Feeling It All

in the darkness, spirals called
winding wells and staircases tall
regret and worry, fashioned lenses
costumes and masks, ill-fitting pretenses

naked and bare, exposed to the core
questions unanswered, left wanting more
measures and comparisons, not quite enough
sometimes the darkness has been pretty tough

but the light is brighter than ever before
no fear of darkness, not any more
embracing it all, the darkness and light
the in-between, the fights and flights

I feel it all like never before
this me I was meant to be, open and whole

-image is mine

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Synchronicity

beneath the fabric of a single human heart
resides an elaborate orchestra,
a seemingly imbalanced sequence of forces,
intervals of time and measures of amplitude,
not at all working against one another,
but synchronizing themselves so intimately,
they are nearly indistinguishable as separate –
just like you and me,
pulsing to one beat

-image via Pixabay

Death By Roses


death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

but she couldn’t write about that right now –
her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear

so, she sat there, writing about stars, 
forgetting about how he once brought her red roses and watched her bloom

she wrote about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings, 
so that warmth might settle in her bones,
if only for a moment 

she sat there, pen in hand, 
pretending everything was fine,
writing about stars she couldn’t see,
warmth she could no longer feel

her skin was too thin not to write about stars,  
because heartache was a burden that was too heavy to bear,
and when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
the bruises felt all too fresh and the scars were still itchy and tender 

when she stopped writing about stars and kittens and the rising of the sun on cold December mornings,
her pen couldn’t stop writing about how he cracked her rib cage with fistfuls of longing, 
about how he watched as her entire being bent toward the light of his promises of forever,
about how she gave him pieces of herself she’d never shown another human being,
only to be pricked by his indifferent thorns,
about how he haphazardly plucked her from the life-altering soil and let her wither to dust 

she knew for certain that to love is to burden oneself with cracks in one’s rib cage,
with bruises and scars,
with the inevitable dangers of thorns

her skin was too thin not to write about stars –
but if he were to show up on her doorstep with open arms and a fistful of red roses…..

death by roses, she thought, 
death by roses

image via Pixabay; written in response to Mindlovemisery’s First Line Friday prompt

Landscapes

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
using a palette made of sand

pigments extracted from fruits of hope, 
each stroke with an unsteady hand

I sometime paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
eyes closed as I take it all in

possibility unfolding behind wishful lids,
planting seeds deep within

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
and watch as they wash away

sometimes hope goes only so far,
and seeds don’t see light of day

I sometimes paint landscapes with silver-tongued brushes,
they the predator, and I the prey

-image via Tumblr, original artist unknown

On This Bed

on this bed,
nights last forever;
they begin before a suitcase is unpacked,
before dinner is served,
before the moon bids its farewell,
before noon

on this bed,
I dream things,
I dream sideways-looking things I can’t discuss with anyone but him

on this bed,
dream-like love making happens,
the kind that overtakes us so that we don’t bother to lock the door or make certain the window shades are pulled,
the kind of love making that makes me cry out loud,
makes me beg, then dissolve into him,
that urges me to do things I’ve never done before

on this bed,
I know it’s always been me;
that’s what he tells me,
and that’s what I believe;
it’s the way it has always been,
from the day we met, young and limitless,
to this day, nearly 24 years later,
when life tethers us to the ground

on this bed,
we don’t listen to the birds calling out from the treetops;
we let the hours pass by –
it’s all a dream, and it’s all ours;
it always will be

give in to it,
that’s what he whispers into the crook of my neck,
and I do what he tells me,
I do it all night long

for, on this bed,
night lasts forever

-image via Tumblr

Weapon of Choice

I am alive,
so awakened by the magic in my life I chose to create,
I’m bursting at my seams to explore,
but this life’s constraints allow only so much exploration

I’m afraid if I don’t explore these parts of me,
I’ll explode

and if I do get the opportunity to explore them,
I may also explode

so, here I am,
stuck,
a caged bird,
pulling out my own feathers to keep my mind occupied

famished,
ravenous for something food can’t satisfy,
though I sometimes try

this extra weight my battle scar,
the tangible evidence of my fight against myself,
and not taking care of myself my weapon of choice

-image via Tumblr

Worth the Wait

“I forgive you,” he said, so easily,
as if it took no thought at all –

my heart wasn’t prepared for that,
how could it possibly be that simple?

it became glaringly evident that love is a stream of mindfulness,
of choice after choice,
of forgiveness,
tiny currents of trust, which compound, gaining strength,
a path of morsels, each one made of bits honor, of memories, one after the other,
that leads you back to the person who is waiting,
who wants to wait,
who believes there was something worth waiting for

I followed the path,
I forgive you, too

we were worth the wait