That's it, I guess. Just go on living,
whether you feel like it or not.
- Anton Chekhov.
whether you feel like it or not.
- Anton Chekhov.
Burring ring of fire.
Will the flames go out if I sit?
Or will the flames be louder than your silence?
I won't make any promises,
all I'll do is wait silently until the world forgets us and this moment is all that's left.
Will the flames go out if I sit?
Or will the flames be louder than your silence?
I won't make any promises,
all I'll do is wait silently until the world forgets us and this moment is all that's left.
Juror #1
And so I sat there before the defense,
I hear them confessing sins without
giving a damn,
Suddenly I felt captured, I heard a heart
Once fierce,
Now bruised and bare.
I saw sparks,
Within their plea,
No madness,
No,
But poetry,
I said no attorney lives in me,
A crime of passion?
Let it be,
The kind that remarks a legacy,
For even cells, scorched and grim,
Can echo the melody of what has been,
And if the judgment was cold,
I'll hold the tale your silence told.
And so I sat there before the defense,
I hear them confessing sins without
giving a damn,
Suddenly I felt captured, I heard a heart
Once fierce,
Now bruised and bare.
I saw sparks,
Within their plea,
No madness,
No,
But poetry,
I said no attorney lives in me,
A crime of passion?
Let it be,
The kind that remarks a legacy,
For even cells, scorched and grim,
Can echo the melody of what has been,
And if the judgment was cold,
I'll hold the tale your silence told.
The memory of happiness
is perhaps also happiness.
is perhaps also happiness.
The best books are those,
that tells what you know already.
- George Orwell.
that tells what you know already.
- George Orwell.
There is so little love in the world,
and yet so much.
and yet so much.
We are dreaming of tomorrow, and tomorrow isnβt coming; we are dreaming of a glory that we donβt really want.
We are dreaming of a new day when the new dayβs here already. We are running from the battle when itβs one that must be fought.
N.H. Kleinbaum.
We are dreaming of a new day when the new dayβs here already. We are running from the battle when itβs one that must be fought.
N.H. Kleinbaum.
How does it feel,
To be on your own,
With no direction home,
Like a complete unknown.
To be on your own,
With no direction home,
Like a complete unknown.
You're a romanticist
who fits a science museum.
who fits a science museum.
It's like loving someone
in the dark who never comes,
no matter how you call.
in the dark who never comes,
no matter how you call.
How unfortunate are those,
who die unaware of music's beauty.
who die unaware of music's beauty.
The Ache I chose.
A wayward spirit yes, that's me,
No port,
No prayer,
No guarantee,
I sail by stars that others fear,
With a hush loud and nowhere near.
She wrote of me in winds and waves,
A soul untamed that never stays.
She saw the fire beneath the roam,
And called it a loss but made it home.
Still, not all storms are kind or wise,
Some wear heaven on their thighs,
There was one who touched and ran,
Left mid-burning, like a man
Who opens books but hates the read,
She left in the middle of a flame,
Half naked,
A half-said name,
Not after love,
Not in regret,
Just vanished where the breath was wet.
But pain,
It makes you pause, it craves the way.
Learned the cost of touch.
Learned I'm too much.
Here I am,
Mid drift,
Mid grief,
Mid kiss,
Mid ghost,
No rest, no shore but now I know,
The ache I carry is the ache I chose,
And beneath the Willow tree in hush, I wait for the one who knows.
A wayward spirit yes, that's me,
No port,
No prayer,
No guarantee,
I sail by stars that others fear,
With a hush loud and nowhere near.
She wrote of me in winds and waves,
A soul untamed that never stays.
She saw the fire beneath the roam,
And called it a loss but made it home.
Still, not all storms are kind or wise,
Some wear heaven on their thighs,
There was one who touched and ran,
Left mid-burning, like a man
Who opens books but hates the read,
She left in the middle of a flame,
Half naked,
A half-said name,
Not after love,
Not in regret,
Just vanished where the breath was wet.
But pain,
It makes you pause, it craves the way.
Learned the cost of touch.
Learned I'm too much.
Here I am,
Mid drift,
Mid grief,
Mid kiss,
Mid ghost,
No rest, no shore but now I know,
The ache I carry is the ache I chose,
And beneath the Willow tree in hush, I wait for the one who knows.
Ghosted, Not Gone.
Wrote of margins,
Ghosted,
Inked,
Aching,
And I felt them,
As if I had once pressed my hands there,
Too rough to stay,
Too reverent to obliterate.
Reading me not as a lover,
But as someone who once meant to stay,
Till meaning itself became,
Too heavy to hold.
I know.
Some pages turn themselves.
And yes,
Babylon blooms in strange places.
Sometimes behind the eyes,
Sometimes in the hush between replies,
What grows there now?
Possibly a memory,
Possibly a waiting neither of us will name.
But listen
If the curse doesn't break,
If the vines coil a little tighter each spring,
Know I've learned the shape of that ache.
I wear it well.
I walk with it quietly.
And if someday,
The ink dries just right,
And the words no longer sting but sing,
Perhaps then,
A page might turn itself again.
But for now,
I leave a line unfinished,
Just enough space
For a name not spoken,
Yet remembered.
Wrote of margins,
Ghosted,
Inked,
Aching,
And I felt them,
As if I had once pressed my hands there,
Too rough to stay,
Too reverent to obliterate.
Reading me not as a lover,
But as someone who once meant to stay,
Till meaning itself became,
Too heavy to hold.
I know.
Some pages turn themselves.
And yes,
Babylon blooms in strange places.
Sometimes behind the eyes,
Sometimes in the hush between replies,
What grows there now?
Possibly a memory,
Possibly a waiting neither of us will name.
But listen
If the curse doesn't break,
If the vines coil a little tighter each spring,
Know I've learned the shape of that ache.
I wear it well.
I walk with it quietly.
And if someday,
The ink dries just right,
And the words no longer sting but sing,
Perhaps then,
A page might turn itself again.
But for now,
I leave a line unfinished,
Just enough space
For a name not spoken,
Yet remembered.
Kissed by Flame.
Some things are meant to burn
slow-
sweet-
like sugar on the edge of a knife.
You fit where only ruin could,
a shard placed not to heal but to shine crimson,
gold,
a little tragic.
And still,
you made the wound an art.
Did you know?
The fire never wanted to consume you only to be held, once, without fear.
So sip, if you must,
this sunstruck flame.
But know I never meant to be safe,
only real.
Some things are meant to burn
slow-
sweet-
like sugar on the edge of a knife.
You fit where only ruin could,
a shard placed not to heal but to shine crimson,
gold,
a little tragic.
And still,
you made the wound an art.
Did you know?
The fire never wanted to consume you only to be held, once, without fear.
So sip, if you must,
this sunstruck flame.
But know I never meant to be safe,
only real.