The solubility of tears

I bear an unfortunate truth. Namely that I cannot forget people or places. Things I’ve read or watched but not physically experienced are harder to retain.
But people and place and and what I was feeling at those intersections, they are always with me. For good or for ill. I envy people who can walk away. Who can put people in the rear view and mostly not look back. Or let go.

I can only work through the situation. Examining all the angles, understanding my place in events and relationships. And still left to wonder, because the picture is never complete. I can never see their side.

So while I can keep going forward. Because there is no other real choice. I can never forget. And those I’ve declared mine. Those I’ve said are my person. I can never forget. Nor leave behind, if it is in my power and is not against their interest to do so.

But still, the memories pile up, some I shoulder alone and others I have help carrying. But all are there, indelible and immutable.

Memories…the burden no one thinks is one

Fun fact?

Fun fact about me: I was going to another room to read my book and I went to plug my phone in for charging. I wasn’t going to use it, I was going to read. But then I thought, “But what if I get a idea, how will I write it down?” So, here I am writing down a little story about needing to be able to write things down instead of reading my book. #writerslife

We poets are weird people

I hate the way that beautiful has come to mean pretty. Beautiful should be more than physical. It should refer to the totality of the person. Not merely physical but their mind, heart and soul.

I hate that when I say to someone, “You are beautiful.” It is interpreted as me saying pretty. If I had meant pretty, I would have said pretty.

This is probably me just being weird poet about word choices. It’s just that I choose words for specific reasons and to have those reasons subverted to lesser meanings is infuriating.

An I could not endure heaven, I thrived in hell

Hells offer us safety that heavens do not
Life is a ongoing study in the loss of innocence and joy as one peace or another is cut away or slowly ripped out of us. In a hell we know the parameters. There will be horror, there will be pain, there will be fear. And very occasionally, there will be rest. And we will find the steel to endure in those seconds and minutes of peace.

In a heaven, having experienced both loss and being self aware, there is always the wait for the moment when it is ripped away. For the loss of love, joy, and safety.

It becomes that we choose to endure the hell. Because the thought of one more lost heaven destroys us more thoroughly than this endurance of durance vile.

What twists, what turns, what burns, what knows

I want you filled with me, consumed by my will, by your shame and pleasure. Knowing that I will take care of you in all the ways you dream about in your dark heart. Knowing that at times I will break you with kindness and love even as I bruise you and blood you as your deep desires twist and beg for. You are mine. Wake every day knowing that you are owned. That you are desired. That there is someone who is willing to burn and be burned in the pyre of you. Do not despair of my kindness. Of my deep well of love. Think not of only the soft and light that I speak of. That of my actions to care for you. Remember, that until you give explicit consent, the beast of me is shackled. But know, it waits, it sees you and we hunger.

The state of things

I don’t do well in the vacuum of knowledge. Not knowing why’s and reasons and thoughts eats away at me. “I’ll tell you later,” in all its variations is a cancer eating away at me in the narrow dark before the first rays of light. Or the variations of actions taken with no explanation as to why. Both cause their problems.

I know that I don’t express it. I know that I accept what information is given and keep going. But what else can I do? Demand more information than they are willing to give? Life isn’t so easy.

And I find myself in a predicament where my skills and experience is not easily seen. And I’m not the best when confronted with questions I haven’t thought about. Unless it’s asked by someone I trust, then it’s honesty and Intuition. So how do I sell my skills which are not evident by degrees or certification when I need a few minutes alone to formulate a response.

I don’t know what to do. I keep going forward with the gnawing feeling of impending failure and the thought that success might be just as bad. Looking for a way sideways or out but not finding it.

And still, those thoughts that more information would make me feel safe permeate and batter defenses which isolate me even more.

What can be known in the hidden heart

The space to allow love is one of the most important things in life. I have no larger point to make. Just that passion and love are the most powerful reasons to do anything. And when we allow that space for love, we are hurt. Pain is definitely a part of it. But also, moments of purity of heart, moments where we are love, if only for a few moments.
And any time I see love, a part of me feels triumphant and also despair. Which combines into a kind of melancholy ache and salt filled wound, coupled with a broken note of hope and beauty realized.

We only have freedom to choose when we are not in danger

When we speak from a position of strength, we forget that not everyone has the same privilege. Without a calm place to stand, without stability, there is no safe place to strike out from. It is the most fundamental human need.

Safety and security is more than a good neighborhood or a job. It is the sure thought that tomorrow and for the foreseeable future, there will be enough to eat, there will be a home that does not itself contain dangers, and despite what problems may be thrown at us, we will have a support system of people and seeable graspable opportunities which insure our continued lives and futures.

Most of us don’t have that. At best we have 2 of the 3 and hope that in some far off unknowable future we will be able to start planning for more than today. Most of us won’t make it to that future.

We are stuck on a ferris wheel which we stepped onto, all naive and full of dreams, hoping and thinking that tomorrow will be better. And that’s the best case, many were forced into darker alleys and worse choices by main circumstances.

How do we make it out? As a people, as humanity, how do we stop breaking the hearts and minds of our people just to perpetuate systems which promote the continuous devolution to barbarism.

I don’t know. And it’s hard to think of how to do so. I’m not safe. And it’s only because my broken heart and mind won’t allow me to sleep, that I’m able to get out even these words. All the while, wracked by doubt and worry and fear, thinking about the morning. When it all starts up again.

Trying to process my self and my place in my breakups

In person, I’m a shit storyteller. I don’t organize my life into sequential talking points which hang together. I don’t think about what I’m going to say next or what story to tell. I wait for whomever I’m with to make that conversational gambit. I’ll try to keep up. As long as it’s not about popular TV or celebrities, I’ll have things to say. I suppose that I must be boring after a few months. Having run out of stories and the novelty of having poetry written with them as my muse wears off. I always feel like I’m working to keep them interested long after they would have walked away.

It’s probably a combination of factors. It is incredibly frustrating to only know one side of the reasons or to only be made aware of those things that let me down easy. And, most likely, I should find some way to not lose my heart so easily.

But how do you not fall in love? How do you not see the beauty of their heart, their mind and not fall?
I fear that I will never know. And because of that, I’ll always be wounded or just healed and a step away from falling anew.