I live in a prison.
A prison of my body, each wall crumbling beneath the weight.
Somedays I feel so trapped in this prison, others I am so glad I have somewhere to call home.
Sanctuary.
Today I feel the structure of my prison sigh with exhaustion, sadness, loneliness.
I have not been tending to my sanctuary lately and it starts to fall apart in decay.
It is amazing how just one day of neglect makes the walls shutter.
So each day I must tend my prison/sanctuary. With kind words, loving caresses, truth, and devotion.
And Faith.
Unfinished 11/27.11
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
In the moments...
It is in the moments in the in between that I find myself. Fogging up the bathroom mirror with my breath, counting to ten to see if I can stand it. It is the moments when I am tired and close to tears that me peaks through...pulling at the edges, as if I wasn't unraveling fast enough as it is. Bit by bit I am tearing apart. And each old piece is replaced with something new, similar but different, replication but developing at the same time. And all those pieces that fall away like burned flecks of paper are the bits of me that I am scared to lose. The bits that I have become so comfortable with. The bits I have grown to love and identify with. But now the new bits come in. Ripping off my old bits and tossing them carelessly into the bright flame. Each day it is a choice I make. I rip off these bits and replace them with new bits. Sometimes the choice is not even conscious... this is what I am supposed to do right? This is what my world is supposed to look like. This every striving, never happy, pushing and pulling, drive towards things I do not have. Things I should have. Things I should want...things I do want. And I wonder is it me that really wants these things, or is it the old comfortable, lovable, easily identifiable bits that long for these things? And I wonder...does it really matter?
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
The Harvest Moon
This one is dedicated to my goddess friend Shinay who is a constant reminder of what it means to live in grace.
The harvest moon peaks over the horizon. Smiling at all the little people. This is a special time for the moon. When she gets to try on all her lovely oranges, yellows, and reds. She can swell with fullness, delight, and contentment as she over looks her beautiful world changing colors to match her. The leaves giving up their redness in devotion and then falling to the ground in surrender, grateful of the gift to have been on this earth. The trees, naked of their children, reach to the heaves with spindly arms embracing the dark warmth the sky offers them. The ground sighs in relief as the expired leaves cover it's surfacing offering the warmth it was desperately praying for. And as the moon slowly saunters across the sky observing all that has been laid out before her, she chuckles knowing that today was just another day, and that tomorrow will be another.
The harvest moon peaks over the horizon. Smiling at all the little people. This is a special time for the moon. When she gets to try on all her lovely oranges, yellows, and reds. She can swell with fullness, delight, and contentment as she over looks her beautiful world changing colors to match her. The leaves giving up their redness in devotion and then falling to the ground in surrender, grateful of the gift to have been on this earth. The trees, naked of their children, reach to the heaves with spindly arms embracing the dark warmth the sky offers them. The ground sighs in relief as the expired leaves cover it's surfacing offering the warmth it was desperately praying for. And as the moon slowly saunters across the sky observing all that has been laid out before her, she chuckles knowing that today was just another day, and that tomorrow will be another.
Monday, September 26, 2011
love again
The act of asking someone to love is steeped in surrender.
Complete unselfish surrender.
Offering everything I am, every day, over and over again.
Hoping that what the other person see is my soul, the offering I am making.
Not my fear. The fear that I am not good enough, that things won't last.
But it is the fear that makes things not work. It is the things we let get between us and bearing our souls that make things fall apart.
So the key is to bear my soul, every day, over and over again. In patience, acceptance, and honesty.
Complete unselfish surrender.
Offering everything I am, every day, over and over again.
Hoping that what the other person see is my soul, the offering I am making.
Not my fear. The fear that I am not good enough, that things won't last.
But it is the fear that makes things not work. It is the things we let get between us and bearing our souls that make things fall apart.
So the key is to bear my soul, every day, over and over again. In patience, acceptance, and honesty.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
The seasons...
The seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, melding but separate.
The curves of my body change as peoples' arms slip away around me.
I lay dappled in the sun as fingers tip toe down my skin.
The seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, different but the same.
I smile as a snow flake drifts lazily down from the sky perching on my nose, as if winter is in no hurry, it will come when it is ready, for it knows that we will wait.
The seasons change and develope.
Falling over each other, tightening and loosening their grip on our lives.
My fingers wrap around others, as hand in hand, life changes, before our very eyes. The sky dampens with heaviness, and we wave goodbye to our past, turning our eyes to the future, with hope and anticipation.
The seasons grow and mature.
Accidentally bumping against each other, impatient to have their 15 minutes of Fame.
The green comes quickly now, pushing greedily from within. Ripping the seams of what has come before to rush unprepared and willing into what comes now. And the itch begins. The itch to turn one into two, two into more, and three into the future. To fall victim to that rapturous state.
The seasons sweat and pulse.
Eagerly rubbing together to create friction and steam.
The heat hits like a physical rebuff. Trying to tame our wild desires, but instead bringing them to fruition. Large, wet dew drips to the pavement and swirls of precipitation embodies the sky. Glimpses of limbs, pressed together, tumbling over each other, pushing past each other, drunken haze of delights.
The seasons crack and crumble.
The trees watch their young die in a fit of suddenness, the sun has abandoned them finally to focus on it's own inner torment. The clouds rush over to comfort the trees, reminding them that friends are still close by, through thick and thin.
And the seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, melding but separate.
The curves of my body change as peoples' arms slip away around me.
I lay dappled in the sun as fingers tip toe down my skin.
And the seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, melding but separate.
The curves of my body change as peoples' arms slip away around me.
I lay dappled in the sun as fingers tip toe down my skin.
The seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, different but the same.
I smile as a snow flake drifts lazily down from the sky perching on my nose, as if winter is in no hurry, it will come when it is ready, for it knows that we will wait.
The seasons change and develope.
Falling over each other, tightening and loosening their grip on our lives.
My fingers wrap around others, as hand in hand, life changes, before our very eyes. The sky dampens with heaviness, and we wave goodbye to our past, turning our eyes to the future, with hope and anticipation.
The seasons grow and mature.
Accidentally bumping against each other, impatient to have their 15 minutes of Fame.
The green comes quickly now, pushing greedily from within. Ripping the seams of what has come before to rush unprepared and willing into what comes now. And the itch begins. The itch to turn one into two, two into more, and three into the future. To fall victim to that rapturous state.
The seasons sweat and pulse.
Eagerly rubbing together to create friction and steam.
The heat hits like a physical rebuff. Trying to tame our wild desires, but instead bringing them to fruition. Large, wet dew drips to the pavement and swirls of precipitation embodies the sky. Glimpses of limbs, pressed together, tumbling over each other, pushing past each other, drunken haze of delights.
The seasons crack and crumble.
The trees watch their young die in a fit of suddenness, the sun has abandoned them finally to focus on it's own inner torment. The clouds rush over to comfort the trees, reminding them that friends are still close by, through thick and thin.
And the seasons change and pass.
Rolling over each other, melding but separate.
The curves of my body change as peoples' arms slip away around me.
I lay dappled in the sun as fingers tip toe down my skin.
And the seasons change and pass.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
The Sacrifice
the ink bleeds into her eye as the pen floats across the planes of her face.
she blinks back the tears to preserve the ink marking her body. but still lightening bolts of tear and ink cris-cross her canvas. she is painted gold, burnished, prepared. the incense snakes through her nose and her body responds to the heat around her, sweat beading under her arms and behind her knees. the candle light reflects on the gold flecks on her finger tips as she clasps her hands in adoration. she moves her hands to her forehead resting her golden dyed hair and heavy eyelashes against her hands, holding her breath and releasing her breath in submission. she bows, placing her forearms on the ground, bowing her head in gratitude. with the release of breath she releases her fear. she releases her pain. she releases her weakness. when she inhales she breathes in the fear of the world, the pain of the world, and the weakness of the world. with gratitude and submission she breathes in her part of the world and breathes out her part of the world, each day trying to transform her part of the world into something. something that is finally only breath.
she blinks back the tears to preserve the ink marking her body. but still lightening bolts of tear and ink cris-cross her canvas. she is painted gold, burnished, prepared. the incense snakes through her nose and her body responds to the heat around her, sweat beading under her arms and behind her knees. the candle light reflects on the gold flecks on her finger tips as she clasps her hands in adoration. she moves her hands to her forehead resting her golden dyed hair and heavy eyelashes against her hands, holding her breath and releasing her breath in submission. she bows, placing her forearms on the ground, bowing her head in gratitude. with the release of breath she releases her fear. she releases her pain. she releases her weakness. when she inhales she breathes in the fear of the world, the pain of the world, and the weakness of the world. with gratitude and submission she breathes in her part of the world and breathes out her part of the world, each day trying to transform her part of the world into something. something that is finally only breath.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Oh you again...balls
I miss you, but I don't want to tell you.
I want to talk to you, but I don't want you to call.
I won't call either because it won't help.
But I don't know how to go on without missing you.
And I hate that I miss you. Because I know you aren't missing me. Not like I miss you.
Not that it matters. It was never about how you felt about me. It was always about me loving you.
Never about you wanting me, but me always wanting you the way you are. And you never wanting me the way I am. But that isn't fair either, because I know you care...or why would you tell me you miss me? You probably even do miss me...in your way. But your way is not enough for me. I wish it was. I wish I felt happy enough alone that I didn't need your love. Didn't want your love, didn't want for you to hold me, talk to me, go out with me, support me, but I want/need those things, and you won't give me those things...so how do I fix this? How do I go on missing you and not wanting you in the same moment. Wanting a different you. A you that can love me like I want to be loved. So how do I get on? Please tell me...
I want to talk to you, but I don't want you to call.
I won't call either because it won't help.
But I don't know how to go on without missing you.
And I hate that I miss you. Because I know you aren't missing me. Not like I miss you.
Not that it matters. It was never about how you felt about me. It was always about me loving you.
Never about you wanting me, but me always wanting you the way you are. And you never wanting me the way I am. But that isn't fair either, because I know you care...or why would you tell me you miss me? You probably even do miss me...in your way. But your way is not enough for me. I wish it was. I wish I felt happy enough alone that I didn't need your love. Didn't want your love, didn't want for you to hold me, talk to me, go out with me, support me, but I want/need those things, and you won't give me those things...so how do I fix this? How do I go on missing you and not wanting you in the same moment. Wanting a different you. A you that can love me like I want to be loved. So how do I get on? Please tell me...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)