Sunday, December 12, 2010
Dream
The pain was too much. The look of a broken heart. I could not undo, could not say it was wrong, could not be anything but a coward. I took the beating that could never be enough to equal the pain I caused. I am in Houston, 5:20 am.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Sustain
If love were bread,
I’d be full.
If passion were wine,
I’d be drunk.
If you were not in my heart,
I’d be hollow, hungry, and parched.
Now I swell to the point of splitting a healed heart.
Soon I will know where contentment lives.
Now I have a love worth giving.
Soon you will know that even the dark places,
Even the bad spaces have risen to reach light,
Can see the good in every seed that grows.
In the beam of sunshine that sustains a open, honest love.
------------THANK YOU------------
I’d be full.
If passion were wine,
I’d be drunk.
If you were not in my heart,
I’d be hollow, hungry, and parched.
Now I swell to the point of splitting a healed heart.
Soon I will know where contentment lives.
Now I have a love worth giving.
Soon you will know that even the dark places,
Even the bad spaces have risen to reach light,
Can see the good in every seed that grows.
In the beam of sunshine that sustains a open, honest love.
------------THANK YOU------------
Friday, October 29, 2010
Foolish
If ever I knew love, it is now.
Her name is a song that teaches my deafening mind to focus.
The notes that construct its serene and gentle shape of calm
are a Muse’s greatest gift.
A lucky fool, for what I’ve discovered.
Wiser for knowing what I’ve found.
Lucky is a man who can see what is laid out before him.
Wise is a man that has the ability to enjoy it.
Foolish is the man who thinks he can ever want control over it.
Her name is a song that teaches my deafening mind to focus.
The notes that construct its serene and gentle shape of calm
are a Muse’s greatest gift.
A lucky fool, for what I’ve discovered.
Wiser for knowing what I’ve found.
Lucky is a man who can see what is laid out before him.
Wise is a man that has the ability to enjoy it.
Foolish is the man who thinks he can ever want control over it.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Continued
Oh Scribe.
I am cracked, mended, broken open again, and healed by the balm you poured over my soul.
I have no words, only the ones you wrote for me and sang to me. Those words are your proof to yourself that contentment and happiness can be as conducive to your art as suffering has been in the past. And if I have contributed to your contentment and happiness, I will have found my own.
I am yours, Scribe, yet still my own. And that's so much better than being alone.
Thanksgiving beckons, with more promises to keep and wishes to fulfill, fleshly cups for sipping wine, and necks and wrists to anoint with sacred scents. Five and a half short weeks away until we are in each others' arms again, and whispering our dreams and secrets, our fears and tiny victories, to each other. Five and a half weeks until I can touch your face and look into your eyes again.
Five and a half weeks, half a country, and two heartbeats away.
=============================================================================
Muse,
If the balm of which you speak is the fury of the melding musical beings being exhumed,
then yes, we were healed. And in that, I was witness to a moment where I saw my wounds fade away.
Until a crimson streak of faded torment diluted into a torrent of crisp, cleansing waters that once distorted an image of Zen.
You and I, with out labels of jet setter and hardhat, is where I found a woman and a man stripped with jugulars exposed,
expecting pierces and finding only aromas that stir us. Instead we fed on the source of the fears,
went directly to the spring of the tainted, bloody wounds, the hearts.
I am yours, Muse, never again alone, you are and always will be in my head,
heart and the smoldering phoenix of my soul. And that is so much better than being alone.
So we count the time in months, days and minutes till the second we gaze on our newly found bliss.
Affection mutually shown was healthier than any tonic prepared at the hands of man.
Larger victories await us in those memories to come. I’ll linger with baited breath of thick kisses for your song of serenity.
Till then, Muse, know this. I love you. Thank you.
Contented Scribe
To be concluded.
I am cracked, mended, broken open again, and healed by the balm you poured over my soul.
I have no words, only the ones you wrote for me and sang to me. Those words are your proof to yourself that contentment and happiness can be as conducive to your art as suffering has been in the past. And if I have contributed to your contentment and happiness, I will have found my own.
I am yours, Scribe, yet still my own. And that's so much better than being alone.
Thanksgiving beckons, with more promises to keep and wishes to fulfill, fleshly cups for sipping wine, and necks and wrists to anoint with sacred scents. Five and a half short weeks away until we are in each others' arms again, and whispering our dreams and secrets, our fears and tiny victories, to each other. Five and a half weeks until I can touch your face and look into your eyes again.
Five and a half weeks, half a country, and two heartbeats away.
=============================================================================
Muse,
If the balm of which you speak is the fury of the melding musical beings being exhumed,
then yes, we were healed. And in that, I was witness to a moment where I saw my wounds fade away.
Until a crimson streak of faded torment diluted into a torrent of crisp, cleansing waters that once distorted an image of Zen.
You and I, with out labels of jet setter and hardhat, is where I found a woman and a man stripped with jugulars exposed,
expecting pierces and finding only aromas that stir us. Instead we fed on the source of the fears,
went directly to the spring of the tainted, bloody wounds, the hearts.
I am yours, Muse, never again alone, you are and always will be in my head,
heart and the smoldering phoenix of my soul. And that is so much better than being alone.
So we count the time in months, days and minutes till the second we gaze on our newly found bliss.
Affection mutually shown was healthier than any tonic prepared at the hands of man.
Larger victories await us in those memories to come. I’ll linger with baited breath of thick kisses for your song of serenity.
Till then, Muse, know this. I love you. Thank you.
Contented Scribe
To be concluded.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
An Airport Bar: A Muse and her Scribe
9/19
The Muse says:
Your electric eyes locked onto and held mine in the airport on Sunday. We chatted briefly and drank a beer together. I gave you my business card.
We were strangers who kissed just because.
Wondering when we can have another airport encounter.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/23
The Scribe replies:
I saw this post and thought I was seeing things. I read it, clicked back and checked it again. Since that day, I written several songs about it, but alas none were doing it for me. The passion, between us can't be captured with just a fleeting kiss or some lame tune. I wonder if using that number on the card would ruin a perfect moment, so I destroyed it before I called and fucked everything up. “A suit and a grunt like me, no way. “I kept thinking, singing and fantasizing about. When I demanded the kiss, you threatened to throw your Guinness on me, and out of my mouth fell these words. “Let me buy you a cheap beer so as not to waist a good one." And before you spoke again I took your face, turned your head and stole the kiss, waiting for the wet face. So please respond to this, as I don't handle regret well. Kisses where you like them, Blues.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/23
The Muse says:
You're browsing through a secondhand bookstore
And you see her in non-fiction, V through Y
She looks up from World War Two
And then you catch her catching you catching her eye.
And you quickly turn away your wishful stare
And take a sudden interest in your shoes
If you only had the courage, but you don't
She turns and leaves and you both lose.
And you think about
The people that you never get to love.
It's not as if you even have the chance.
So many worth a second life
But rarely do you get a second glance
Until fate cuts in on your dance.
And you'll see her on a train that you've just missed.
At a bus stop where your bus will never stop.
Or in a passing Buick when you've been pulled over by a traffic cop.
Or you'll share an elevator, just you two
And you'll rise in solemn silence to your floor.
Like the fool you are you get off
And she leaves your life behind a closing door.
And you think about
The people that you never get to love
The poem you intended to begin
The saddest words that anyone has ever said
Are "Lord what might have been"
But no one said you get to win.
Still you're never gonna miss what you don't know
And you don't know who you'll meet at half past three
It could be a total stranger who looks something just exactly much like me.
One of the people that you never get to love
One of the people that you never get to love
The people that you never get to love.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/25
The Muse says:
A cryptic lyric sends you into hiding, and A Suit is left wondering.
I wish I had more than your first name, but I hope against hope that even though you tore up that card I handed over so flippantly, that you remember my name, that you remember the company and are resourceful enough to use those things to find me, if only so we can share more passing kisses in airport concourses.
Kisses often only start out stolen, until a few moments in, they are given -- and they linger, on the lips and in the memory.
And if one of those songs you've struggled to write comes to fruition, then at least I will have considered part of my duties fulfilled.
Amused, bemused, muse.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/27
The Scribe replies:
Yes I do remember you first name only, I watched your mouth as you spoke it to me, (burned in to my soul), and the high fashion job you have. I can't really see me calling your work with only a first name," Is Miss A. there?" Stolen kisses that were taken have driven me to express jerks of the heart strings. Fucking Muse. In that moment I was wanting a casual fling, not the lasting impression the still smolders within me. As gorgeous as you are, there must be a Mr. A. or a high falutin man in a suit that takes care of your needs. I am just a lowly grunt with a guitar and a low paying job. But if you are serious, I can promise you this; Physical endurance, truth, musical poetry and the most intense night of passion that you'll ever receive or can get from some stuffed suit. What I can't promise is that I would want it to end there. I know it is not "man like" to want a monogamous slut, but no one that reads this will know who we are. So, muse, it takes two to tango and I've got my best work boots on. Your move.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/4
The Muse says:
I have not forgotten that you wrote to me.
Your suited muse is peripatetic and longs to rest her weary body, and more weary soul, on something more substantial than hotel pillows and airline seatbacks. Could it be we met in that airport for some reason, or was it just a passing fling? Are you my person, or am I just anything?
I don't know how to know.
I'm roving again, and hard to find these days, but maybe one day soon, our paths will cross again. Perhaps we'll meet like two lost angels and wrap ourselves in each other's weary wings, and spend hours or days whispering our songs to each other.
Find me, scribe.
Your muse burns.
Muse,
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/9
The Scribe replies:
As I intend to travel soon, your scribe has an offer for you. I will meet you in an airport of your choosing on October 15th. I hope you read this soon as my return post seem to not get to you nor do you ever reply to mine, and flights are hard to book last moment. The mysterious woman with the sad inner longing, burning for a dreamer can only be a cry for a man that truly wants her passion, her out of the suit, sweaty, look at me when you achieve the release of built up longing, kind of way. So much delight has come from being ready to ware a beer for the chance for a kiss that would burn a potential Muse. I have written and composed a song that pales to the way I feel (after many failures) and would like to give it to you in person. So check your Blackberry, pencil me in, set up a meeting or what ever you need to do to see me. You’ll have me for a single night, a single meaning and we’ll see where goes from there, hurry.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/11
The Muse says:
Okay.
I'm on the move on the 15th, as well, but I'm chasing the sun in this round of travels. Can you catch me with the sun in your eyes?
Friday, October 15th it is.
LAX, United Airlines, 3:30.
I won't be the one being chased by TMZ paparazzi.
I'll be the one in the suit.
If time allows, I would like to lure you back to my beachfront hotel, with its wallow-inducing bathtub and acre of bed, and you can keep all those promises you have made.
But then perhaps I would no longer be your muse, but a siren. I only hope you trust me enough to know that I have no wish to make you steer your boat onto the rocks.
This muse's only wish is to lead you into safe harbor and calm water. There you can rest your head on my breast while I kiss your eyelids and sing you to sleep.
Travel safely, scribe.
I'll be waiting.
"To Be Continued"
The Muse says:
Your electric eyes locked onto and held mine in the airport on Sunday. We chatted briefly and drank a beer together. I gave you my business card.
We were strangers who kissed just because.
Wondering when we can have another airport encounter.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/23
The Scribe replies:
I saw this post and thought I was seeing things. I read it, clicked back and checked it again. Since that day, I written several songs about it, but alas none were doing it for me. The passion, between us can't be captured with just a fleeting kiss or some lame tune. I wonder if using that number on the card would ruin a perfect moment, so I destroyed it before I called and fucked everything up. “A suit and a grunt like me, no way. “I kept thinking, singing and fantasizing about. When I demanded the kiss, you threatened to throw your Guinness on me, and out of my mouth fell these words. “Let me buy you a cheap beer so as not to waist a good one." And before you spoke again I took your face, turned your head and stole the kiss, waiting for the wet face. So please respond to this, as I don't handle regret well. Kisses where you like them, Blues.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/23
The Muse says:
You're browsing through a secondhand bookstore
And you see her in non-fiction, V through Y
She looks up from World War Two
And then you catch her catching you catching her eye.
And you quickly turn away your wishful stare
And take a sudden interest in your shoes
If you only had the courage, but you don't
She turns and leaves and you both lose.
And you think about
The people that you never get to love.
It's not as if you even have the chance.
So many worth a second life
But rarely do you get a second glance
Until fate cuts in on your dance.
And you'll see her on a train that you've just missed.
At a bus stop where your bus will never stop.
Or in a passing Buick when you've been pulled over by a traffic cop.
Or you'll share an elevator, just you two
And you'll rise in solemn silence to your floor.
Like the fool you are you get off
And she leaves your life behind a closing door.
And you think about
The people that you never get to love
The poem you intended to begin
The saddest words that anyone has ever said
Are "Lord what might have been"
But no one said you get to win.
Still you're never gonna miss what you don't know
And you don't know who you'll meet at half past three
It could be a total stranger who looks something just exactly much like me.
One of the people that you never get to love
One of the people that you never get to love
The people that you never get to love.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/25
The Muse says:
A cryptic lyric sends you into hiding, and A Suit is left wondering.
I wish I had more than your first name, but I hope against hope that even though you tore up that card I handed over so flippantly, that you remember my name, that you remember the company and are resourceful enough to use those things to find me, if only so we can share more passing kisses in airport concourses.
Kisses often only start out stolen, until a few moments in, they are given -- and they linger, on the lips and in the memory.
And if one of those songs you've struggled to write comes to fruition, then at least I will have considered part of my duties fulfilled.
Amused, bemused, muse.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
9/27
The Scribe replies:
Yes I do remember you first name only, I watched your mouth as you spoke it to me, (burned in to my soul), and the high fashion job you have. I can't really see me calling your work with only a first name," Is Miss A. there?" Stolen kisses that were taken have driven me to express jerks of the heart strings. Fucking Muse. In that moment I was wanting a casual fling, not the lasting impression the still smolders within me. As gorgeous as you are, there must be a Mr. A. or a high falutin man in a suit that takes care of your needs. I am just a lowly grunt with a guitar and a low paying job. But if you are serious, I can promise you this; Physical endurance, truth, musical poetry and the most intense night of passion that you'll ever receive or can get from some stuffed suit. What I can't promise is that I would want it to end there. I know it is not "man like" to want a monogamous slut, but no one that reads this will know who we are. So, muse, it takes two to tango and I've got my best work boots on. Your move.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/4
The Muse says:
I have not forgotten that you wrote to me.
Your suited muse is peripatetic and longs to rest her weary body, and more weary soul, on something more substantial than hotel pillows and airline seatbacks. Could it be we met in that airport for some reason, or was it just a passing fling? Are you my person, or am I just anything?
I don't know how to know.
I'm roving again, and hard to find these days, but maybe one day soon, our paths will cross again. Perhaps we'll meet like two lost angels and wrap ourselves in each other's weary wings, and spend hours or days whispering our songs to each other.
Find me, scribe.
Your muse burns.
Muse,
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/9
The Scribe replies:
As I intend to travel soon, your scribe has an offer for you. I will meet you in an airport of your choosing on October 15th. I hope you read this soon as my return post seem to not get to you nor do you ever reply to mine, and flights are hard to book last moment. The mysterious woman with the sad inner longing, burning for a dreamer can only be a cry for a man that truly wants her passion, her out of the suit, sweaty, look at me when you achieve the release of built up longing, kind of way. So much delight has come from being ready to ware a beer for the chance for a kiss that would burn a potential Muse. I have written and composed a song that pales to the way I feel (after many failures) and would like to give it to you in person. So check your Blackberry, pencil me in, set up a meeting or what ever you need to do to see me. You’ll have me for a single night, a single meaning and we’ll see where goes from there, hurry.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
10/11
The Muse says:
Okay.
I'm on the move on the 15th, as well, but I'm chasing the sun in this round of travels. Can you catch me with the sun in your eyes?
Friday, October 15th it is.
LAX, United Airlines, 3:30.
I won't be the one being chased by TMZ paparazzi.
I'll be the one in the suit.
If time allows, I would like to lure you back to my beachfront hotel, with its wallow-inducing bathtub and acre of bed, and you can keep all those promises you have made.
But then perhaps I would no longer be your muse, but a siren. I only hope you trust me enough to know that I have no wish to make you steer your boat onto the rocks.
This muse's only wish is to lead you into safe harbor and calm water. There you can rest your head on my breast while I kiss your eyelids and sing you to sleep.
Travel safely, scribe.
I'll be waiting.
"To Be Continued"
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Lust for Love
Her passion consumes me in a light that arose from corrected imperfections.
Now shines with a luster that pales it's source, deeper and truer to herself.
Now shines with a luster that pales it's source, deeper and truer to herself.
In the Knowing
You were a million miles away
When all I had was what we had to say
It was a fine day, without knowing
No need for change or deception
Open, honest with passion
Beautiful minds true and showing
Began the knowing
We learned, grew, we verbalized
Soliciting for absent lies
Known was what went wrong before
Wanting this to be so much more
On that day, came the knowing
The first kiss the first embrace
Intently breathing each other air
Spelling words with a finger’s trace
All with no time to spare
All have led us to this place
Knowing that we longed for
The knowing
Strings could not sing what you gave to me
A well worn soul
Got its relief
Called out for release
Desired reprieve
Depleted me from
Wielding knives with
Jagged edges dulled by
The knowing
In the knowing
When all I had was what we had to say
It was a fine day, without knowing
No need for change or deception
Open, honest with passion
Beautiful minds true and showing
Began the knowing
We learned, grew, we verbalized
Soliciting for absent lies
Known was what went wrong before
Wanting this to be so much more
On that day, came the knowing
The first kiss the first embrace
Intently breathing each other air
Spelling words with a finger’s trace
All with no time to spare
All have led us to this place
Knowing that we longed for
The knowing
Strings could not sing what you gave to me
A well worn soul
Got its relief
Called out for release
Desired reprieve
Depleted me from
Wielding knives with
Jagged edges dulled by
The knowing
In the knowing
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Turn out the light
5/9/01
My heart is breaking
Anticipating
A love she'll never feel
And although I know it's right
I should turn out the light
And go to sleep
But my mind is reeling
I've got this feeling
that I will always be alone
Although I know it's right
I should turn out the light
And go on home
But I cant go there
No, she don't care
That I am still in love
And it's my heart the dies
And my soul that cries
As the rain washes down from above
My heart is breaking
Anticipating
A love she'll never feel
My heart is breaking
Anticipating
A love she'll never feel
And although I know it's right
I should turn out the light
And go to sleep
But my mind is reeling
I've got this feeling
that I will always be alone
Although I know it's right
I should turn out the light
And go on home
But I cant go there
No, she don't care
That I am still in love
And it's my heart the dies
And my soul that cries
As the rain washes down from above
My heart is breaking
Anticipating
A love she'll never feel
Monday, September 27, 2010
Stupid Pride
9/30/07
A lot has changed in the two years since New Orleans was drenched in the man made filth that filtered the flood waters and poisoned our lives. From the multitudes of people thinking that the government owes them and Fema is responsible for buying back their lives, to the corruption in elected leaders who line their pockets with the relief that was meant to sustain basic human needs.
The greed that has consumed many business owners, because quality is not what's needed turn a profit, (a trend that I thought was washed away with the debris when New Orleans was (Dewatered) pumped dry), has reached my hands. A sad but eye opening reality check? Yes. A slap in the face for quality? Yes, but, No not this guy, I refuse to sell out.
A fresh beginning, a clean slate and higher levee, all sounds good, but shit still rolls downhill, in this uphill battle to hang on to what little dignity I that I have left, hurts and I still refuse to sell out.
A dwindling bank account and a pile of bills works on my integrity, while I nurse a car that even now has to carry borrowed tools as I hope for something better to support my mounting debt, yet, I refuse to sell out.
A tear in my son’s eye and heavy heart prompt me to look for something better amongst the gluttony, desperation and total disregard for what is truly important in this great city of a chocolate mayor built on a swamp. And for those reasons, I refuse to sell out.
So I guess a not lot has changed in the two years since New Orleans was the in spotlight for the lawlessness and forgotten hope that inundates this crescent city even today.
So, at what cost will I sell out? Starvation? Homelessness? All for pride’s sake?
I WILL NOT SELL OUT!
A lot has changed in the two years since New Orleans was drenched in the man made filth that filtered the flood waters and poisoned our lives. From the multitudes of people thinking that the government owes them and Fema is responsible for buying back their lives, to the corruption in elected leaders who line their pockets with the relief that was meant to sustain basic human needs.
The greed that has consumed many business owners, because quality is not what's needed turn a profit, (a trend that I thought was washed away with the debris when New Orleans was (Dewatered) pumped dry), has reached my hands. A sad but eye opening reality check? Yes. A slap in the face for quality? Yes, but, No not this guy, I refuse to sell out.
A fresh beginning, a clean slate and higher levee, all sounds good, but shit still rolls downhill, in this uphill battle to hang on to what little dignity I that I have left, hurts and I still refuse to sell out.
A dwindling bank account and a pile of bills works on my integrity, while I nurse a car that even now has to carry borrowed tools as I hope for something better to support my mounting debt, yet, I refuse to sell out.
A tear in my son’s eye and heavy heart prompt me to look for something better amongst the gluttony, desperation and total disregard for what is truly important in this great city of a chocolate mayor built on a swamp. And for those reasons, I refuse to sell out.
So I guess a not lot has changed in the two years since New Orleans was the in spotlight for the lawlessness and forgotten hope that inundates this crescent city even today.
So, at what cost will I sell out? Starvation? Homelessness? All for pride’s sake?
I WILL NOT SELL OUT!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Pain
originally written on 4/12/07
Take my pain away
Draw the poison from me
Take my pain away
So I may be free and breathe
Tainted is my soul
Broken is my smile
The voice cries out to be heard
While the heart is caged by denial
Take my pain away
Draw the poison from me
Take my pain away
So I might heal where i bleed
So that I might heal where i bleed
Take my pain away
Take it down
Take my pain away
Let my soul rest in the ground
Won't you let my soul rest in the ground
Poisoned is my love
Piercing are my eyes
So many tears
They all come heart shaped
While the heart is caged by denial
And it's my heart that's caged by denial
So take my pain away
Please take this burden from me
So take my pain away
So I may be free and breathe
So that I may be free and breathe
Take my pain away
Draw the poison from me
Take my pain away
So I may be free and breathe
Tainted is my soul
Broken is my smile
The voice cries out to be heard
While the heart is caged by denial
Take my pain away
Draw the poison from me
Take my pain away
So I might heal where i bleed
So that I might heal where i bleed
Take my pain away
Take it down
Take my pain away
Let my soul rest in the ground
Won't you let my soul rest in the ground
Poisoned is my love
Piercing are my eyes
So many tears
They all come heart shaped
While the heart is caged by denial
And it's my heart that's caged by denial
So take my pain away
Please take this burden from me
So take my pain away
So I may be free and breathe
So that I may be free and breathe
In search of the Yeti
As we strive for unity in release
We only bring each other closer
To what is the real goal of a little death
Beautiful, beautiful, beautifully thought.
We only bring each other closer
To what is the real goal of a little death
Beautiful, beautiful, beautifully thought.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wrenches
Written 7/24/05
I live in a place where buildings are old
Learned men tinker with ways to hold
Structures together with long threaded rods
Speared through their bellies, isn't that odd?
Plates on their ends and tight fitting nuts
Turned by wrenches, as it tears, it cuts
Pulling at walls, demanding plumb
I feel like these dwellings, or wish to be one
Searching for iron rods that impale
Picking the plates with such detail
Then trouble comes like wind in the night
Rocking my base, was true was tight
So I look for wrenches to turn my nuts
And having them only driven by lust
Flexing, twisting and portraying
A new me that i am displaying
I live in a place where buildings are old
Learned men tinker with ways to hold
Structures together with long threaded rods
Speared through their bellies, isn't that odd?
Plates on their ends and tight fitting nuts
Turned by wrenches, as it tears, it cuts
Pulling at walls, demanding plumb
I feel like these dwellings, or wish to be one
Searching for iron rods that impale
Picking the plates with such detail
Then trouble comes like wind in the night
Rocking my base, was true was tight
So I look for wrenches to turn my nuts
And having them only driven by lust
Flexing, twisting and portraying
A new me that i am displaying
Friday, September 24, 2010
Missing
She is a lover not to be kept under cover,
but to be admired and cherished, a muse to
be consumed and shown the world through
her man's eyes that there is beauty is
everything her heart touches.
but to be admired and cherished, a muse to
be consumed and shown the world through
her man's eyes that there is beauty is
everything her heart touches.
Monday, September 20, 2010
New Spaces
Tasting the lingering glimpses of what space tries to strip away.
Burned into memory are eyes and contact of stares that caress my well worn soul.
Total emersions of my senses slapped me with it’s kindness.
Feeling what is lain on the table is not anything but the truth, trust builds.
Losing my self in expression of desire long since building, is pure passion.
Only temporarily quenched, like a pusher to a new user.
Time made me wait, so slow, then sped away toward this, now crawls again.
Burned into memory are eyes and contact of stares that caress my well worn soul.
Total emersions of my senses slapped me with it’s kindness.
Feeling what is lain on the table is not anything but the truth, trust builds.
Losing my self in expression of desire long since building, is pure passion.
Only temporarily quenched, like a pusher to a new user.
Time made me wait, so slow, then sped away toward this, now crawls again.
Thank You
Ruined by the eloquence of a dark headed soul.
Gone are the illusions of a world that is still full.
The sharp tongue whips at me, the red nails cut deep.
As I cling to the boyhood that is torn from my keep.
Thing’s are quite different, everything is strange.
I will long for what was, I will face the pain.
In my ignorance, I had my bliss.
Knowing I’m forced to deal with this.
Now I have angles and very strait lines.
Appointments and deadlines, I’m falling behind.
If you leave me a message, I’ll send its return.
But somewhere down in me I will always yearn.
So thank you, his beauty, for the schooling with style.
For the elegance of whom there’s always a smile.
It was bound to happen, I’m sure it is true.
It had to be someone, I’m glad it was you.
Gone are the illusions of a world that is still full.
The sharp tongue whips at me, the red nails cut deep.
As I cling to the boyhood that is torn from my keep.
Thing’s are quite different, everything is strange.
I will long for what was, I will face the pain.
In my ignorance, I had my bliss.
Knowing I’m forced to deal with this.
Now I have angles and very strait lines.
Appointments and deadlines, I’m falling behind.
If you leave me a message, I’ll send its return.
But somewhere down in me I will always yearn.
So thank you, his beauty, for the schooling with style.
For the elegance of whom there’s always a smile.
It was bound to happen, I’m sure it is true.
It had to be someone, I’m glad it was you.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Vicious cycles
To give forgiveness is cruel way in which to forgive
Because there is love in me
There is forgiveness from me
Because there is forgiveness for her
There is more love in her
Because there is more love from her
She needs more forgiveness
To give forgiveness is cruel way in which to forgive
Because there is love in me
There is forgiveness from me
Because there is forgiveness for her
There is more love in her
Because there is more love from her
She needs more forgiveness
To give forgiveness is cruel way in which to forgive
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Saying hello.
As I take in your sent
You feel my body
It presses into yours
Lips devouring your neck
You shutter with excitement
As a wave of lust washes over you
My arms engulf you with a strength
That makes you weak
You fall into my chest
As the quest for awareness continues
My breath warms an already rising temperature
The kisses move to the ear
The hands exploring
Bodies grinding, intertwining
Yearning to become more than one
Our eyes lock
You feel the building of urges
That longed to be relinquished
To my ever present hunger
My passion against you
Your quickened breaths
Are interrupted by the kisses
That lick you into a frenzy
I lay you down, admiring you body
I touch your face
Rest my forearms across your chest
Drawing down until I feel
The flesh that i so desire
I notice that I am rubbing
Into you with out realizing it
I caress your body as if
I never had
You feel my body
It presses into yours
Lips devouring your neck
You shutter with excitement
As a wave of lust washes over you
My arms engulf you with a strength
That makes you weak
You fall into my chest
As the quest for awareness continues
My breath warms an already rising temperature
The kisses move to the ear
The hands exploring
Bodies grinding, intertwining
Yearning to become more than one
Our eyes lock
You feel the building of urges
That longed to be relinquished
To my ever present hunger
My passion against you
Your quickened breaths
Are interrupted by the kisses
That lick you into a frenzy
I lay you down, admiring you body
I touch your face
Rest my forearms across your chest
Drawing down until I feel
The flesh that i so desire
I notice that I am rubbing
Into you with out realizing it
I caress your body as if
I never had
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Turning
The ebb calls out
The wave turns over
Consuming my senses
Empathy so aware
Tranquil pools ripple
Still air stirs
Flow spills in
Liquid self filling voids
Fever ran ramped
Drained hunger grew
Parched facade
Embellishing contact
Softly lapping
Relentless crashing
Sea’s angry wail
Wearing away resiliency
Giving again, tides must turn
Giving again, suffering to be full
Speaking with reaction
Flashes of need
Lend toward ruin
Surge over edges
Dulled light lingers
Shadows draw near
The wave turns me over
The ebb calls me back
The wave turns over
Consuming my senses
Empathy so aware
Tranquil pools ripple
Still air stirs
Flow spills in
Liquid self filling voids
Fever ran ramped
Drained hunger grew
Parched facade
Embellishing contact
Softly lapping
Relentless crashing
Sea’s angry wail
Wearing away resiliency
Giving again, tides must turn
Giving again, suffering to be full
Speaking with reaction
Flashes of need
Lend toward ruin
Surge over edges
Dulled light lingers
Shadows draw near
The wave turns me over
The ebb calls me back
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Questionable Ramblings of a Mad Man
There once was a muse
Good or bad
Emotion was felt
Bad or worse
The better it flowed
Stating what's felt
While twisting thoughts
Into eloquent fashions
But now, looking back....
Becoming estranged
A fool to some
Amusing to others
Still driven to express
Evoking jerks of heart strings
Choosing to be unwilling
The muse is still there
Like it or not
Will always be
An infuriated muse
Is still a muse
Good or bad
Emotion was felt
Bad or worse
The better it flowed
Stating what's felt
While twisting thoughts
Into eloquent fashions
But now, looking back....
Becoming estranged
A fool to some
Amusing to others
Still driven to express
Evoking jerks of heart strings
Choosing to be unwilling
The muse is still there
Like it or not
Will always be
An infuriated muse
Is still a muse
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