Wednesday, September 30, 2009
- Boy likes girl. Gives her his heart.
- Girl isn’t impressed, this is too easy.
- Heartbreak hotel and super glue ensue.
- Boy is never the same again.
- He never thinks the same way about girls again.
- Girl notices boy isn’t moved by her tricks.
- Girl likes boy. Gives him her heart.
- Boy isn’t impressed, this is too easy.
- Heartbreak hotel and super glue ensue.
- Girl is never the same way again.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Silhouette of two, finding in the dark
Alongside, they’d smile in a frozen moment
Preserved forever, with a dazzle of light
Burned into dreams, in transient white
Friday, February 20, 2009
Eyed your old photos; thought where you were,
Realized, no longer, the same longing I did.
Voracious starvation, company to my solitude;
Only your lilting voice could soothe me.
Saw your smile, sunshine, remembered it well.
Wondered too, will all those I used to feel for;
Stand still in time, a statue like you?
Flickers of a memory only true in my mind?
Your soft vocals, music you sent me,
Words I wrote, but never told you,
Photos that called you back to me,
The memories of all our joy and pain,
To ash, I finally burned them all.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
I haven’t spoken about -this- particular girl for a long time now. A long-suffering, unwavering friend, of the type you read about in books. The kind who are steadfast in believing the best of you, and whom you’d take bullets for without a second thought.
She needs a lot of love. Not the kind you profess about to your significant other, not the kind you daydream about all your romantic life. More the kind where you can hug people with, the kind you can cry together with.
I am but an idiot, clumsy with his words, and I do not know how to make things better. Know you are foremost in my mind, even though oceans separate us.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that’s lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
– W. B. Yeats
Saturday, February 7, 2009
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world
my blood approves,
and kisses are a far better fate
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
–the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says
we are for eachother: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph
And death i think is no parenthesis
Tuesday, December 2, 2008
Comfort. A feeling arising from habitually pleasing routines or actions. To feel a sense of security from knowing the particular circumstance of a given situation. Comfort is a double-bladed edge: you can recover within the refuge of her wings, or you can cling to her bosom fearfully, until circumstances force you from her protection. She breeds complacency, security, happiness, lethargy. She allows the tired traveler into her home to rest, and she also locks up her children in the basement, loath to let them get away. Other times, she is as a hazy, wispy smoke. The tendrils of her voice swirl their way into your ear and she whispers:
“Stay awhile longer, here with me. There’s nothing but ashes left, but stay awhile and talk to me, one last time, like we’re in love.”
Sunday, November 16, 2008
There was a boy who once was hopeful. He had an idea of how life would turn out for him, and he wasn’t dissatisfied with his future. Wrong turn after wrong turn made him a harder person, and sometimes his reticence would spell out hurt for those closest to him, and he knew this. This hurt them, and him knowing hurt him. He spoke a lot of empty words.
There was a girl who had done things she had not been proud of in the past. Her ghosts kept haunting her, because she felt she would never be good enough to erase what she had done, and that she would never grow. She sometimes told herself she was crazy, and that people would never waste their time with her if they knew. She was dearly loved.
There was a mother who once had a son. This mother loved that her son involved her in his life. She would know all about his friends, and his inspirations. Life was blissful. But they were not to last: in time, he drew away and became sullen, unresponsive, and critical. She taught him the meaning of the word anger, because she always told him never to show it. She put a picture of her family by the living room, because that’s when she would see them the most often.
There was once a friend who believed in all that was the Good Book. Street-wise and world-weary, she had sought the elusive thing people call God with fervor, for years and years. Bit by bit the world chipped away at her rock-like stance, and it tired her so. One might not have noticed the hairline cracks in the beginning, but as time marched on, so too did the cracks widen. She looked to the world and remembered its pleasures and lost a particular glow in her eyes. She had stress lines that were funny to watch.
There was a story about brokenness. It meant confronting your letdowns, your disappointments, your wishes-that-were-never-so. It meant sinking to your knees sometimes and screaming into the night and breaking your hands on the walls and cursing against all that was wrong in the world. Sometimes brokenness meant you had to look in the mirror and understand you were ugly, and that things WERE your fault sometimes. That no, there wasn’t an excuse you could give that would be good enough. Other times it meant you had to let go of your weaknesses and learn to forgive yourself. To one day conveniently forget to keep an eye on your imperfections. God knows we are reminded of them enough.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
When I read that sentence I felt like I had been hit in the face with a sledgehammer. It was crazy, but it began to make sense piece by piece: the one who loves more has less control, and is more emotionally invested in ‘making things work’, also may seem less rational than the other, and more compromising. The one who cares and respects the other partner less actually is in the best position to shape the relationship. With that in mind the gravity of such actions were made clear: it was a power play. You don’t care? You’ve got the power to hurt those who do. Was that what it was about? Power and control?
Disgusting. Absofuckinglutely disgusting.