I love the themes your voice used to speak to me,
the way our blues danced rhythmically.
It was an enchantment instantly,
a storybook mesmerizing me
mindlessly.

How many different ways
are there to show someone:
Life is Fragrant,
Life is Art,
when living becomes what you own,
the color flows like you’ve never known..

Riding on remembering;
always been trying to
save you from your suffering.

Please don’t be the next
“Remember then…”
“Remember when…”

I’d rather live in a storybook,
where every so many pages
my life breathes a new chapter.

I’d rather be the protagonist;
loved and wept for
in each dramatic sequence.

I’d rather have a plot line
that would climax more than
Shakespeare’s classics.

I’d rather conflict to rise
and be conquered
by the honest word
or simple laughter.

I’d rather live in a storybook
where there is no such ending
but a happily ever after.

I’d like to see you,

one last time,

not a single soul around,

and look you square in the eye

and see the way your face contorts

as you answer my question of, “Why?”

But the second words get in the way,

it’s difficult to decipher

your honesty from your lies,

but without a single soul around,

this one last time,

I could read your eyes.

This is spell-binding,
all the love that we’re finding.
You bend and fold promises,
and later,
I find them in my pockets.
Who would ever choose
to stop this?
I am us.


I need to start putting my writing up on here again because,
although tumblr is amazing, I collect way too many things on there
that aren't just my writing. This blog has been a diary of my life
and I think I might be losing that a bit.

As the colors fall from the tree,

I can feel just how they leave.

But beauty stains and creates

a permanent intangible memory,

you can still close your eyes and see.

There was a deadbolt on your door the day you requested I leave. I turned to go but was perplexed by the contraption I saw before me. With the countless number of times I’d been here, how did I not notice the giant brass of the deadbolt’s body? With the countless number of times we played house, how did I not notice the taunting clack of the deadbolt as it rapped upon your door? With the countless number of times you pulled me into you, how the hell had I ever gotten in here in the first place?

I couldn’t move but not for lack of wanting to go anymore.

I couldn’t move but not for hoping you’d hold me back like you had infinite times before.

No, this time I couldn’t move because of bewilderment;

between a deadbolt and no key,

“How did I ever think someone else

or, the way you put it, myself

could be the one to set you free?.”

I used to pride myself on how well I knew you. But no one can step through a door without there first being an opening to peer through.

It’s not a person who hides behind nuts and bolts and brick wall formations but rather an ego too afraid of itself or, for that matter, anyone else. With a prison so secure, to get in or get out, one must be dead set on destruction and with eyes wide closed, to simply rush in.

s.

I saw your name

and instantly added the nickname

I had created long ago

one fireside day.

It was a reverberating taste in my mouth;

like skipping syllables

through the simple consonants of your name;

rocks that caressed smoothly the tips

of who we left and since became.

You must be blind

to not see a love like mine.

You must be numb

to not feel the world I am from.

You must be powerless

to let such passion become such a mess.

You must be sad

to not finish the life you never had.

You must re-build

to find the individual who was once so fulfilled.

You might border upon whole

if you ever embrace your soul.

Your breath like poetry,

your eyes holding the most of me,

your scent is my only scenery.

The wildness of your touch gently

mingles with our familiarity.

Love is the climax to any story.