What do you say…

What do you say when all the words have been said
When the sound of your footsteps walking away seem to echo

What do you say when you are still hopeless, still deeply, deliciously, precariously, in love.

When you tell them every day but only in your head because they are gone but in a maybe temporary way and your heart can’t let go.

What do you say?

Love is a conundrum, a puzzle I can’t solve, a path you cannot walk alone.

Are you so present in my head because of my feelings? Is it metaphysical and our tie is feeding back to me your feelings? Are we just fools? Me for loving, you for silence?

Or am I only allowing the deep river of my feelings to cloud what is real?

Poetry and the future

I wrote yesterday about a poem I had written for someone who I longed for who never quite returned my affection.

Today, I write about all the future poems that I will dedicate to the Goddess of my Heart.

I know, I know. Every artist dedicates at least one work to a current love. It’s inevitable. We are passionate about our work and passionate about our loves. It is inevitable that the two would intersect.

But I’ve dedicated many works to her already. Anything Hash tagged GMH is about or for her. Dedicated to her.

I’m a romantic. We all know that. But I know she reads these. And that is the best feeling. That she reads what I write. In some ways, everything I write is in dedication to her. She captivates me. I sometimes feel like a complete idiot. Because I write her and I ramble, as I am wont to do, and I think I sound like a fool. Maybe not, maybe I just sound romantic.

It’s the duel nature of the artist and critic.
Perhaps, I’m overly harsh in this regard.

But here I go, rambling again.

Poetry. It’s sometimes as little as a sentence and I am something of a minimalist, trying to distill down to the essential words. So that there is space for the reader to project themselves into the piece.

With every conversation
Your words etch into me
Taking up residence
in my safe places
Where my becomes our

The things I miss

Your voice, whispering softly in my ear.
Your smile, like the sun coming out.
Your eyes flashing grey in sudden anger
The look in your eyes, saying Sir
Dressed to the nines dancing with abandon
Holding you after you spoke with family
Public displays of affection and your blush.

These 7 words for seven things that I miss.
11 years, 4 months, 11 days.

But there are those who are here that I love. But I’ll never be over her. I hope that’s OK.

Musings of a hard working writer

Do you ever sit back and think, “Fuck. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Every time I finish a story or a project, I sit down and think about what’s next. The last project is the past. I’ll direct people to it. But in my head, it’s over and I’m thinking about what is next. And I’m freaking out. Because I don’t know what comes next. I have no idea what I’ll write. And after a year and a half of writing and recording, I am either done or I just don’t know where the story goes from here. And I honestly don’t know which scares me more. That I’m done or that I have no idea what I’m doing next.

It’s not writer’s block. I wish it was. That I can work through. It’s idea block. That’s all I need. An idea.

There’s the Pel and Sara story and a poetry compilation I want to put together. But what from there?

Thoughts on desire and the turning Page

Someone told me today that now that he is grown up and can choose to buy things like candy or toys that would have made him happy as a child(engineering toys) he doesn’t feel excited about those things.

But, he was lying. Or telling himself a lie. Because he lit up when he described the toys. And he said that the thought was about not being able to go back with the same enthusiasm as that child and enjoy it anew.

And I said, “well that’s one opinion.” and left it at that.

I didn’t feel like getting into a lengthy discussion, especially from this guy who gets defensive when his ideas are questioned or folds completely.

But what I mean is this, We can choose to be passionate. To pour ourselves into the people and things we love. We can choose. We live in a time where we have enough wealth to choose to marry or be with someone or multiple someones for love, for passion. We can choose to be passionate about the things we love. (I’m well aware that this is not true everywhere but access to the Internet puts the mean income and lifestyle at a certain level, though there are cultural barriers I won’t go into)

We choose to love and sing and dance, we choose to color or play with building toys, we choose games, we choose books, we choose.

Desire is a burden. But it is also a choice. One that for myself, I choose to make, every time. Though it costs me. I consider it necessary.

Do the necessary thing, no matter how difficult or how much it may personally cost you.
One of my rules. I try to live up to it.

Stream of consciousness – BDSM edition

When you say, “Sir”, it sends a frission through me. It ignites me like treated wood, builds burn to bright. My possession of you leads to possibilities of public and private. A touch to remind, a choker to mind, a corset to bind, harsh hemp rope making you mine. We are everyday. We are happy. You spark and burn when shocked and bled. My beautiful girl. Mine, mine mine, growl pours from lips to teeth biting clit. My need for you, my joy for you, each touch and sentence spoken, binding us closer. Commands become the choice of happiness and we move in tandem. You to hurt me as I command. My pain is pleasure and you are never denied. Passion pours from us in simple touch, the light in our eyes making truth where others see betrayal. We are blood and hope and fit together. The only thing improper is desire left to rot. But you hop and smile and say Sir. An exploration of boundaries, of each desire taken to the bleeding edge. Our comfort in the choices of each other. Of each other.