Think me tumultuous youth
Squandered on the fractious knowing
Light obscured by the slowly melting wind
Grain by grain
Left in a cage of grief
Too old too young too knowing
Jagged and removed
Jangle of nervousness
Anger and disappointment
What could have been
What choices led to this
Tension runs out
Where to go
When there’s nothing left
And no reason to act
In the deep muffled echoes
Waiting for a word
I would die a thousand deaths
If I could hold you in my arms
As I slipped away
I would live a thousand lives
If I could live them by your side
I would fight a thousand battles
If I could keep you from harm
I would watch your back a thousand thousand times
As you fought the battles I could not see
These thoughts as I lay awake dreaming
In this empty bed
In this too quiet room
I recently told a friend that I anticipated that this September would be a bad one. Last year I was distracted by relationships, failed or otherwise. This year I, now, have no such distance. She said there was still time, that some relationship might start up. She was being kind, maybe a bit fearful of my state in the weeks that lead up to that dreadful anniversary. I find myself less than optimistic concerning the same thing. The possibility of anything seems so distant. And my efforts seem to not make a bit of difference. Like fighting a tiller in a storm, even though the seas seem calm. I just keep moving forward, swept along the current. Unable to find home or shore.
a broken memory
spins at the edge of my heart
cutting away pieces
saying what might have been
blood spilling from mouth
so bound up
in the screaming of my heart
I barely hear you say hello
I want to hear you
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?
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
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.
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?