A place for slipping.

I disdain when I miss you,
because it's not when I should.
Supposed it to be--
in solace, lonely, dark-dim lime light.
This does happen.
But more--
more in warmth and fullness.
I am  light--
solid, strong, sublime--
but then you crawl through
and I am on my knees.
Mountain to child's pose.
I surrender.
I have to stay here--
low--
while you wash over.

A place of nostalgia.

With a breath,
of the pine,
the humidity, the sun, the nostalgia--
I have loved you for so long.

All of these years--
when I lay in the snow,
after the grass,
after the bed of flowers,
the billows of leaves--
there was always a picture of you,
you and I.

Time flies and with it--
this transcendence--
image to reality.

Then I'm laying in your sheets.
An inbreath of your skin
and warmth.

Brisk time ripped them out from under us.
Now I don't lay,
but sit,
or pose.
Contorted, awkward, misplaced.
That same pine now stuck to my face.

Back to words.

From a short blogging stint, to a long hiatus, and now finally here, I will begin to write some things again.  I have found that, more than anything else, writing allows me to actually come to conclusions about where I am inside this whirling, cascading mind. That said, blog posts mostly are predicted to contain disjointed thoughts and verse that help me focus throughout the days. I find when I am getting lost, that writing about that lost-space helps me to return to the moment. These places to follow!

From a Dream

I am shocked to life,
breathless.
My fingers on your face,
running,
cheekbone, lips, chin.
You tell me it's the sweetest touch.
Then you lean closer.
One tremble, then I am paralyzed.
You steal my life;
legs, arms, mind, breath.
One moment of brilliant, eternal bliss;
Suffocating,
I wake from the dream.

Labor

Coming to,
Out of the drunkenness,
It all becomes quite clear:
The cold and unassuming brick house needs no crumbling.
Wasteful are the drudgers,
with the hammers,
clanging and dripping sweat.
They are seeking something that does not exist.

Walls do not crumble,
that are built to withstand love.
So use force, then.
Attack with brutality,
tearing sinews and ligament.
For those only will collapse.

Blood, sweat, and tears build a stream,
It flows on down the mountain path.
Sparkling in the sun as it drips down rocky edges,
Like diamonds and rubies,
It is beauty.
Let it wash over the skin,
cleanse the filth away.
It rinses clean the days work.
The Fountain of Youth could not match this feeling.

From the pain and toil,
has come this moment of euphoria.
Feared or beloved?

Here's the start of something with potential...

Something undone, written while losing focus in class:

The cold singes my skin in such a way
That I cannot help but feel,
If I were not alone today,
This same world would fail to be real.

To float around with the drops of rain,
Falling fast towards the ground.
I guess I cannot feel their pain,
As I can never fall that far down.

Gravity will hold me up
As long as I can keep
Myself from losing all hope:
The spark before the sleep.

Under Pressure

The anticipation is the most threatening part.
Waiting for a rush of emotion to fill mind and body.
Either rise or fall with the tides.

Rise and feel your power.
Feel the control you have over the deluge.
Your weight is welcomed and cherished.
It does not suffocate, but invigorate
The mountain of passion,
That must be scaled.

Fall too, and feel power
As it presses against your every corner.
Do not try to escape it.
Welcome every last ounce of raw gravity.
You are a thing of worship,
Laid down as an offering to Aphrodite.

Bask in the beauty of it all.
The tension and relentlessness of this climb.
Give and take in this passion.
Rise and fall.