Lust is grabbing a firm, hard, perky breast and playing with it's pointy, rose hued nipple until you've both fallen asleep. Even in your dreams, he reaches around and cups them like handle bars, afraid to let go lest the whole bicycle disappears.
Love is 20 years later, scraping the same bosom from the floor, dusting it off and scooping it back into the bra, where it continues to hang, looking like a windsock full of wet sand. Regardless of the rust, he continues to grasp those handle bars and ride that bike with the same enthusiasm, as if it were new.
This is 40
I don't know if my age has helped me write as much as given me experience and insight into life.
I've always felt that people (in my life anyway) were always quick to put concern on what I wrote as opposed to an opinion.
Too honest, too angry, depressing, is everything alright? I wanted feedback, but all I got was analysis.
My age has given me courage to continue writing, and to get the (more than occasional) rejection, but my wisdom has pushed me to pursue and hopefully one day publish.
At 16 I was shy, but at 40....F&@k it.
I Hate My Hair
My 10 year old has been learning about poetry in a school program for the last 6 weeks. This is what she wrote and read to the parents and students.
My hair is crazy,
My hair is frizzy
My hair is like a crazy, frizzy noodle.
So that is why it looks like a crazy, frizzy poodle.
My hair is so fuzzy and poofy,
That I can't even watch a movie.
My hair is so ridiculous,
That when I dance,
I'm standing on the other side,
like so many times before.
But this time,
There is just the lonely echo of my voice.
I'm right by your side,
yet unable to communicate how I feel.
I am sorry for it all.
For the visits where the focus was on me,
the promises of trips we'd never take,
the encouragement that our next time together
would be so much sooner than the last.
Life and death make liars of us all.
As I watched you age
part of me would fear for my own future.
Do we bloom,
or dry up
Colorful and fragrant,
but doing nothing.
Today you are standing on the other side,
and as hard as I knock,
it will not change the pine box
back into your front door.
Today, I can not feel your pain,
and you can't wipe my tears.
Every word I scream out
falls into the crowd of people
who have knocked,
who are fighting
for a place in line.
to the voiceless form
who has all the answers,
that can't be shared.
no one is there.
Your remarkable smile,
is now in search of
of a more deserving audience.