There is a nebulous feeling that accompanies knowing that you should be doing something but not knowing how to. It’s a calm moment before the storm. You know that with a simple beginning you will place yourself on a new path. And what that will lead to, you cannot know. So you hesitate. You do something else. And all the while that subtle pressure builds. You know you will give in to it. You know you must. But choosing when is the only thing left to you. So you cling to that bit of control, until it slips away. And you find yourself at the beginning of a path you might not have chosen had you the courage to first set your feet and take that first step.
And instead of orchestrated action, you are forced to leap from improvisation to improvisation always trying to steer things back on course. It gets to be addictive. The improvisation. The averting of disaster by shear force of will, intelligence, and cunning. And that’s when you know. The fall is coming. Maybe not soon, but soon enough. Because no one averts disaster forever. No one remains in lucks embrace. Eventually, it won’t be enough. And hopefully, when you fail, you won’t bring everyone caught up in your wake crashing down with you. Better to set yourself on the path. Better to choose, and be ready to improvise. Use the right blade for the job and everything else will be easier.
I would shape the world for her but I have lost my chisel and I don’t know how to dance
A song plays in the distance half remembered
A tune made for embrace
Mist whispers asking for one more minute
One last twirl across the faded turf
The stone looms and I can only look up forlorn
A place to stand all I asked for
Thinking myself strong enough to forge the lever
By will and bone
In this empty mist morning
I can only regret
Crying out of the still dawn sky
I find myself dry
Wondering if I the faith I feel I’ve lost
Is a faith in a greater good
Or the pain
Of your faith
Lost in me
It is easy to say that love is a choice and not a feeling. Because we want things to be one thing or another. We want uncomplicated and simple solutions. But this leads us to believe that if we no longer feel love that we should just choose to be with the person because we are choosing love. And that is fucking dangerous.
Yes, love should be a conscious choice. Don’t allow your feelings to rule but when your feelings of love are gone, it should be a flag to examine why.
Because love is a choice but the kind of choice it is, is to see. To see all that a person is and choose to love them. In the best way, it is to allow one’s feelings to develop from seeing who they are and each day realizing why you love them.
Now. That shit is easy to say. And some days it will be all you can do not to be super fucking annoyed by everything that they do, but the feeling of love will pull you through. And on the obverse side, if all you have is the feeling of love without the reasons that you love them….observe that. Because if you feel love but there is no quality in them that makes clear why, or if what you once loved has worn away and has been replaced by fear, uncertainty, and doubt…well that’s dangerous…
You haunt my dreams
A regular reoccurance
who is anything but regular
As slow as you want
I feel that I must. Like I am making mistakes but that, perhaps, you forgive them silently. Do I say ‘I love you’ too often? I feel like, at once, I say it too much and that it can never be enough.
I wonder if I send you too many missives? I do send several a day, most days. I don’t want to wait to write it all and send it all at once, but rather send when my thoughts are freshest. But I know, maybe, it is exasperating.
I think I must be tiresome to deal with. Am I? To have someone constantly sending you little notes and posting things and just all of it.
I dislike feeling like I am being burdensome. And even writing this, I can’t tell if I need reassuring or if I want information. But either way, it feels like…I don’t think weakness is the right word. But something close. Like I can’t hold my own or something. Which I know isn’t true, but feelings care so little for knowings, sometimes.
When I want to write a poem but can’t seem to find the key to start, I begin to feel a yearning for the release of writing. It is almost lust. Very much akin to desire to touch and be desired and to lose ourselves in our bodies. Those moans of pleasure and need, giving over to mindless rut. Until payoff and, for me, emptiness. In sex, when I make the destination instead of the journey the goal, I feel empty, cored out after. When I write, I feel empty after but somehow hopeful and lighter. It’s not poetry but at least it’s something. Writing a piece like this leaves me both satiated and hungry for something more. It’s not what I wanted but it’s what was available. But the poem is what I want. Like having vanilla sex but wanting complexity. Or wanting to hear your voice set in orgasm and never quite getting you there. Disappointing, somewhat enjoyable and also, not enough.
The harsh razorblades of words that rush out
carving a bloody painful path through flesh
living manikin cast free of form
to dance in blaze down the overgrown roads of the mind
pain and pleasure warring
roaring to become one
in the dripping pageantry of other minds
while I lay broken and empty waiting
hoping to hear