Posts Tagged ‘writers’

I breathed you in, ocean air apart,

The branches of my chest, suppressed,

Over skin grazed land I found you.


And swallowing, a salt kiss,

Suspended in a pool of infinity, indefinitely,

Lamp covered light fields led me through.


The resonating rain drops, the chin raised looks,

The body of my heart, howling heavily,

Like a nomadic wolf, I search for you.


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You’ve buried me below your dreams,

like a sleeper strangling in the sheets.

You’ve buried me below your dreams,

beseeching for a breath beneath this frozen, frigid lake.

My beckoning to you is silent now,

with movements quite uneven.

But this surface is smooth,

this covering above me,


I wear it as if it were my own skin;

unshakable, and permanently stitched.

A part of my purpose, or perhaps,

my entirety for eternity.

All the more sad it seems.


You’ve buried me below your dreams

my dear,


death will come to us all.

You’ve buried me below your dreams,

and the Summer of our lives

is quietly fading to the onset of Fall.


And where are you, above this earth?

Where do you roam to with such dogmatic determination?

Where do I reside inside you?

In between hope and frustration?


I wish to hold you near, as, like the leaves,

we crumble and dry.

I wish to love you softly and slowly, together,

today and always,

as we die.

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The music here has created a movement,

and beauty is bleeding from within.

Everything is esoteric,

seeds budding and stemming from a glance, from the simplicity of a soft, gentle touch,

from my heart and to and through you.

All of this, of course,

has always been,

and always will be.

Harmony has passion,


fear flies with just as much grace as that of

a diving dove.


Now and again, illusions form–

blankets of snow are tricks from the midnight moonlight,

whispers beyond the hallway are shakes from a cold chill,

and painful thoughts are only fragments from feelings of the past.

We have buried ourselves,

all of us.

In so many shapes,

in so many ways,

in so many places.




But now, the air is aberrant

and these vessels;

these veins and vines,

these eyes and ears,

see and feel and hear

the heart of the matter–

the only matter that has ever mattered.


And so we travel on,

picking up the pieces,

trying to live our lives like circles.

Perfect in our own rotations.

All to touch again,




tender to shine together

we all are,

as long as we breathe



our skin.

As long as we share




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Daisies are dying in the salty sun,

photograph smiles, postcard kisses, and kind eyes cover the canvas of our story.

These are the things we have

as we hold each other in

endless arrangements of our hearts,

bouquets of love,

all wrapped in playful colors and

gentle, harmonious music.

And everything is shared with a sweetness,

like softly knitted details

that stitch the story of our love.

And we share,

and share,

and share.


There is so much I want to give to you–

everything is





our love.



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Hunkered down in the hotels of headaches and heartbreak,

rooms are for rent with discounted rates,

and all you need show is your eyes.

The ever revealing signs of sadness.

Desperation festers with fear to all those afraid of silence,

heavy to have someone to hold,

needing that intangible to create confusion.

These hallways have been familiar havens, faces covered in cloaks and windows choking out everything,

leaving only this


with dim-lit candles.


And like a feather falling slowly,

draping the grass and rising again with the wind,

playing perfectly the art of patience,

you have come here

and checked in.


And everyone looks at you auspiciously,

like you’ve done something wrong–

but the looks really stem from the fact that you


What are you doing here?

Is the question they’re asking,

and the only one they don’t want answered.

For if answers found their way


and to them,

the abundance of unnecessary needs would cease to exist

and meaninglessness would magnify like moonlight on a midnight lake.


All these rooms, these battered and bruised souls,

have to wait until they’re ready.

They could wait a lifetime–

some do.


I’ve waited,

and it was worth

anything and everything

to have



and know I’m ready to love you.

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I’m driving deep into the sunset,

and the horizon is hanging upon the head of the highway–

everything is hazy in these moments,

glowing and flaming like transparent wildfires calling me clearly in silent tongues.

The tires hug the road and my wrist loses itself to thoughts.

I’m quickly reminded of lines,

of guidelines that one must abide,

of limitations,

of left and right,

of past and love and family.


I steady my hand upon the wheel and drive into this

invisible fire. Aching and alone.


I’m getting closer to you now–

leaving all this on the road

and driving straight into your heart,

and you,

into mine.


And the closer I get,

the brighter we burn

Until this fire is blazing blue.


And I’m thinking of a song now, and the words warm my heart.

I know this love is real

because this fire is burning blue, as

the highway disappears with the daylight–

any brighter flame would be a lie.

And darling,

I love you.

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Brushes dipped in darkness are painting these streets black and back

to times before.

All of this is a distant memory lost to a dream.

Heavy heads resting upon brass rimmed beds,

lonely eyes, silent and shaking, crying out.

All we are is here and now,

how simple a thought to ponder?

Water lives like memories,

to evaporate and be again,

as time elopes beyond our fingertips

and what remains undone has been before.

The circular game of time is laughing perhaps–

all of us looking onward

as it comes up from behind us,

and swiftly,

upon us once more.


And this sad, pathetic brush is foiled in our forcing fate

to be what we think it should be.

We think darkness must be black

and that love has no place here.

Time is laughing still.



as I softly lean into to touch my love,

and feel her breath

as I kiss the cheek of which I feel fulfilled,

I disagree

with things

as they are,



The heart has always mattered more,

and darkness is only a passing color in a

circle that we can create for ourselves.

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