What A Womanly Thing To Do

what a womanly thing to do, to conceal the sweetness of your bitter words, to quiver alone, to silence a love, for fear it becoming a backbone.

this unmasked love, my dear, is inflamed longing, all the poetry in the world will fail to contain.

what a womanly thing to do. to refuse to dance to the music of his heart, claiming it too loud.

to laugh away his sorrows, the sadness burdening his tired shoulders, with expectations of a father awaiting the coming of his eldest son.

to show him that heaven does exist on earth, a painting of two lovers, in a space of one, then build a barrier, preventing the future from holding the brush.

what a womanly thing to do.

trust is gazing faithfully into a heart that appears as a reason in the dark, against all your poor judgements, even lack of that.

what a womanly thing to do. to push away the unfamiliar, in order, to stamp, to prove a theory, your inexperienced mind decided long ago.

love does survive in life.

it does when you move together, if even separately, to a shared rhythm, when you strip yourself honest, when you question the rigid grip on the past, cleaning the wounds of all the hurt inside.

it does when you grow into your own woman, not a fragment of all the women who spilled down their painful lessons.

two stories never once shared the same character.

it does when fighting is broken down into remedies, to reveal the cracks, for understating to surround them from every side.

it does when steps are paved, plans are marked, to a road that sees two, not afraid to wait, to work together, against the odds of life.

lovers, take your time. in contemplation of thoughts. but do not take your precious gift for granted. in solitary, look at the result behind the force, then make your peace.

lovers, distance is the testing recognition of all that is true in love, absence is the beginning of every loss. remember, indeed love drives from a positive source of faith in the small details.  

Love At 4AM

Distance unveiled you to me, an incomprehensible idea of love that always eluded me, in peaceful silence I understood completely, what books never taught me

You held me like a promise, from the start; the promise of the young, to leave behind, ashes of a town that never once embraced the longing of it's people

With you, moments transcended the concrete poetry of the ever-present now, we are fashioned in an escape from the shorelines of time

I find no words in which to contain you, yet you stretch across the pages of contemplation, I know only that I love you: that I have only loved you

You spoke the raw language of faith, the one I once erased, eternal gratitude binds me to The One, covering two souls in an awaken infinity of signs pointing to the Divine

A thousand candles glittering with warmth, of trust that never once questioned itself

My breath is tangled with homesickness; home is you, home is the reading marks of last night, leaving a little note of you to say: I was here. 

Coil

she had an anguished knowledge of passion, no experience of love. books rendered a life of alienation to a girl who dreamt & drew a world shaded with literature, fiction as a commonplace; an unfamiliar fascination gloving her everyday, engaging timid fantasies with naive senses, and concentrated pleasure through the burning texts of desire, a vulgar tongue rushing a sentiment playing with hungry fire, the young girl confused an intimate contemplation of minds, with a howling need for a naked touch of bodies, lust illustrating a portrait of love, honest men compromised as characters to a girl trapped in a world of colors, no longer needing to investigate, to break free from the secret life she made.

Like Water

we lose ourselves in this love, in longing for this love, we do not wish to mark our way, to be traced back, because we believe, so earnestly that this love is leading us to much better places, we surrender, completely to a naked thought of union, we are no longer pulled with a need to resist, or to question in circles, instead, we are submerged in devoted trust; that is the gleaming torch that lights the dawn of days.

let go of the expectations of change, rooted entirely in false hope. guard your heart from the evil in some, redirect your focus, dip your feet in the ocean: the essence of who you are, & who you'll become. set free the grasp of negativity. your choices reflect the time of growth you're in, forgive the past for you knew less than you do now. have faith in the journey of knowledge, embrace the journey of the never-ending.

it is true that the beauty pouring from your soul is either rejoiced, by those who celebrate smiling alongside it, or it is envied, by those who spread poisonous toxic energies to oppress it. take your honest intuition as undying affirmation, the unsettling in the stomach is your warning sign. do not be consumed by the bitter fire, breathed by the ones that wish to burn everyone. value your heart, and you'll find it resting in reliant peace and reassurance.


think over your intentions, iron away the contradictions, surrender to the flow of the universe, when you give, do so fully and genuinely. the whole of your being is the secret garden you need to nurture, listen to your desiring heart more often. be patient for the ache of today, will surely be washed away as tomorrow's wisdom. 

Tampering

it is a force that runs itself through me, a bold pull, a soul-breath, a warm violet in between skin and spirit. I am robbed of you, my love. anchor my heart; laid in deserted need to recapture the forgotten touch of emotions, hidden in a plain abstraction of imagery, I am devoured by the cruel unconscious. this, another predicted torment, of one's own devil; secluded, buried deep in a violent loss of self. my direction is aimless, all that I am, is a speck of fearful hope sprinkled over the devastating ground of reality.

the loud splashing waves, of fragile emotional expressions, are quiet, within a mind that wishes to say nothing.

I miss you, terribly...

... And I'm terrified that maybe the dreamy song is ending.

#7

when I was younger, my father used to sit me down, next to him. I'd watch his mind unraveling. I'd listen to his thoughts, filling the background of my own desiring mind. he told me about loneliness. he told me about good company. about the burden of self knowledge. about courage, with gritting teeth he then spoke of defeat. he told me about corruption manifesting. about a love for country that cried for him everyday. about hope. about needing hope. about a drive for future. he was the man on the moon. he was the firm shoulder. he was my understanding staring back at me. he was the book of no ending. he was. he was.

he was.

father never once mentioned death. perhaps he too knew nothing about it, until he was embraced by it. by then it was too late, it was too late and our loving tune was interrupted.

my love was not strong enough to keep you, Baba. I wish you were here, Baba. living is getting harder each day, Baba. who do I talk to about it now, Baba?

I wish you were near, Baba.

Silent Hour

grieving the infinity of emotions stretching behind a construct; a language

passion and the tragedy of sex, imagine a sharp dialogue running the cliff, cessation of language. infinite feelings are made approachable, each recurrent moment, shadowed feelings are unfolding quietly, are interrupted, then confronted with an empty interpretation; many ruffled words on the surface. words disseminate outside of feelings, to create a composition of space within borders, expressions are determined firmly to limits set. incomplete words define feelings, words stand fatigued in the unveil, uneven unable to contain, to grasp these hungry feelings in. how incomprehensible soul is to the body?

writing, I suppose; is a tenacious practice of individuality, deceptive in it's promises for eternity.