"trajectories" poems
And I will make sure that if anything were to happen,
It would do little to affect you.
It's not everyday
You find a goose that lays eggs
With speckled jewels and golden flakes
The world is full of incongruity
And there's no doubt about the certainty
That something bad may happen,
And we don't want that, do we?
So listen carefully.
The world is a giant carboniferous spicule
Hanging in a nest of hydroxic gas and particulae
Spinning within the gaps of a blackened dome
Of limitless space and out of control
There is no telling what way it will go
There is no prediction that has fortold
Any number of moments in this tumbling slumber
Between the darkest hell and the further horizon
I so deftly advise you with all certification
To please place your bets and fly by echolocation
Your eyes will mislead, your ears will displease
And there is no way we can refund divine warranties
This machinery
has a half life of quarks
And energies that vibrate into other orbits
Trajectories
Retaining the spin and informative piece
Of that golden goose let loose amongst the canopy
Of dark,
off into neverland, straight on
Till new morning,
Beyond the stars
So please good sir don't migrate away from me
I have so much to give and such pain I have seen
Those that fatten their goose with **** till it quacks,
Those ravenous souls who ate their gift for a snack,
And when life finally cuts them down to their last,
They will howl and yowl and pray that goose back.
This is a game,
Have a good little laugh
Don't waste your time or your money
On a daffy Aflack
Policy that keeps you policed to the earth,
No way to fly,
Stuck in the dirt.
That is no way to live in the dream,
That is no way to let death trickle in
So please, pretty please, make sure you have coverages
And a couple extra dollars in the pocket of those jeans
Wander freely, you great big atomic bomb, you.
Do catastrophic damages and I'll pay your dues.
Ride the road coast to coast,
Fly a bird 'round the world,
Take a truck till you're home,
Find a love you can trust.
Find a place where your egg
And your legs seek nowhere else
Lay down those roots,
It's Eden or bust.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
Life is full of mischief and artful trickery
The way through never made easy for the foolhardy
Misleading gestures only employed to solely distract
Left up to you to decipher and hopefully extract
Experiences teach much, had you only been accepting and learning
That a dove could be made to appear; out of thin air, out of nothing
When the road ahead offers no more than mere misdirections
Altered trajectories stemming from convenient misinterpretations
Your cards may have been dealt revealing astonishing outcomes
"Not the hand you get but the game you play," said some
Depending on deft wrists and a flick of the wand
Overnight you'll wake to find that a new day had dawned
Only would happen if into the wind you hadn't spat
Hope would emerge like a hare out of a top hat
The play on light and shadow, nothing short of dramatic
You volunteer onstage, accompanied by apprehension and suspenseful music
Faced with an eager audience; you realise that alone you stand
Be not surprised to learn that love is life's sleight of hand...
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC
All sorrow is perpendicular occurring
at right angles of tragedy encircling
the grief-stricken with straight edges
only once intersecting across infinite planes—
Don't dare draw the lines between points
or shade the region with limits or curves
because the trajectories of bullets are plotted
on branes intolerant of slightest triangulation
Woe unto the seekers of sine waves
sobbing thinking of filling every trough
believing surely by now we've offered enough
to sate these bloodthirsty Euclidean demons
Cresting won't ever arrive in this course
filled to the brim with asymptotes, cold corollaries
but never spilling over under our sacred
pledge of allegiance to the 2nd Parallel Postulate
No intersections can be admitted with thoughts
& prayers extending outward barely co-planar
serious public policy proposals axiomatic
insistence on the Nirvana Theorem or nothing
A set of all points remains, mutually exclusive
motionless and always incongruent clueless
about their own particular geometries
awaiting radical Pythagorean salvation
Some paradigm we’ve built here though!
Two hundred years of living polygonal hand
to elliptical mouth without tangential reflection
on the unproven flatness of humanspace.
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 4:41 AM UTC
Dragged out screaming, senseless from the hallows of martyrdom
My father's mother's wayward brother
Baptized in propaganda and searing lead
Kamikaze death machine to paranoia fever dream
A noble experiment in utter catastrophe
Half measure, interstellar tourniquet
Stem the free flow of blood like inconvenient statistical evidence
Dripping down born-again ****** America's chin
Vector-like, everything explodes outwards
And on trajectories like these only friction is holy
Murphy's law in ecstatic altercation
A furious life lived under an anachronistic magnifying glass
Truly the only thing worth decaying for
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Seldom doth man stop and stare
At the caste iron manhole cover there,
Seldom doth he analyze
The majesty, which beneath it lies.
The pipe work systems vast and long
Dark catacombs so precise and strong,
Buried deep beneath our feet
Extending forth from street to street,
Out across the breadth of town
Those secret fluids trickle down.
Laser levels carve the pathway
Through the walls of solid stone,
Shovels scrape and dig with effort
Forging hard trajectories home.
Digging, digging metal mountains
Sweat cascades upon the brow,
We lay the pipes in straight formation
Precision's satisfaction now.
An Artisan's great work is hidden
Lost beneath the earth's grey stone,
Appreciation camouflaged in that,
The cast iron manhole stands alone.
Magnificence unrealized
For deep beneath your feet,
A subterranean Michelangelo's
Sisteen Chapel, lays discreet.
Unsuspected rivers
Flowing darkly to the sea
In caverns of unwanted waste
Quite unbeknown to thee.
Vaulting brickwork chambers
Which are ancient works of art,
Carry oceans of excretement
Far from where their journey's start.
With thunder's crash and lightning flash
And torrents of cold rain,
The road's awash and gutters flow
Through roadside grates to drain.
Gushing torrents cascade down
In waves of flowing might
To the storm water system
Which promptly swallows it from sight.
Magic, you say ?
Nay, nay I say unto you
That the drain layers artistry
Is unappreciated, that's true !
That the Herculean effort wrought
In winning his great fights
Is largely lost to all and sundry
Who avoid construction sites.
They miss the planning and the layout
And meticulousness too
And the rubber seals which stop the leaks
Which really bother you.
The massive holes and danger
Of being buried in collapse
And the wondrous satisfaction
Of achieving downhill flows... Perhaps!
Marshalg
Apprentice drain layer
MHX Beachcroft site and Eastport
19 September 2009
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 3:08 PM UTC
never knew it,
never was I self-percepted,
that anything exceptional,
lay within, neither obvious
or dormant, was just an ordinary
if not, extra-ordinary pained
child by peers and my surrounders
and my own words yet today,
do not confer any distinction
when yours irradiate me into
a stunned and silenced reverie,
a reminder, a minder, that talent
recognizes no laws of equilibrium,
equality, and certainty not, equity
so I read with shocked, shocked, I tell you,
bemusement but comprehensive perception
when the young and extra~special confide,
their own misperceptions, overwhelmed by
the anxiety
of the billions of sky stars, and letters in their
twinkling orbs when forming identifiable comets with tagalong
dust trails^ of the debris of words that are formed by
their travels and travails on orbits
not necessarily predetermined
by gravitational adult pulleys, a gravity upon
their projected, sometimes directed,
sometimes not,
trajectory
*"and yet, though an orbit is a type of trajectory,
not all trajectories are orbits"*
nor are
*"some comets, particularly
those from outside our solar system,
that move so fast that the Sun's gravity
is not strong enough to capture them
into a closed orbit*
*These comets follow an open, curved path
through the solar system and then
continue on into interstellar space,
never to be seen again*"
so be advised,
as you reassemble the debris from the multi~universe,
when assembling your owned,
unique~verse,
create your tail
and trail,
the futurity
of you is to be both
silent and loud,
absorbing and disgorging,
to awed and to be humbled,
by all that and those who went before,
all once younger and talented,
and knew this self-same anxiety,
but never let the fearing of their
the mystery of plotting of their
path
deter them
from exploring the skies and deep mines of the
sea trenches where undiscovered mysteries
abide
<nml>
4:59am
in the city where one can never see the
light of the stars,
particularly
by their owners
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 7:25 AM UTC
Memories:
the back and forth trajectories
the internal out-of-sync in-sync directories
of treasured moments, of pleasantries
and the reviled relived accessories of treachery.
My memory is pitted with chasms like Swiss Cheese
the phantom dreams of being hit by a car in a winters bite
the realities of unconsciousness and brain spasms
the fathoms baffles in batches and waves of breaches
disfigured features like a frosted window caked in creatures
burrowed and riddled like a parasite in the spite of night.
By the time id got to hospital id forgotten my own name
fortunately I had a gas bill in my pocket which hadn't freed itself
while being violently hurled over the red car bonnet
and it became the one and only evidence that I even existed
even though the A & E nurse insisted and persisted on asking questions:
my address, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact -
like Id have it tattooed on my body like a scene from Memento
amid the voices in crescendo and brain-damage thumping techno.
That was a few years ago, or was it, I couldn't be sure now
but some days I forget what I did in the morning
so I just have to live for the moment somehow
the memories like Swiss Cheese constantly morphing
to the piped tune of the cerebral banshee
buzzing in my left ear like a perpetual honey bee
makes me wonder though;
I am lactose and diary free - the dominant dietary preponderant
some modernistic conglomerate causing ultimate lethargy.
Does this mean if recollections are like Swiss Cheese
I am intolerant to memories?
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 12:31 PM UTC
I
Fold upon fold
your origami letters
map thoughts,
images and moments
of three days,
two nights.
Now to unfold
the creased trajectories,
intersecting space,
following time:
bird-like flightpaths
on the radar screen.
Each coloured sheet,
placed on this desk,
becomes a tessellated diary,
and grows beneath the hand.
So generous a gift.
So readily received.
II
Ah, that's your secret:
the power of the list;
this, then this,
then freedom follows,
knowing the necessaries
dusted and done.
Peaceful now,
and watching the clouds
cross the skylight,
Bach decorates your soul
with his meditations
on the possibility of everything.
How did you guess
I love the detail of life-
lived, up to the hilt:
the embellishment of dreams
pulled from the ether,
sound and sense in tow.
III
I travelled North
in the seat opposite.
You didn’t notice me
as you gazed
through your reflection,
sighting the past.
When you look at me
you rarely blink or
glance away (as people do).
Poor nature,
She hasn’t a chance, has she?
Never a mote missed.
As my passenger
I shall care for your silence;
to let you loose on
unbidden thoughts
as they rise above
the scrolling hills.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 3:48 AM UTC
He had been living in a trance of indecision. All his adult life he had sought to be inventive, to imagine something made that could be sounded out, something that could be seen and touched as a score, heard and played as music. Composing was like map-making. It had boundaries. It was contained, always contained: in the bar, in the bars on a stave, in the staves on a page. It was always a joy to see the page covered. More black than white, although the white space was important, and he realised was becoming more and more necessary as he grew older and more sensitive to music’s often relentless clutter and noise. He wanted to observe the space and spaces between notes, phrases, between trajectories of musical action. That was a good and right term. Musical action: symbols and words that ignited the fire of a musician’s movement, gesture sounded out. He could do that. His scores were full of distinct musical actions, gestures, imagined or observed physical movement: a child’s smile, her graceful movement across a room, an inclination of a head, a gentle stroke of the hand on the arm. That’s how a score often seemed to him: a map of actions. Do this and this follows. Do this and at the same time do this, and when this finishes, pause, then do this again only in a different way, with a softer touch, a gentler mind, a fresh spirit, a brighter smile. You could build a piece of music on such descriptions – of actions. Such a piece made of musical actions could carry within it a rich poetry. Do this as you view the yellow vase on the window sill flickering with late afternoon shadows and when the distant laughter of children disturbs this scene this follows, whilst a door closes and a woman’s footsteps disappear slowly down a flight of stairs. Do this, as though remembering the reflections in the still water of a lake in early morning, and do this intermittently but simultaneously and with longing for a past memory, and when there is a right moment heralded by the sound of a single bird, pause. Recall your very last action before the bird heralded your pause and let it be repeated in a different way, a way which suggests, almost, indifference, something cast adrift from the flow of thought: to lighten, to unthicken, to reveal the hidden, open the closed, unmuted, towards a radiance.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Like old
mean beetles,
like old
men in battle,
like egos: solid anvils,
like families: lethal weapons,
like these: them,
begotten sons
who begat daughters
of a land, of a bordered plot
on the globe, the dirt,
the house, the property
which begot
them
both,
these two
bitter enemies
from two
separate places,
furiously blaze,
as the time
for darkness,
is far
from arrived.
And the sun
quakes,
in its heat
rippling sights
and
knocking particles,
which deter the next
knocked,
and which enforce
the continued sensation of
warmth
continued,
of aversion
continued,
rising,
screened,
for its impeccable quality,
against
nobody in
general or
specific
to announce, or to gain
against
consequences, which are
soothsaid
in time,
nullified.
Partners afflicted will be less opportunistic
and more egalitarian,
but are sworn,
like the sun,
against the monotony,
of repetition,
of indistinct days;
like these:
them,
the enemies,
they
are
engaged,
aged,
unteachable
and
spoiled.
They are always
immersed
in
vexed
states,
always in competition.
Hope
is
the
souls
united
never again
as much
as the static,
single dimension,
alone,
impeccable,
impossible,
for its possibility
is drawn by He
who
spews forth
lumens
next to card sharks and Amazons, knowing these
will have to suffice, having no escape
from the projected
source
of energy.
The metal heads
of garden rakes,
weapons
thrown
at devils
in the sweltering heat
of hell,
the Inferno
that holds a
first-person
point of view,
a dream, alongside
superheroes, allied,
but who are,
nevertheless,
without their unique
and exceptional powers,
pros and willing deviants
from the celibacy,
the weight,
the unoriginal paint
that collides
in
each
stroke,
making what
appears
null,
and the array
but one,
and supposed,
so that then
are the weary
and soulful mergers
which corrupt
and meander throughout,
polluting,
as
it
were,
the tranquility,
the wrenched service,
of the destined
machine,
of a million
trajectories,
homespun threads,
woven
into
a
million
miserable
microfibers,
unanswered
queries
that were
held back
in
fear,
and
were
never
asked,
and remain
even
now
sorry.
Jan 17, 2010
Jan 17, 2010 at 7:49 AM UTC
angel's can shout through demons
if they have to
here in the valley of time slips and air borne rock
land of meteor splash and ufos
sprit friends
a fantasy gift you give yourself
but if you see some of them
its the worst day of your life
those streaking trajectories
as straight as a pencil path
sending a migration of aliens
weird ovoid's with ****** binocular vision
like Helix pomatia
****** crawlers
while eight legged locomoting moss piglets
that look like a thousand blinking
one eyed gob worms
hurtle in decent
perhaps landing in the Yucatan
barbarian headed asteroids, critter ridden
mixed of spirits and denizens of deep space
from the parametric edges of Bals
glittering kingdom
shoot suns down from the sky
far flinging those crater bashed demons
into predatory gardens
elixir's of war and death
wave screaming reveries
through red cities
of nightingale floors
nautilus agents plummet
into brawling plots of ash
shattering a million spines
of **** ***** monsters
in a bulls eye break neck rodeo
Jun 15, 2019
Jun 15, 2019 at 6:00 PM UTC
A weather rocket
vrooms through air
over the darkened balcony
noiselessly,
only the light speaks to us
of her urgency,
it resonates with
her and me.
Her full lips,seal mine
stops me from speaking
voicing ****** nonsense.
Mute witness now am I,
prompted to scale the peak,
she wishes, to take me.
I only can sigh to relay her moans
to register erupting pleasure
mounting to reach a brimming ecstasy.
A group of fruit bats,
(among them one, I imagine,myself)
dramatically fly scattering
to all eight directions.
A pale moon , eagerly study
their diverse trajectories,
as if she wishes the company
of any one, that would darken her door way
though by accident.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 9:11 PM UTC
Could it have happened any differently?
Perhaps. But which fork in the road was it?
Where does the path start to unravel?
A change in the way things are
Would have changed everything else as well.
For all the mistakes bemoaned, lessons
Learned – unless vanity stands in the way –
Or the same error repeated
With different actors playing the same role –
Hero and villain alike.
And the split between people of insignificance and
The people that matter – faces splashed on
Tabloids and magazine covers –
The invisible reduced to mere shadows
Floating on the fringes of light.
Shadows have a way of defining the light.
People have a way of shaping our lives,
Setting in motion our trajectories,
The way banks and boulders guide water in a river –
The wind, a fallen tree.
No absence made a hole in the day of someone
Who was never there.
What’s out of our control – people,
Sequences of events. What’s inevitable –
How we choose to react.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
i'm an astronaut,
aimlessly floating through space,
afraid to grasp at
floating objects,
moving swiftly 'round me,
pointless calculations
of velocity and direction,
consume my decisions
until it's all out of reach.
though i'm pulled towards
these stars,
they're much too dangerous to touch,
the reactions, the heat,
i know not to get pulled in,
but meteor, you shine,
with an effervescent glow,
smooth rounded corners,
i edge slowly towards you,
butterfly stroking
through zero gravity,
it's not long until you
fill the gaze through this helmet,
but proximity somehow
changes this drive,
i justify waiting
by forcing imperfections,
shrugging off the journey
before it even happens,
after all probability states that
this mission will likely
end incomplete,
trajectories in sync
are a rarity at best,
perfect arcs can quickly differ
soon after their peaks.
this vacuous environment
clouds better judgment,
fleeting moments of comfort are
like recycled air,
bland maintenance of life,
the taste of postage stamps.
let's not forget the reason,
why we now float aimless,
years of training for a mission,
that fell apart when truly tested.
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 12:12 AM UTC
Referees mismanage oversight
incorrect calls lower credibility
faith in justice dissolves into the ice
agency is taken into padded hands
vigilantes slash and spear.
Hip check leads to cross check leads to fist check
malignant hostility boils over
leather armor is removed
interphalangeal joints meet mandible
type O negative paints a jersey
haymakers take bizarre trajectories
to avoid helmets and visors
the face is homebase to ingrain pain.
Violence subverts gamesmanship
players must be taken off ice
to be put on ice
otherwise brawls become overabundant
and destroy the integrity of the sport
yet each transfer of agony is euphorically satisfying
—considering the context—
so fist fairs continue for the foreseeable future
we organize an impenetrable perimeter
once we've acclimated to penalty kills.
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 4:01 PM UTC
the wayward
bat of slumber
no longer makes
trajectories of the room
dog on leash
used to it
running shoes
walking stick
first water tank
pigeon flap
water tank
squirrel squeak
overflowing
school girls
at the gate,
call out their
friend's name
a scattered,
shrill chorus
fallen hair
comma over
tattered road
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 7:40 AM UTC
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tall buildings
perpendicular to highways,
penthouse balconies
thirty meter diving platforms.
whenever in San Fran,
i pancake my hands together
so i don't do impromptu Physics
eyeballing skyscrapers.
I want to be a crab cake
because I like tornado sirens
at two in the morning,
someone fetal position mouthwash drunk
in the bed next to me.
whenever in Birmingham,
i listen to my headphones;
tinnitus a siren wail
long after the flight home.
I want to be a crab cake
because I like bridge collapses;
infrastructure devastation
west of Florida,
killing all granola exports.
whenever in Portland,
i waitlist college signs
and estimate the weight limit
of a commuter bridge.
I want to be a crab cake
because the sunsets here
give me panic attacks.
it used to not,
but enough honey has built up
so bees swarm the bonnet
whenever there's a
blood orange tint.
I want to be a crab cake
because I don't like
the seafood here
or Sushi Pier discussions
of future trajectories
while rain pours on our
trout marinated in
Tahoe Tessie **** water.
I want to be a crab cake
because the mountains
bug me out.
i want flat land
where there are
blood prints on highways,
broken families in Tornado Valley,
and remains of promising bridges.
i want to be a crab cake
because i want the world
to eat me up.
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
She was a spectacular tree.
People called her the flame of the forest,
for she was obviously striking, vivid and classy.
I need not narrate the superlative majesty
of the flame – tree, for one time or the other
we have all been breath-taken by her peerless glamor.
What matchless artistry!
I am here to quickly share
my ruminative gloom for that lovely assembly
of flower, leaf and wood, which grandly stood
in a grove of possibilities, and possibilities can be
such a torment, such a calamity.
❋
For years galore, caterpillars of choices
had been steadily eating away at her core.
They came from different directions,
at different trajectories,
with varied objectives
and fluctuating proclivities.
Sometimes, they came rushing in as family,
and sometimes they came slowly,
a little formally, a bit watchfully,
somewhat officially.
At times they came in fiery fascination
and yet, ever so often, they were charged
with marauding indignation.
Many times they arrived as blazing ambition,
but more often than not, combusted the flamboyance
leaving behind an ashen illusion.
Oh.....those craving larvae
of oblique, wily opportunities.
❋
The foliage was feverishly guzzled
till photosynthesis was no more possible.
From my distant window from where I had once
watched her variegated flair,
I felt the Poinciana moan in simmering despair.
❋
With biting sensitivity, I still look on, a tad tearfully,
as she continues to tumble into conscious torpidity.
My words may slip and sway, as with each wilting leaf
after each withering floret, she progresses towards
an abject decay;
imploding methodically, and transposing gradually
from being the flame of the forest
to being a sprouting forest of flames.
Jan 22, 2020
Jan 22, 2020 at 9:11 AM UTC
The wind is as idle as I am today
It groans in halfhearted exasperation,
recalculating avian trajectories at 15 miles an hour
The trees are shaken up
“Give me all your leaves!”
They comply with as much dignity as nature brings
Crumpled sighs as they acquiesce and deliver
The same bounty demanded every winter
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 8:45 AM UTC
A Secret
I’m gonna say something to you that’s gonna sound crazy--
and you’re gonna want to walk away.
and you’re not gonna want to see me ever again.
But I have to tell you this,
because, in the past--
I let people walk away from me before I said this;
and I can’t let that happen with you.
I want to kiss you
I want to kiss you so bad, and
I don’t even care if you want to be kissed.
I wanna hold you right here
and rest my head on your shoulder--
‘cause in the same way that I’m holding you
you hold me,
and it completes a cycle of mutual affection that will eventually
grow into something bigger.
Something that I’ve always felt for you, but you may not feel for me
and that may sound strange, ‘cause I’ve just met you
but I feel this way for everyone that’s open to the world
that’s open to the possibility that someone out there may love them
more than they love that person.
You need to know that I love you, and that will never change.
If you want to ask me how I feel about you,
I will always tell you the same thing, in more or less words,
by repeating that I love you.
I love you--
and I love your body.
I love the heart that beats in your chest, and the feet that carry you
through the world. I love the hips that sway when you dance
and I love the eyes that make contact with strangers
causing their hearts to expand and contract rapidly--
I think you’re a wonderful person.
There’s nothing you have to do to prove that this is the truth to me
because I know that what I think
impacts the way I see the world
and if you weren’t--
everything I made you out to be in my mind, then
there’s no way you could change my ideas about it *anyway
or regardless*.
I will always love you, and I will always be in this moment with you
with part of my existence-- at this time,
from now on. And into the past, I will have always been aiming at this
moment-- to when I told you how I feel about you.
--
So we have here, the culmination of two minds; two trajectories
through the universe crossing at this point, and place, in space
and time.
--
They don’t cross forever. But, as far as I’m concerned, the duration of their
intersection is yet to be determined--
And that is where we find Freedom
is in how long we choose
to spend with people that are important to us.
And I’m telling you you’re important to me, and I don’t even know you.
So
:
:
:
KISS ME
Sep 8, 2011
Sep 8, 2011 at 6:07 PM UTC
abhor circular time. clocks as monstrosities. dream eternity.
the immensity of everything. existence is elsewhere,
but life is here. in explosive silences, inexpressible delights,
truthful illusions, authentic falsehoods, slippery nights.
let sense and spirit sing a long song of your knowing heart.
exiled on earth in scornful times, become a bard of desire.
heart songs, earth songs, lust songs. amazingly human songs.
after all, flowers still spill perfume. drink it up.
study the mathematics of memory. the equations of living.
the trajectories of silence. the physics of poetry.
penetrate the disquieting muse. seek screeching squeals of joy.
all this has happened before. It will all happen again.
everything repeats in cycles, absolute and endless. return.
dive into the infinity of the gyre.
imbibe its cold, invigorating fire.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
in life, people have their own paths, trajectories... going through space.
those who aren't on the same path as you will collide into you briefly but continue on into a slightly different direction. we forever affect each other when our paths intersect.
you and i collided during the fresh part of my nineteenth year.
it was intended for fulfilling the desire of companionship yet became platonic.
you were a bad boy; rough exterior but in my perspective were a dear.
such a switch on my usual attraction aspect, not enjoying your habits that were persistently chronic.
those eyes
oh those eyes
i truly saw your inner buddha- i opened your box.
we clicked. never have i felt such comfort in a short amount of time,
however; you didn't change, in the end still sneaky as a fox....
my knowledge that you lie and cheat made me come to the conclusion that you would never be mine.
i fell in love. my first love. my asteroid. kyle.
hard to believe in a desert of all the places!
you held me ever so tight, gave me wicked butterflies & a goober smile.
still, left was uncertainty and doubt- many traces.
my mind was puzzled and never felt right.
i switched motives daily, always changing my mind. where is my mind?
attempting to hold onto our relationship i put everything fourth with all my being, my might....
found out the truth after a first intimate night; you led me blind.
really? you ****** her. i asked you over and over still lies.
really? you told him. a private matter you shared with a friend.
really? you could never prove a change- same black skies.
really? you betrayed my trust. we'll never be the same in the end.
you were my first love
at least i think
my asteroid that is now moving on after collision... my life you are out of
no more late night cuddles, simplistic kisses or terrible winks.
happiness fills my soul now that i can move on
for my heart broke in half and i have to mend it on my own
i do not regret our time spent, never thought it was wrong.
a man who truly respects and loves me will find me someday, for now i find myself alone.
thank you kyle for letting me get to know you without a mask.
this journey was an adventure and i'll never look back.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
This time I have,
is but a gift.
Meant to heal
broken skin
and fractured bone.
But I realise
that there's more...
•••
What if,
repairing physical damage
is but a facet of
unanticipated tribulation?
What about...
Shattered thoughts?
Disjointed ideals?
Misplaced hopes?
Askewed trajectories?
•••
Maybe...
This time too is meant
to get my stars in alignment.
But right now there just aren't any...
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
Our feelings
like stars in the sky
only on clear nights
we see, but aren't they
always there?
Their trajectories
Their orbits we trace
through age
We master not of
their destiny, but
some shared voyages
To peregrinate, even
on cloudy days
We've learned to
believe in and trust
our feelings—
our celestial guidance
Jan 13, 2016
Jan 13, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC