This again.

I can’t sleep.

I’m searching for an adventure and all I can find is what we used to be. The images of lost love flooding in me. Every rock, every cliff, every waterfall reminds me of every memory.

I feel like I’m stuck in between denial and an acceptance. Please, I’m not really ignoring what has to be my new reality. I’m just begging to not be living in complacency, or coming to awareness latently.

And maybe my healing has had some setbacks, yet patiently, I encompass the path that is crumbling. That means I can recreate a way to walk more intentionally. In many ways I now can step more into authenticity and audaciously embrace a frame of fresh boundaries.

Respectfully, I request that in my presence we exchange more words of empathy, truly a way of communicating respondency. We could be paving more of a path where the only direction is for us to “be free.”

I can taste the healing almost as much as I see, and trust in the knowledge, like the tree, that I am rooted in life as often as it is life I’m living lovingly. This, breathing in and releasing, shifting daily, brings the direction needed in the exchange for the quest of love’s unexpected journey.

Bedside Fire

In how many women’s beds are you sleeping, when I have barely found any other worth a lusting,

Yet I do yearn for the day where I can be combusting

Long for the day where I can begin some trusting,

and then I’ll know that when I’m thrusting all of my energy and my love into another, it won’t be for the sake of your other lovers

And the thought of a man won’t make me shudder

Maybe his touch will make me remember, what it supposed to be like to be held, like an ember

Too hot to clutch too tight and hold too strong, yet just warm enough to stay by it’s fire all day and night long

Stoking it with passion, not fear nor threat, knowing that the licking of the flicking from the flames are coals compared to what’s yet

Cosmos and campfires will combine into the one universe it is, and then, I will be content knowing, that side of the bed, is no longer his.

Heartsand

What heart withstands the dripping of each individual grain of sand as it etches it’s way over the lining of curves bending with timing of plans cut away in fine degrades like the waves pull away the landing demanding the heart to beat stronger and hold on longer to the top of the hourglass and try not to let the sand drip fast as the current casts its blast against the glass the encasing is weakened with the forces impeding against the grains, strained to maintain a cadence in refrain, it becomes inflamed and infectious with the pain of all the drops of sand crammed atop a sieve while desperate to live free from the thrashing of sand crashing, keeping from healing as the inside layer is peeling away any chance of congealing reality into a stream of softness, the scratches only compress the experiences of time loss from times less care was given each time it’s sand etched it’s sharp part into the fiber of grief’s heart

Stay Golden

It was kind of an… “you’re worth more than …” feelin’

going through some more stuff and I have been thinkin’

about those who value people who value human livin’

learning how to navigate through is equally sad and empowering.

It was a coming out of the moment of a twisted rejection

those who want to believe bullshit will be a bullshit evaluation

and those that want to know the light… well,…. they’ll stay golden.

Jester Hat

Place the hat upon my head sir, as it appears I am a dunce or perhaps a jester. I have to laugh at myself as I fail to be a quest of which you sequester. Im just a guest here, a pat on the ass of fine stature. A statue of marbling fractures you pass by in the court yard, falling apart as I try so hard to make you laugh and request more, of me.

Asking to see what I bring. Asking to see what kind of performance I will sing, and will I jump through the rings the master holds out for the show to the whole audience be seen, you and they clap, end scene, it’s dark.

Did I play the part? Was the flute not good enough, should have played the harp? The harp not talented enough, I offer snow whites heart. Actually a pigs, but the knife wasn’t sharp. I worked so hard to make you see the chard’s layering in the prankster cards, did I make you laugh?

Passed out now from my undisciplined efforts for attention. Regardless of all the qualities I offer that you like and mention. I guess I have to remember the intention, and that it is rarely the same as mine and so my spirit needs an intervention. Rest easy myself, rest from self contention. Entertaining on others peoples stages are not my destination, so I dance for myself, no other explanation.

Stolen Times


What was taken, I shall take back, no matter how long it takes,

For each day that was stolen, I shall steal them back, no matter if the time is a stow away,

Moments never earthed living, we will live on earth now, honoring the life at all stakes

What was taken, I will give back to you, in cherished moments each day

Present Proof

Gazing further than my eyes have ever reached before, I refocus on my growth once more. In renewal of my driving force, closing of one and an opening door.

I’ve given more of me, even while I’m all gone. Perhaps proof to myself that my love still gives out strong. And even though I’ve yearned you for so long, the lack of exchange makes me feel so so wrong.

Again, I see the value of this present escape of another abyss. Yet through the silent rejection, I hope for true bliss. How can my soul be alone, a craving a touch Ive never missed? Lost in a dream in a sealing of connection with a fresh lovers kiss.

Snapping back to reality I am forced to be driven. Daily I climb from the pool of sorrow I swim in. From the dripping of the tears of hopes that I sit in, I’ll present to you the reflection of you in all that I glisten.

Halt, Past.

Preserved in the past,

the present will pass and become passed,

passing through portals,

a passage pursued by mortals,

trying to immortalize the atrocities committed as merely cordial.

Dialing in the correct order,

measuring the mortar,

aligning boundaries and building up borders.

No strong enough a soldier

can break through what has been soldered and smoldered

under the burning embers of coal.

The soul

tries to rise from the ashes of shame,

from the shadows cast in blame,

a game of then and now with no sight of the future,

aside from the sutures.

In spite of the putrid

oozing of endless boozing in a punch drunk love.

Above

it all, yet looking down,

a broken smile

known as a frown

is the gown plastered on the face of disgrace.

Placed firm in a foundation of cracked cementing statues,

lamenting in laminated hope brochures,

which lock in the last known attempt to procure

a treasured polished piece.

It’s niche,

and not quite as ripe as a peach.

Peel off the veneer,

all unleashed,

the superglued splinters fall at the feet.

It had always been incomplete

but entered into the show to compete.

Completely tarnished,

streaks of varnish

drip stains on the remains

of what the future could not halter,

the alter.

The sun is shining.

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, I’m still not over you. Spring flowers are bright and now poking through, I’m still not over you. Trying to fly a month with a birds eye view, I’m still not over you.

The weather is warming and the wind’s a nice breeze, but now you’re over me. The fresh air whips and fans the trees, but now you’re over me. The mountain’s paths are wild and free, for now, you’re over me.

Supple, round and full of wonder, gaze turned to another lover. Questing into your dreamy plunder, a pillage into another lover. Sounds of my silent screams from the ground’s under, you, under another lover.

Filling up from the rays beaming, but my dm’s are an empty feeling. Yours have been thick from many a day preceding, my dm’s still an empty dealing. Attention and affection around me all weaning, yours fill up and my dm’s are an empty fearing.

All the joys of future plans, I can not even barely understand. Ripped away from my present’s hands, next, I can’t really understand. Us in the past you, my man, now, just me, I don’t understand.

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, I’m still not over you. Everyday, I still am not sure what to do, aside from not being over you. I guess I’ll take look at your view, maybe you seeing her, will help me to get over you.

Why getting dumped on Woman’s Day (weekend), during Women’s Month, honors the Celebration of Women, Woman’s Day, Woman’s Month, Woman’s Life.

This may seem ironic at first. Getting dumped honors women you say, how’s that? I know, it may be hard to see that as true at first, but the playbill that we have all been watching, was not what I auditioned to be a part of. I think it is safe to say, that a lot of leading women “roles” are actually a monologue of the deflated main character’s hopes and dreams. So what better way to step back into the limelight the woman was destined to play, than by being let go by a director who lost the lines to the script?

Break a leg!!

Oh ouch, I mean that figuratively, because we may need that balance as I explain just how empowering it could be to get ditched by the garbage delivery service. It’s like scoring a vintage Tiffany’s lamp in someone’s “FREE” bin on the curb, that you just got kicked to. Perhaps it can be visualized as a rare recording that just got remastered and goes platinum in a week after being dropped by a “bigtime label.” Actually, if you’re thrifty, it is as invaluable as the Juicy or Coach bag tucked away in the back of a dirty shoe shelf at a Goodwill.

Ok, ok, but why is this such a good deal?

Frankly, because I am, as you are, worth more than the mass produced cheap trash that was being fed into my soul.

The dish that I kept ordering and tasting was delicious though. Like downright made my mouth water. Every single time I sat down back at the table and I waited for my yummies, such a tasty and delectable appetizer. I was hungry though. The chef and I talked and clearly he was still a line prep. I love a man who can cook. So he kept feeding me the little delicious morsels that were filling me up, with an order on the line for the main course. My hopeful chef though, was still picking out other ingredients. He was ordering and eating from other menus as well as cooking really well for personal company. It was as if this prep cook was bringing back some of those leftovers and trying to serve them as fresh and uniquely supplied from his growing garden. I got food poisoning. Every time I bit into the prepared meal, I was dished out more watered down, reused and polished colanders caked of uncooked yolks.

The yolk was on me….

Let me tell you folks, the yolk is runny. Almost as runny-y as I am…..was….back into the shallow end of a pool that I thought kept getting deeper. Deep enough that I seemingly kept drowning in the buoyancy. I like to swim. But here’s the thing. Sometimes my water is really really dark, stagnant and pungent. I think I must be my own pool boy who just came fresh out of the gym, but has no flex. Mostly though, often I am a deep sea scuba diver that cannot navigate the way through a pond of my own wastewater. It is this environment that any sea-goer of my ship must fare at any time the storms roll in. But they are ripples from the rains of tears that were collected from the scorches of the thunderbolts at sea, where my nets have always been cast, since the time I was a Moses in the reeds. A collection of a liquid story.

An open book kind of story.

A story where it can get really difficult to trudge through those rambling rants of agony and loss. A long narrative where the writer has emphasized every letter to its fullest enunciation, giving exclamations to the most grueling grief. I narrated chapter after chapter of disbelief and debilitation followed by triumphs, joys, and reconciliations. But when the readings started reflecting and recording the rips the pages have held since the beginning of the press, the reader suddenly forgot how to read, shut the book. When opened back up to the joy of expression, after spurts of censorship, its an easy read with short stories of love, growth, and excitement. Yet when the next chapter, needs, to have its own title, needs to be enveloped into, co – authored and on the same page about where the rips are from and why they keep ripping, it suddenly becomes a comic book to the reader. Audible laughter became the veto to my voice and the red pen to my memoir.

MY memoir, MY Memories….

Many memories I have that I will hope to wash off the body like a temporary tattoo, where once the image was bright and crisp but the lasting result was a dull residue. Unlike the marring fingerprints from handling a collectible art piece to handily, some of the markings, the scar on my back, will not wash away, scrub away. Thankful I am now aware that I can have something incredibly beautiful braided onto my skin and seek healing in the process. As an artist, what is any better a way to express a scarred and tossed away clay lump of “too much mess,” than to become my own flowing and evolving masterpiece of self allowance and mastery?

A mastery of mind release.

See? It is now to become a release of all that was bound up in reflexes heightened to rubber band reactions. Wound up as tight as it could wind and triggered at its last of elasticity, snapping out of sight, and all that is left is the waves of energy left behind. The reverberations generated have shaken the casing off and created an emergence of what is to come. A flooding of all that has been dammed, from all the damns that were uttered, has come rushing through, ready to cleanse the basin. Gleaming and polished porcelain now, a receptacle of rejoicing once the voice was free to flow.

Flowing freely …

Freestyle forming now. It becomes time to see the freedom in becoming free. Not inundated with the pressures of not being able to withstand the opposition to expression. See now, the hardening chiseled away and reveals the treasure of those pressures. A diamond. Lighting the pathway which has been cleared to lay the new foundation of my Kingdom with the precious gems of the noble build. It becomes time to apply my own masonry of paving the way to a star studded encampment that will encompass all that is glistening in the glory of growth, and no longer held from progress. A lamp unto my pattering feet…

As I finally walk away…

Walk away from the table of poison where I no longer have to wonder who’s garden you pillaged to plate my palette… As I float away from falsity of finding depth in your shallows and shark infested wade pool that just waits for me to emotionally bleed and feast on my fears… As I saunter along into the sunshine and seek out only the growing seedlings found along in salutations of honesty and full hopes… I am upcycled from the bin of bruises you boxed me in and will encase the world in an array of raw and real reverence. I have become the priceless point of existence where all that reflects back to me is an understanding of what I know I am worth. And as far as being discarded in the dump, I realize that you are what you eat. I ate a lot of garbage, I became a lot of garbage. I was fined for wanting to reduce, reuse, and recycle from trash to treasure. So, while the garbage man is still making trips back and forth to the dump, I, a rare and valuable creation of star stuff and bright lights am able to find the value of the depths and rise above the heaps, where there are no more shadows dimming the hope and love I have to shine.

Shine on, me, you, crazy diamonds.