A city of half closed doors turned inside out

I have made a garden of bones, of sinew
Flowers of synapse sparking lightning to the chill night air
Pathways of blood mark the dark ways wending to the heart
Sits beating a slow rhythm of hope
Topiarys of muscle expand and contract
Exposed nerves shiver in the wind
Thoughts and dreams play out across a storm strewn sky
Broken arrow teardrops fall piercing this exposure

What lays within

Some like to think that there is a demon inside. A darkness that desires wicked things. That wants things. Craves things.
But, oh, I know the truth. It is nothing so easy. So…simple. No demon would want the things I desire sometimes. That outer edge of behavior beyond the outposts of commonly accepted and slipping into the beautiful nightmares of the darkest recesses of my too human, too jaded mind. The things I keep hidden. The scenes that I play out only in the playground of my mind. Because to realize them would take a partner who wanted that darkness. Who was unafraid of both the desires and the dark romance of my heart. Of rose pedals and paddles. Hoods and control. My heart and mind is a labyrinth of doors. What is seen is only what I have judged is acceptable and I will live with that half loaf or crumbs. Rather than break and take all without permission. I know the depths of the monster within. But I have no illusions that it is a demon. No. It is merely my self. Without leash. Without doors. Without mercy. Only tempered by control. And love.

Some information

The simple fact is that I can be a hard man to get to know. The superficial things all speak to a deeper need that I am unlikely to share willingly, without resentment, early on. And I lead with my heart. If I can see you, be around you regularly, then I can temper the desires, the passions, that burn through me.

Fires you are unlikely to note at first. My face is schooled. My expressions minute. I smile but only when ecstatic. Otherwise, note the crinkly around my eyes. That’s me smiling. If I’m nervous, I can seem cold and distant, especially if I don’t know what you want.

If you want to take things physical, tell me. My consent meter is dialed to 11. If there is not clear, often verbal, consent I will not act. I will not touch you without your consent. If you say no, or stop. I will immediately back off.

I tell few stories about the past. I can talk for days about fictional characters or what and who I’m writing, but a funny anecdote is unlikely. Tell me your stories, I’ll listen. I want to hear them all. I’ll try to share relevant details of my own. I have a sense of humor but it’s dark and I’m more given to the one liner or double entendre than a joke.

I love hard. And will never let you go in my heart. But I will let you go, if that is your desire. I want the people I love to be happy. If that’s not with me, I’ll be sad, but I prefer you to be happy. Just talk to me. Allow me the opportunity to sway you, or the dignity to let you go.

I am a BDSM switch, predominantly master. That is a part of who I am. It is not a game I play. If you are a submissive, I will treasure you. I rule through pleasure, care and love. We all have our own speeds, teach me yours. I’m flexible.

I’ve done things, been places, met people. I’ve been around the block. I will surprise you, if you allow that you don’t know how I will react. Very often, it’s not how you would expect.

Rambling thoughts

For all that I have spent time in this world, I feel like I haven’t started yet. Like the only barometer for success I will acknowledge is a life shared. Something I haven’t had in years. I have friends, but I feel like I dip in and out of their lives unable to fully realize that connection that says to talk to them each day even though I desire to. It feels awkward to always be the one to make contact. Like I’m imposing on their lives. With a romantic interest, I feel like I am invited to make contact though I think I take that too far, maybe too fast. I share every little thought even if it’s weird. Is a bunch of little texts throughout the day day weird or one long one that rambles, is that more weird? Am I too concerned that I come off as weird? Anyone that reads my work, has to know I’m weird, right? That I see most things differently. In some ways, I wish that people I am interested in would read my work. On the other hand, I have written extensively about several breakups and their emotional impact and about an unrequited love situation that ended as was inevitable. So they can see just how idiotically romantic/foolish I can be. Or better to know that going in? I may seem a pushover in alot of things, when I’m in a relationship. A soft touch. I’m a big believer in velvet strength. Soft when possible, gentle unless necessary. Then unwavering steel. But if there is no need, you may never see the steel and assume it’s not there. I fight for those I love but I can only do so when I know that there is something to fight. Or to fight for. I want to be chosen I suppose. It’s the only way passion lasts in a relationship. To choose the person you are with, each day. Choose and choose again. Live each day with them in your heart, knowing you are in theirs. That they are choosing you. Maybe that’s too much pressure? To know that I am actively choosing? I don’t know. Or maybe, to their mind, I say I love you too soon? I only say it when I feel it to be true. Not everyone I date hears it, it just happens that those that do tend to hear it ‘early’ in the relationship. I listen to what my heart is telling me. I discern fact from the vapor of nuance. Sometimes, I’m wrong. But I’d rather be wrong about something potentially wonderful and take the chance than be wrong because I failed to take the chance. Though I am, admittedly, a bit wary now. It’s just hard to lose something beautiful for something wonderful, then lose it all. Doesn’t stop me from wanting the everything, despite the pain or the possibility of pain. Though I am a admitted masochist, so perhaps it’s not so unlikely. I could ramble like this forever, one thought bleeding into the next, but I have to go to work.

Fickle muse-playing with lyrics 

Accept me as I am
or reject me
but I am no object
to be picked up then discarded
for I have departed
beyond this veil of light and life
I come to you hard hearted
but watch me melt in sunshine rays
give me my glory
my past is my story
another word, another note
I’m past thinking that’s all she wrote
give me your hand
I swear I’ve got a plan
though they mostly involve asking you to stay
I’m a forever kind of lover
but leave me at the altar
and I’ll find another
my heart is too full to falter
my core is emotion
and emotion speaks poetry
to the last you’ll know it’s me
I may be to shy to say it in time
but I’ll always
know how
to say it
in rhyme

I’m still broken, just in different ways

Is it bad that I don’t expect those that I love to love me back? That the mere thought, “who could love the monster I am” can bring me to tears instantly? Because of all the beautiful things I believe, it is this one dark seed that sits in my heart. This is the last piece of heartache I work on. I say this now because it scares me to say it. How can this part of me, this broken self be revealed and still be worth loving. He writes through the tears. But it’s a rule. If I betray my own rules, how can I be trusted to not do so again.


3 AM thoughts

I wonder what it is like to receive my romantic attention. Is it smothering to be thought of in focus? By which I mean as a primary thought, like writing or learning. To know that I think about them when I wake up, when I sleep, and just during the day. To read my poetry that they inspire, to receive compliments and pet names, to hear the thousands of thoughts that slam into my brain.

To deal with the way my brain works, confident but always willing to read a situation as negative. Needing to be reassured of your interest until I’m completely confident in it. Needing to hear back as soon as possible. Needing to know why you aren’t available or will be gone for whatever ongoing conversation we are having.

Dealing with my rules. Dealing with my sexual appetite. With my stories about what I desire to do with and to you, then your realization that they weren’t so much stories as points of intention.

Maybe it’s all too much and the relationship just dies under the weight of communication. I try to restrain my heart, but I often fail. I try to be easy and chill but it’s not my nature. Serious and intense is my nature, though I can be silly if I feel safe. I don’t know. I guess that’s why this is bothering me at three in the morning.

Self metaphor

Think of me like a blade. Functional, sharp. In romance, I am no less the blade. Merely sheathed. In true friendship, the blade is bare but held horizontal to my body. Held loosely but ready. Each degree down the ladder changes the orientation of the blade and grip of same. Until, against enemies, the blade is unseen. Unnoticed until it slips under the ribcage.

This is how I think of myself. It is a useful metaphor. It keeps me mindful of the things I am capable of. That if I falter, I can do unwitting damage. That despite how I may seem or project, that is what I am. Who I am. As I always say, I am the weapon, every thing else is just a tool.

I am a blade bared.

Thoughts on beauty and introspection

Beauty is not about your body. If I meant it to be about your body I would have said pretty. Or used the phrase aesthetically pleasing.

When I comment that a person is beautiful, I always mean that I have caught a glimpse of something indefinable, some piece of your self that calls to my humanity. A piece that makes me fall in love, just a little bit, with that person.

Needless to say, I fall in love all the time. I think it’s a poets job to look inside to see and more importantly to write and speak.
To let people know that they are not faceless, not invisible. That beauty lurks in the heart of us all.

I’m not the best vehicle for telling people of their beauty. I’m not great at the whole charisma thing, I don’t think anyway. But I’ll write it, and hopefully they’ll see themselves the way I see them.

Off topic a bit, I’m in pain all the time. Loving individuals is who I am, it let’s me write, let’s me see and I wouldn’t change that. But so few people, see me. And I don’t mean in my writing, I mean me, the totality of me. And it is so very painful to love and not be loved.

Conversations on conversation

In nearly every conversation I have now, there is the element of fear. I speak about my interests and desires, my past and present. I share my work and my self with anyone that expresses genuine interest.

The fear of rejection, of pushing away those I find alluring are present during. But while we’re talking it’s like a exhibitionist high, or the submissive float. I say whatever I desire, engage in wordplay and generally have fun.

But after, it’s like an adrenaline crash. I shake and fear that what I said, while truthful, will push away someone who could be an amazing relationship but won’t be because I pushed too far, too fast in the tumultuous rush of my Rollercoaster of conversation.

And it’s hard to admit to this fear. I control my self, my emotional reactions. But no matter what I do, this fear is present. It doesn’t stop me. In a way, it pushes me forward. But I can’t seem to shake it. For someone who lives so much in his head, conversation is my way of sharing my world. But after I do, I want nothing more than to have and be held. A physical balm for the emotional tumult.