From 6/5: Where Are My Panties?

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(After a long hiatus, I have my site back. I’ve been writing–not every day–as my heart has needed. I hope to update this place and share my words again, as long as I can. Here is a freewrite I’ve done in my phone while listening to one of my favorite albums.)

​What time is it? 
7:48?!

Somewhere in this room

The barriers closest to our most private places

Your priceless treasure

Are somewhere in this room.
They were freely cast aside and there you were

Naked

As beautiful as Cmaj7

You looked like a chord begging to be played

Fingers sliding down the front of your body

Your body is a fretboard

And I plucked away your nerves

Made music with your inhibitions

With you pressed against my chest

You lived in my lap
But now you’re searching for your guard

Shaking and throwing the fingers looking for something to cover yourself

Guess the night sky isn’t close enough
What if

And hear me out

What if you don’t need to find your panties right now? 

Revel in the fact it was so good

We were so symphonic

That high octaves were reached

Keys were changed 

And your clothes were just a discarded capo
Tonight you learned perfect harmony exists

Yet questions still remain. 

For both of us. 

What if you’re…

The One? 
I wanna know

I’ll get the courage one day…

To Impress The Sun

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(I’ve found another old poem.  This is really interesting.  Maybe 2016 is about rediscovery for me…)

Everything has been done before.
Everything.
Life, love, sex, depression, death,
Anger, reflection,
Knowledge, wisdom, and understanding.
Done.
The Sun has seen it all and heard enough stories.
I couldn’t surprise Him if I boasted I could grab the moon and take it anywhere I pleased.

I have the audacity to believe I can impress Him–
That I can gain the approval of someone I cannot look in the eye.
In search of a way to boldly go to someone who can humble me anytime He sees fit,
Especially when I know I deserve it
The notion, in itself, is arrogant and daunting.

Maybe I’ll write during the evening
When He calls it a night.
So I can concentrate without beng under His thumb.
He is always over my shoulder.
He calls it guidance
I try to embrace that definition.
But agitation arises like noon
Casting the longest shadow of inadequacy.

I want to sway a being that has planets following Him like small children.
Whose reach is measured in time.
And despite my confusion, I believe I can
Because He gave me the ability.

So when my story is complete
When the denoument is finished.
I will give it to the Sun to read.
I am sure He will add it to His prized collection.

Unconventional Truth (Repost)

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(So, I was digging through old emails, and I stumbled across this poem I wrote five years ago.  Five years ago!  It wasn’t on this site because I wrote it back on Blogger, and I haven’t posted in months, so I’m reposting it now.  For those you that haven’t gone this far back, this is my old writing style.)

She loves him
For sure
As pure, some would say, as God’s love for them
She holds it, breathes it
Shows it, believes it
But she will not make full commitment

She feels that she has no right to cuff even though for her, he would turn himself in with no questions.
When they touched, she held out her wrists and cardiac was immediately arrested.
He stilled her heart
Easily unsealed the lock to it and made sure he protected it.

“I love you.”
In every way but aloud, she expresses it.
Those three words are shackles
How can she be that bold and let him know that he completes her so
When circumstance beyond her control keeps their communication strictly techno?

Listening over phone
Texting him smiles she hopes will convey the same emo.
Shunning, for now, the wondering how they will meet again.

The image of him in her brain brings a smile to her face
But nothing is the same as being beside him when she rose
So she says it without saying it.
In her eyes, it glows
Never asking him about repaying it.
Why? She knows…

He loves her
For sure
Not as pure, some would say, as her love for him
He holds it, breathes it
Shows it, believes it.
But he will not make full commitment

He feels his love is not enough even though for him, she would be the exact measurement
Of affection and trust like persistent medicine to cure his doubt; and make sure his stubbornness accepted it
She willed into his heart
Exceedingly thrilled by how she got to it so effortlessly

“I adore you.”
In every way but aloud, he expresses it.
Those three words. Too deep for Prince to define.
So he tries to get his impatience to subside by putting passion into his pen day and night

Wishing in his poems
Etching his desires and hopes into the pages with the same emo
Shunning, for now, the wondering how he can see her again

He writes about everything
Because to him, that is what she is
He is writing about her
Every noun. Every verb.
Whatever topic is preferred
Within, the poems from his soul give him the similar sensation of whole
Because with her, that is what he is

The reflection of her in his eyes floods his mind with creativity
But nothing can be as good as the bending of time when she was close.
So he says it without saying it.
In his smile, it shows.
Never asking her about repaying it.
Why? She knows.

They love each other
For sure
As pure, some would say, as the truth that unconditional love can have outside conditions placed on it.
They hold it, breathe it.
Show it, believe it.
But they will not make full commitment

They feel their love is a crutch, even though for the other, their support is what gets them through this stormy weather.
Until one can construct a raft or bridge similar to the bond that ties them together.
They build through their hearts
Greedily filled with the warmth of knowing in each other’s arms is destiny.

“I miss you.”
In every way but aloud, they express it.
Those three words turn reality dark
But the flame illuminates any shades of gray
And in conversation, they paint.

Mixing the rainbow.
Caressing the canvas with the right strokes to display the same emo
Shunning, for now, the wondering how they can create new memories to use to reminisce.

At this rate and time, distance is a problem they cannot solve
Yes they are fonder but for their impatience, there is no answer in sight
The math is all wrong
It takes too long to get to the why must they wait to reunite

The image of them is beautifully painful
To be so near and so far from the one they chose
So they carry it, each day, and.
In their lives, it grows
Never asking about saying it.
Why? They know.

Midnight Letter

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(Editors Note: I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted.  I am working on things I would like you to pay for, and I can’t do that by giving away content for free. 

Secondly, this poem is meant for poets, but I had other walks of life in mind, as well.  Apply where necessary.)

If you’re afraid to write something
Then you know it’ll be one of your best.
Nothing great is birthed by constant comfort
You are you.

That pull in your torso is what your soul feels like when it’s vulnerable
The ideas inside you have recognized their power
And are tugging at the barriers you allow fear and perfectionism to construct
Margins are only for paper
You’ve been writing along the walls of your ribs for so long
Your lungs exhale inspiration

Don’t say you don’t know what to say
Say my best is on its way
Breathing doubt onto your slate clouds your view of your words
Your creativity will look poisonous
And not like the life breath needed for the seeds in your cropped garden to grow.

I say this to say
To you
To us

Shut the fuck up and write.

#DidYouWriteToday? – 420

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I received an email:

“I tried on your last name today.
It dangled like hoop earrings.
The wind wanted to carry it away
But it just made me more noisy in my travels.

It hurt
Just a slight pinch
It hurt
Like love
Trying not to focus on the pain doesn’t ease the anticipation
Looking at forever
Didn’t make today sting any less
I just want you to know
I went through with it.”

I read this, thinking,
Is that why the email before this says
“I don’t need you”?
I must have been another hole in her head.

#DidYouWriteToday? – 418: When The Poem You Wrote Is Lovely, But Isn’t The One You Need To Write, Volume 91

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Perfect
Now, do it again.
Perfection isn’t achieved after one flawless attempt
Perfection is repetition until flaws are impossible

So where does that leave me?
One who writes with blemishes
Blot by blot until sanity becomes a matter of perspective

This mosaic feels like a simple stain.
My likeness splattered against reflective glass
My self on display
But not quite me
This is what it’s like when humans do godly things.

#DidYouWriteToday? 411: When The Poem You Wrote is Lovely, But Isn’t The One You Need To Write, Volume 72

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There’s a lump in my esophagus
That starts at the stomach
Rises to my throat
Then back
A story arch of regurgitated fear
That has more sequels that John McClain

You know what they say about old habits
And this one has returned with a vengeance
Just when I think I can get rid of it
The sickness reappears

That poem is this poem’s medicine
Temporary oppressor of symptoms
But never a more potent cure than what’s already divinely inside me
But yet here I am
Feeling fine
Feeling better

I took something
Disregarding the label
Warning: contents will cause:
Inflation of ego
False sense of security
Depression
Emptiness
Temporary sigh of relief
Shortness of breath

The list of side effects is longer than the poem
And I wonder
Why didn’t I just write this earlier?

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