hang
Monday April 9, 2012
Sometimes, things are harder than they look, like hanging off a cliff by the edge of your fingers. You’re just dangling there…
but not really.
cocoa
Friday April 6, 2012
Everyone cries and is unhappy. Except for the children who dress up for Halloween and eat candy and drink cocoa and love without reason.
If there’s a book you really want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.
— Toni Morrison
Wednesday March 21, 2012
its a warzone out there. the roaring drums of fireworks, the beating of my heart.
Monday January 30, 2012
Sunday October 16, 2011
you know that story about that guy who really wanted to go back in time?
and he did….
Tuesday May 3, 2011
Today I’m floating in outer space. Around me, the universe swirl pass, unnoticed, and not noticing. Another jetsam in the stream of time.
Man, could I be anymore cliched.
I can’t seem to focus on the world. It’s like I’m watching it move from behind somebody elses glasses. Someone old. And perhaps widowed, clinging on to life by the strand of a memory, as foggy as night.
Or maybe I’m in a rocket ship. It’s the windows. It’s too small. I can barely see out. Is that the earth, when did it become so grey. Was it always that round? And lonely?
How did I get up here anyway, so high above, where everyone becomes a tiny speck, unimportant, and as fleeting as a falling star? Or a dying one.
There was this story I read once, about a little prince who flew away from his planet using storks. He was lonely, and couldn’t put up with the only friend he had. It was an escape.
The story goes that he found his way to earth, where the world continued to amuse and amaze him. To return to his planet, he was bitten by a snake and died. It is believed that he shed his outer skin, flying like a comet across the universe, towards home.
Now, the only question is, was I escaping, or trying to return home?
Did you know that, out there, in space, clouds die, and are reborn as stars…
the lie
Wednesday May 26, 2010
remember.
whatever your heart will tell you, is a lie.
now begin.
its three hours till
quitting time and I am
waiting for you to take me out
of this misery cocoon I’ve spun
around myself. give me a place
to lie my head down and finally
rest this restless heart.
waiting is a killer,
I’ve said this before.
because it is true.
and I know you.
I’ll wait till I’m dead.
But I can’t kick the habit,
I’m still wishing. like a bandit,
by the road, I’m still lurking,
in the corners of your mind, going
think of me?
there is such a thing as
loving too much, I guess.
they call it smothering.
love is like a pillow, in more ways than one.
(isn’t it funny how smother has the word mother in it?)
so, are you dead yet or what?
I wish you were.
It would be easier for me to
take this through, if it was a lament
for you. a requiem if you may.
I don’t.
I should. but I don’t.
you make me.
ugh.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
remember…
a title is optional
Monday March 22, 2010
it’s like talking to a wall.
unmovable, you don’t get me
only, I’ve sung it so many times
in different tunes
they all start sounding alike
bang bang bang bang bang
skid and
thud…
my thoughts conspire againts me
Monday February 22, 2010
So I asked you.
Have you ever tried to sit really still? On the floor, in a chair, on the bed? Non-moving, and silent as a rock.
I tried it yesterday, after you came and left behind all that silence in a screwed-tight bottle I had to resist hard to shake.
You see I had imagined all our thoughts spewing forth from its mouth, like confetti, all those complicated ideas we had of ourselves. The ones we try to outgrow, leave behind and find again. The temptation is like air expanding along my neuron paths, tiny thunderous vibrations.
I can hear them moving across the telephone lines, trying to find their way around wires and electric poles, into your heart that will not call my name.
I have tried drinking cups of tea, eating lots of fruits and listening to ocean sounds, you know, trying to settle the waves that travel from the universe to my skin, losing centuries in seconds, trying to drown their drumming beat.
My brain coughs like an embarrassed school boy who just discovered his parent’s dance-a-thon party. It says,
“Oh look, here comes the coffee.”
And before things get too uncomfortable, you tell me, yeah, I guess it’s harder than it looks.
