Look for the POSTWRITTEN
PS - don't look to the sky.
do check the roots underneath
and be grounded in a few inexplicable ways
words POST WRITTEN are preserved fair.
so, PS - ask about the times he didn't stay
be curious, ask about fields of grass and the rain delays
PS - don't look for love.
but do write the words
that lead one to find another
Like a Marlboro to a Red.
These times fit well with the occasion, like a Marlboro to the red. It's all so customary now, like it was back then. The sensation was what I missed. It was all that I favored—a flavor I had in mind. If enabled, it could evade me. There's no steering clear of its lifeless expression and the basis for which it was demanding.
The worst part of one's reality. How a fallacy presents in their divulging. And at every juncture and every age, how much does one truly change? There may be no easy way to know what is essential but not entirely necessary. I wouldn't put it simply, for even I knew it sinfully.
Maybe I'll just live like a Marlboro to a Red.
#lipplocked #poems #writers
Time Goes Like This...
Sip slowly and begin to play every emotion; they all make me feel like I'm drowning. Resurface. Another crisis I might once again survive. Tell me about those times you reminded me to hope this one might be different. Something tells me you knew they'd say all the same. I'm smiling and wondering whether I have anything worth complaining about. I enjoy the weird turns and roundabouts wherever I'm trekking.
I know that's not just me thinking this sort of thing. How? Because they are sitting right in front of me, appointments and random happenings, individuals are so revealing. I love the authenticity, and I'm intoxicated by our intrigue for others, our longing to connect with something, and how we find ourselves in the most unfamiliar yet comfortable places. That's the only thing these days that makes sense to me. I crave it indefinitely. I've grown thirsty.
"It's complicated," I keep reiterating; eventually, this will all make sense. I keep saying, "it's all meant to be; the here and now is all it can be...and I will follow in that same simplicity." It feels like my morning and evening mantra. I mean it when I say it was something I kept REPEATING. How complicated I am is also what I kept celebrating in my head because I loved the moon as much as I did the stars.
I should stop seeing myself in similies and metaphors because of these words I am not. However, the moon and I may share the story of having many stages and different sides. But what I feel are these here and now. Like the moon's phases, these emotions are authentic and sometimes hard to recognize. But with them, I keep evolving, allowing something within me to continue changing, to embrace any atmosphere around me; I'll be a reminder of the impact the environment which I wish to protect can genuinely impact me.
Love is like this. So beautiful and magnetic, yet expansive, we fear it for our simplicity of being able to hold it. We crave it and want to own it. Yet the very thing that makes it so valuable is that it bears no price, given freely, it's worth way more than gold, and we'd all sacrifice our youth to know it, honestly. That may be the only message I wish to leave with those left on this earth after my own time. Love is the only path to autonomy and happiness. For yourself and others is the only secret or fountain to drink from, love always and indefinitely.
Time goes like this, quick as a star shooting through the sky. In the blink of an eye, all that you've been waiting for and gone before you realized it was all that it needed to be. Keep reaching, keep hoping, like is a wish and hope we leave in the night sky.
#lipplocked #30something #lifelessons
Under the Magnifying Glass.
Why wasn't the question - it was the morphine. I asked it for some relief it never indeed provided me. I needed more. I questioned more. It gave me nothing. Of course, I was left feeling empty. There was never enough to satisfy this need, which I couldn't relinquish. A thirst no one could ever quench.
Maybe my head was filled with too many things. I'm just writing it out to escape what no one else wants to know about. I like it better when people don't know these things about me. "I'm an open book." Bullshit. I call myself out but never verbally. I'm just playing a game where the rules were never explained to me. You'll figure it out as you go or lose, but they say no one's competing.
It all felt like bologna to me. Watch what you're saying, pay attention to who's looking, don't you know they're always watching. An ant they magnify doesn't matter how small they are still bound to see. Can you forget the critiques? Maybe, eventually. I was going to wait and see. Find what they never did. That was all me.
You go before me. That's not polite; it's the fear inside of me. It's creeping out. You see it but know nothing about it. We're just laughing about it now. How similar and oppositional we just might be. Why? I stopped questioning. Uninterested, I found you to provide me with no relief. So to this quest, I keep trekking.
Sponsor the Shapeshifter.
Words seemed to stick to me like the heat of the summer sun. They felt viscous before they indeed ever burned. I wouldn't say I liked the way they left me feeling exposed, the way someone would call me out on the lines they willed in another light. Maybe I should have asked what difference it makes. They'll be gone by September. And you'll have forgotten all about these fits of ember.
My life burned with an intense desire racing most days, just as any heat rises when dry timber gets put into the fire. I guess that's what they meant when they said I let my emotions run wild. But they never seemed to mind the warmth of a slow-burning fire. Voices are rising like the crackle of my defeat. Go ahead and turn to move away your cowardly feet.
No one ever really knew me, but they felt me differently, like the tales of a liar. Things they didn't want to know but secretly sought. Like one red thread that could lead them to what could never be fought. I was the monster of their creation, a sickness aching in their complete devastation. I am not your savior, and I sure as hell am not your monster. All I regret and desire is knowing a world where we become our inevitable sponsor.
A Quiet Shame
I won’t even talk about it. I’ll just let it escape my mind, no thoughts of catching it as it floats by out into the nothingness to which I stare. Like the last kid on the bus, I can feel the silence like a breeze with each one departing. I don’t imagine life in fairytales, but I will in the nature of cherry trees and Bartle Types. Callous hands and succinct archetypes.
No one asked what that even means. I let the words linger one by one; they drip then fall. Once again, I’ve left the faucet of words running through my mind. Only to return to me in the brightness of blue, embarrassed by its bleakness, the clouds quickly fall behind. What a quiet shame it must be to share the sky.