Missing, trying to find ways to cope with this unreleased passion
The words need to bridge growing and digital emptiness
Words are action without the facial tics to show light on them
They are sharp, filling the air, combating silence that exists
Thrown back at each other as razors in a wind tunnel
So thin, that wounds are not felt till blood begins to drip
Do not give up, come closer, too close, I can not breath, back off
Hearing false inflections, making up stories, writing their endings
A dark spiral, a sad state, a virtual world, and a love worth it all
Sunday, January 2, 2011
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.
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