,

each day with its own
carcinogenic tint,
pollution plumes.

What date shall I red-circle, our reunification?
We’ll clutch at our throats,
gasp at how little has passed.

To you, gardener,
of flowers under oozing rays of honey.
Who in your memory helped bloom,
vibrant beauty, so absent from this summer.

To you, gardener,
who gives colors from yellow, blue, green and red Hughes.
which explode like a choir amongst the rocks and air.
in your explosive tune, that your dove,
vessel of posthumous beauty, takes flight.

For you, who helped him bloom!
That took him out of the dark,
as you turned a bud into a flower,
coal into a diamond,
a babe into an eagle.

For you, after that one night.
Left him in solitude, as you dreamed amongst the stars.
For you, sweet gardener, unleashed his celestial voice,
as he searched amongst the thorns of time and space.
crying, begging, pleading for reunification.

He forgot the stars,
  he lost his spark,
      he danced for the night,
          as he begged, pleaded, lost in flight
                   praised and saddened by your glory,
like you sweet gardener, I want to raise a flower,
  watch it bloom, watch it sing, watch it soar,
          but never leave it alone. . .

Delighted I am indeed.

Michael O’Leary, Bob Geldof and Edna Kenny
are Three Rats.

Scotland will secede and as in the Good Friday Agreement
there has to be a referendum on Irish reunification.

France will vote out.

That is the end of TTIP and death knell for USA interference
in Europe.

This is a win win situation.

New Zealand/Aus will re open the trade it lost with UK.

Ireland will begin trading with Russia/China.

Michael (( ’Leary and all those other arborist ((ssholes can
go and **** themselves.

Palindrome Geldof won’t like Tuesdays now either.

Edna Kenny and the Fairy Gale party can go to the
“ Haunts of Loot and Ahern “.

My wife, who works for an agency dealing with 100% Brits,
will no doubt be told that her services are no longer required.

But we will weather that.

I would rather go hungry than loose the gracious Queen.

EU was determined to get rid of her.

God Bless You Brits, You Have Endeared Your Nation.


Pass on to 60,000,000 Brits including Her Royal Highness.

PS.

Palindrome Geldof had better return the Knight Hood
and stop wearing his Pyjamas in public.

I don’t think she’ll ever understand,
That throughout every hurt every obstacle every separation and every reunification only for it to be cut short,
I have always loved her for her.
It’ll be two years this coming April 6th that we’ve been completely in each other’s lives and out during times.
It’s no lie that it hasn’t always been perfect or happy,
There’s been dark times and hurtful times.
Yet throughout everything,
I still look at her and love her more everyday.
I’ve watched her stumble and fall.
I’ve watched her pick herself up and still do everything her way,
I’ve watched her grow and become stronger.
I’ve also hurt her,
I’ve disappointed her.
I let her down because I wasn’t ready for anything she needed.
Yet I loved her all throughout.
She wanted stability and love.
She needed a partner,
I was too busy with my head in the clouds and too broken to even try.
I’ve watched her leave, fall in love with someone else.
Very quickly might I add.
Yet here I am still writing about the girl who’s kiss truly is beyond this world and I think about that first kiss we had.
I was a boy, who dreamed of things.
She was a girl, who believed in us.
Now here we are, two years later.
And I have to decide whether or not to let you go…
Because it hurts…
Or hang on and hope.

walking within the hullabaloo
numbs the senses
scrambles minds
disconnects hearts

a quiet place beyond all noise
regeneration of deep silence
reconfiguring of priorities
the healing of reunification