And be borne
Heart breaks open
Without you by my side
This pain is epic or nonexistent from one minute to the next.
Forget to be sad or happy but consciousness is a curse.
Unhappy me is a vicious tongue waiting for an opportunity to cut.
To destroy and bask in the surprised looks and startled laughter.
Waiting to take it too far or right up to the line but not over.
Waiting for you to take offense so that I can push further.
Profoundly unhappy makes me seem normal.
Like all the rest but honesty in the hands of a unhappy masochist with nothing to lose is a blade wielded with glee.
Join me in my pain and dance a blood frenzy of broken hopes.
We’re all sad.
I hate loving as I do. It seems a form of madness to see this crack in someone’s facade and for the briefest instant see who they are, who they might be. Then to fall in love with them. It’s crazy. Everyone says, experts, psychologists, philosophers, etc. Everyone says love takes awhile to form. But for me, that only happens if I’m actively impeding it or if I sense something…off.
Otherwise the fall is inevitable. So yes I hate loving in this way because when I’m not with someone, I pine. I pine for all whom I love but am not with. Who say that “I mean so much or If only this or that.” And I rail against this cage of almost but not quite and shout “Why not!”
While I may accept the choices of others, because I must, I do not agree. Better to allow love to bloom in fullness, to throw yourself into it completely, to dance in its madness and delirious joy than to hold back and be safe or wait for more opportune times.
There is no perfect time. No mythical place where it’s easy. No set of actions that make life easy. But love, the luxury we have.
To not choose love is a blasphemy to me. A thing profane.
We live in a time and place where love can be chosen. Where who you are with is not dictated solely by economics and opportunity. We are not limited by social circle, physical location, or class. We get to choose.
How can the choice not be love? How can comfort be more important than the chance at joy? All the comfort in the world cannot make up for a lack, for the heartache, the silent loneliness.
That moment when my heart sped up, when you put your head to my chest, was love. Some would say it’s sex, but I say “Bah, boring.” Sex without emotion is empty. It’s the equivalent of eating candy. As compared to a meal of complexity and satisfaction.
Look me in the eye and tell me you are happy with your life. That your days all sit in the band between content and joy. And if not, define and discover why not.
If I am not the choice that brings you to the place of joy, then I implore, find it. Find love. Don’t just accept, strive. Don’t just survive, live. I don’t care if it’s with me, though I would prefer it. Choose love. Not just the love that is really like. Choose to exist in a state of love. It’s better than the alternatives. Even if it is fucking painful.
Music inspired by The Kingkiller Chronicle by Patrick Rothfuss! Yes please!
Otherwise known as my annual foray into hell to have a foot race with Orpheus. You know, just to see the look on his face.
But seriously, Poetry Month is when I write an enormous amount of poetry. Last year it was 3 poems a day plus I was posting my audio novel Split Sky.
This year I’m trying to write a novel in the Split Sky universe, plus the episodic Valentine’s Day, along with normal posts. And I’m working on a tabletop role-playing campaign set in the Split Sky universe. (my players don’t know that, they think it is a normal published version of another world.)
I’m busy is what I’m saying. So what am I doing for Poetry month you ask?
Why, writing FOUR poems per day, of course. Because I’m a masochist and a poet first. Plus I find this exercise is beneficial. It had helped me to observe and see inspiration in anything. From turns of phrase to visual quirks to the way a name is said. All of it becomes my muse.
And its perfect timing really. I’m not in a romantic relationship with anyone right now. Or rather I love many people, but I’m not with any of them because the universe sucks. So, instead of being happy, I can pull from the deepest wells of heartbreak and sadness as well as joy.
Sob, weep for me.
But seriously, Poetry Month. This will be fun. Or horrible. Probably both, if I’m being honest.
Cold shivers its way across the ridges of my spine
soft breath caresses and holds
words spoken at a volume at once too quiet and a clamor of joyous ringing
this long drawn out moment of perfection free of any thought but desire
tension falling away with a touch
And a the palpable feeling