I'm scared of...
the masks with soulless painted eyes..
the masks with oddly puckered lips...
did you every notice the eyes following you?
would empty eye sockets not be freakier?
who would want to kiss someone with soulless eyes?
I adore...
the masks worn at masquerade balls that outline the eyes...
the masks that cover the face leaving just your eyes visible...
do you ever find yourself entranced by the eyes behind the mask?
is it easier to see into the soul that way?
might it be wiser to prefer the mask that leaves the lips free to devour?
I'm drawn to...
the masks made of porcelain with elaborate designs like butterflies...
the masks that adorn my walls as individual works of art...
is it creepy to wake to their vacant stare?
is multiple masks in every room a collection or an obsession?
why am i so entranced by these delicate eyeless creatures?
I'm scared of the masks...
I hide behind being as fragile as porcelain...
the masks I hide behind being useless should anyone look into my eyes.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
0 had i only known
had i known
my last goodbye would be greeted by cold hard stone...
when it could have been met with a smile and kiss that spoke louder than words...
had i known
my last embrace would be an empty fleeting memory...
no longer possessing the warmth and comfort that holds the power to heal me...
had i known
my last words would dissolve into irrelevant meaningless nothing...
when they could have encased within them the power and strength of my love...
had i known
that is was my last chance...
would the tears not flood, threating to drown me, but puddle instead...
would the memory of my last hug hold fresher and warm me when i need it the most...
had i only known
'to know or not to know, that is the questions'...how does your last chance at something change with the knowledge that it is your last chance? this post was inspired in part by Poetic Asides' Wednesday Prompt...and in part by the tears that still threaten to drown me...
my last goodbye would be greeted by cold hard stone...
when it could have been met with a smile and kiss that spoke louder than words...
had i known
my last embrace would be an empty fleeting memory...
no longer possessing the warmth and comfort that holds the power to heal me...
had i known
my last words would dissolve into irrelevant meaningless nothing...
when they could have encased within them the power and strength of my love...
had i known
that is was my last chance...
would it have made things easier to bear...
would i have said and done things differently...would the tears not flood, threating to drown me, but puddle instead...
would the memory of my last hug hold fresher and warm me when i need it the most...
had i only known
'to know or not to know, that is the questions'...how does your last chance at something change with the knowledge that it is your last chance? this post was inspired in part by Poetic Asides' Wednesday Prompt...and in part by the tears that still threaten to drown me...
0 signs
...continuation of science...
which is a
...continuation of books...
He stepped forward. His approach seemed to go completely unnoticed as she took a book from the shelves, turned it over and began reading. There was little doubt that he had entered her space and was within her peripheral range. She kept her trained on the back of the cover. He watched as she turned the book over in her hands and read the quotes on the front. After what seemed like an eternity, she placed the book back on the shelf and shifted to the next bookshelf. He stared openly at her and saw her shift slightly to push the limits of her vision so he was no longer present. This was a sign. He should turn and walk away. He had found that most people looked up or glanced at someone who approached the same space as them. She on the contrary seemed to make a point of disregarding his presence. Walk away. He told himself. But something about her intrigued him. Just as he felt like giving into his rational self, she picked up a book that he had read. This would be the perfect opening to get her attention and force her to escape the bubble she seemed to have placed around herself. He stepped closer. "Amnesia Moon. It a pretty good book."
which is a
...continuation of books...
He stepped forward. His approach seemed to go completely unnoticed as she took a book from the shelves, turned it over and began reading. There was little doubt that he had entered her space and was within her peripheral range. She kept her trained on the back of the cover. He watched as she turned the book over in her hands and read the quotes on the front. After what seemed like an eternity, she placed the book back on the shelf and shifted to the next bookshelf. He stared openly at her and saw her shift slightly to push the limits of her vision so he was no longer present. This was a sign. He should turn and walk away. He had found that most people looked up or glanced at someone who approached the same space as them. She on the contrary seemed to make a point of disregarding his presence. Walk away. He told himself. But something about her intrigued him. Just as he felt like giving into his rational self, she picked up a book that he had read. This would be the perfect opening to get her attention and force her to escape the bubble she seemed to have placed around herself. He stepped closer. "Amnesia Moon. It a pretty good book."
7 i shall continue
I evade their gaze
for fear they will see through me
for fear I'm an open book they shall choose to close
I form a wedge
between myself and the world that surrounds
between myself and those wishing to get in
I will not buckle
under the pressure of their inquisitive stares
under the pressure of their penetrating words
I shall continue
head down to evade their eyes
arms spread wide reinforcing the wedge between
mind strong so as not to buckle to their desires
or those that taunt my own heart
inspiration for this poem comes from Three Word Wednesday [3WW=>buckle, evade, wedge].
for fear they will see through me
for fear I'm an open book they shall choose to close
I form a wedge
between myself and the world that surrounds
between myself and those wishing to get in
I will not buckle
under the pressure of their inquisitive stares
under the pressure of their penetrating words
I shall continue
head down to evade their eyes
arms spread wide reinforcing the wedge between
mind strong so as not to buckle to their desires
or those that taunt my own heart
inspiration for this poem comes from Three Word Wednesday [3WW=>buckle, evade, wedge].
Monday, December 27, 2010
0 My love's scared of monkeys
My love's scared...
of monkeys wearing top hats...
of monkeys carrying pocketbooks...
why would a monkey wear a top hat?
have you ever seen a money with a pocketbook?
does this mean I can't take her to the zoo?
My love's scared...
of snow surrounding her feet...
of snow sticking to the cuffs of her pants...
what if her feet are in boots?
should I suggest she only were skirts when it snows?
does this mean I'll have to carry her to the car?
My love's scared...
of elevators that creak as they rise...
of elevators filled with people...
why'd she rent a place on the seventh floor?
did she test out the elevator before hand?
does this mean we can't be in an elevator together?
My love's scared of monkeys...
wearing top hats and carrying pocketbooks...
of monkeys shooting her dead.
i'm exploring my creative side in a whole new way. it started with a Poetic Asides' 2011 Poetic Form Challenge and a poem i wrote awhile back. i toyed with the form again to see if it had merit...now i'm playing with the form for a bit of variation...next is setting down the rule in a logical, followable, non-confusing way...we'll see where it all leads...
of monkeys wearing top hats...
of monkeys carrying pocketbooks...
why would a monkey wear a top hat?
have you ever seen a money with a pocketbook?
does this mean I can't take her to the zoo?
My love's scared...
of snow surrounding her feet...
of snow sticking to the cuffs of her pants...
what if her feet are in boots?
should I suggest she only were skirts when it snows?
does this mean I'll have to carry her to the car?
My love's scared...
of elevators that creak as they rise...
of elevators filled with people...
why'd she rent a place on the seventh floor?
did she test out the elevator before hand?
does this mean we can't be in an elevator together?
My love's scared of monkeys...
wearing top hats and carrying pocketbooks...
of monkeys shooting her dead.
i'm exploring my creative side in a whole new way. it started with a Poetic Asides' 2011 Poetic Form Challenge and a poem i wrote awhile back. i toyed with the form again to see if it had merit...now i'm playing with the form for a bit of variation...next is setting down the rule in a logical, followable, non-confusing way...we'll see where it all leads...
Thursday, December 23, 2010
0 sketches
...continuation of drawings...
He stood staring into the window. His eyes sought the object of his obsession. Obsession was the only word he could use to describe the emotions that tormented him. He had purposely avoided the cafe for the past two weeks. Somehow he had figured that if he didn't see her, she would slowly but surely disappear from him mind. It had not worked. Her image was engraved upon his brain. Every time he picked up a pencil or pen he found himself sketching her from memory. Charcoals seemed to me his favorite medium as of late. For the life of him, he could not understand how someone could weasel their way so easily into his heart. He looked at her, sitting surrounded as always by stacks of papers. He wanted to deny that his heart was involved, but the tightening in his chest told him his heart was completely taken by her. The first time he saw her, she had stolen his breath. Even the way she seemed so oblivious to the world around her brought a smile to his lips. He wanted so badly to shake her out of her trance and open her eyes to the world around her. Instead, he sat there silently and sketched. Somehow he just couldn't seem to capture her just right. Several times he had tried to catch her attention, but he had failed miserably save that one day. He had asked to borrow a chair. And finally, she pulled her gaze away from her work and looked at him. If he hadn't noticed the tug at his heart strings before, that moment he found himself completely rapt. But all she did was nod. She didn't say a word. He probably would have stopped coming at that point, however, he felt drawn. He spent another two weeks just sitting there hoping that maybe what he had seen her eyes in that moment was a twinkle of what he felt. After watching her for those weeks continue to work as though that connection had not occurred was more than he could handle. The only way he thought he might be able to let go of her was to walk away and clear his mind of her image. But she had continued to haunt him. Each day for the past two weeks her image plagued him. Where before he might only see her image floating before him once or twice, he was now constantly picturing her. He gazed at her through the window, watched her work, and wondered if she had even noticed he was gone. The ache in his heart at the thought that he might never know hurt more than he cared to admit. He looked down at his feet and contemplated what he should do. Move on, was what is brain was telling him. One more look, was what his heart was asking for. He looked up once more. He didn't need to memorize the moment or the way she looked because he lived and breathed it every second of everyday. With a sigh he began to turn his gaze away from the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her look up. He turned back to find her looking directly at him. The left corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. Her eyes seemed to soften. She leaned down, never once breaking eye contact and withdrew a piece of paper from her bag. He watched her eyebrows raise in a questioning manner as she turned the paper toward him. There staring back at him was the last sketch he had made of her before his hiatus from the cafe. It had been a decent sketch, but compared to her it had been pitiful. So, like most of his cafe sketches of her it had ended up in the trash. How she had come to possess it was beyond him. But he had every intention of finding out.
He stood staring into the window. His eyes sought the object of his obsession. Obsession was the only word he could use to describe the emotions that tormented him. He had purposely avoided the cafe for the past two weeks. Somehow he had figured that if he didn't see her, she would slowly but surely disappear from him mind. It had not worked. Her image was engraved upon his brain. Every time he picked up a pencil or pen he found himself sketching her from memory. Charcoals seemed to me his favorite medium as of late. For the life of him, he could not understand how someone could weasel their way so easily into his heart. He looked at her, sitting surrounded as always by stacks of papers. He wanted to deny that his heart was involved, but the tightening in his chest told him his heart was completely taken by her. The first time he saw her, she had stolen his breath. Even the way she seemed so oblivious to the world around her brought a smile to his lips. He wanted so badly to shake her out of her trance and open her eyes to the world around her. Instead, he sat there silently and sketched. Somehow he just couldn't seem to capture her just right. Several times he had tried to catch her attention, but he had failed miserably save that one day. He had asked to borrow a chair. And finally, she pulled her gaze away from her work and looked at him. If he hadn't noticed the tug at his heart strings before, that moment he found himself completely rapt. But all she did was nod. She didn't say a word. He probably would have stopped coming at that point, however, he felt drawn. He spent another two weeks just sitting there hoping that maybe what he had seen her eyes in that moment was a twinkle of what he felt. After watching her for those weeks continue to work as though that connection had not occurred was more than he could handle. The only way he thought he might be able to let go of her was to walk away and clear his mind of her image. But she had continued to haunt him. Each day for the past two weeks her image plagued him. Where before he might only see her image floating before him once or twice, he was now constantly picturing her. He gazed at her through the window, watched her work, and wondered if she had even noticed he was gone. The ache in his heart at the thought that he might never know hurt more than he cared to admit. He looked down at his feet and contemplated what he should do. Move on, was what is brain was telling him. One more look, was what his heart was asking for. He looked up once more. He didn't need to memorize the moment or the way she looked because he lived and breathed it every second of everyday. With a sigh he began to turn his gaze away from the window. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her look up. He turned back to find her looking directly at him. The left corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. Her eyes seemed to soften. She leaned down, never once breaking eye contact and withdrew a piece of paper from her bag. He watched her eyebrows raise in a questioning manner as she turned the paper toward him. There staring back at him was the last sketch he had made of her before his hiatus from the cafe. It had been a decent sketch, but compared to her it had been pitiful. So, like most of his cafe sketches of her it had ended up in the trash. How she had come to possess it was beyond him. But he had every intention of finding out.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
5 I fear for my heart
I fear that...
my heart cannot withstand the pain...
my heart is too weak to survive...
will you hold it close to your own?
is that too much to hope for?
should I prepare for the hurt?
I fear that ...
my heart is too fragile...
my heart does not think rationally...
will you handle it with care?
am I expecting too much?
should I wrap it with bubble wrap?
I fear that...
my heart gives more than it has...
my heart break into a million pieces...
will return its affection as strongly?
can I believe in you?
should I walk away know before it's too late?
I fear that my heart...
will never recover from you...
that my heart will forever be lost to you.
i'm not really sure what it is i fear here. is it loosing love or finding love? inspiration for this post came from Poetic Asides' Wednesday Prompt.
my heart cannot withstand the pain...
my heart is too weak to survive...
will you hold it close to your own?
is that too much to hope for?
should I prepare for the hurt?
I fear that ...
my heart is too fragile...
my heart does not think rationally...
will you handle it with care?
am I expecting too much?
should I wrap it with bubble wrap?
I fear that...
my heart gives more than it has...
my heart break into a million pieces...
will return its affection as strongly?
can I believe in you?
should I walk away know before it's too late?
I fear that my heart...
will never recover from you...
that my heart will forever be lost to you.
i'm not really sure what it is i fear here. is it loosing love or finding love? inspiration for this post came from Poetic Asides' Wednesday Prompt.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)