Curiosity

I wonder sometimes if the long distance relationship isn't really the best option. Perhaps also an open componant is important. But I suppose above all, I would work best on a far away relationship. It would be there, in theory, and here and there I would see them. No daily pressure. Living my own life. Them living theirs. The freedom to move, live, make mistakes without a persona looming over. Then, when the nights turn long or your day seems empty: there is a phone. A call, a text. A message of love from someone you know will be there for you. You get together and the spark is still there. The sex is amazing, your hands trail their body as you lay in the afterglow. This shouldn't end, but too quickly you leave them sleeping in your bed and you know they will be gone when you leave.

Days of Birth

Two decades have I lived,
loved and hated and gone to wind,
taken root when thrown down hard,
the acts of my past lie heavily on the scales,
a feather on the other end.
One fourth of my life or perhaps a fifth,
laughed and cried, then turned to myth.

Which Way To Sunrise?

The frustration exudes from me like some angsty preteen bent on sneaking out for the night. It builds and threatens me to go under. Slowly I have to pull myself together for I really can't hold on like this much longer. No release comes handily to mind so I improvise and write. A self-made catharsis that has been used for centuries, thousands of years.
"Do you write? You seem like you would write."
I don't write, I suppose I do. It consists of a vomiting on the page of my circumstance. Each thought and word I think is mine stems from another; person, time, lover, partner in crime, organist, or artist. My stressors are frustration, boredom, passion, patterns. Long past has the time come when events became plagerized.
A cheating, sceaming, addicted wretch is time. She slips back into old habits, begs for attention and longs for when she was young and new once again.The only deilema is that she was never young. Never vibrant and unused, so she slips quietly into madness, nestled in chaos' lap.

Wine

Tonight is a night made for a bottle of wine. A shade deep as blood to help dry your tears, or maybe help them along

Wind through the Window

The candle in the window flickers with the breeze. As it melts the wax is carried off the side and slides down creating an ever increasing statue. A mini mountian with ravines and peaks form with each drop. It spins, changes color, the mist clears from the plane window. The same valley's and summits show as the smoke forms the clouds outside the window. Geometry echos the small and large, the solid and gas, above and under.

Karma

I once accidentaly convinced a very nice truck driver that I was pregnant. I didn't mean to, it just sorta happened. That will catch up to me. That will be my karma. One day I will really be pregnant, then, jokes on me.

Through the night

I turn my eyes from the window to find someone sitting next ot me. As he settles in, the smell of pepermint wafts to me. He hunches forward, in his own world. A hood covers his face allowing only my imagination to see what he really looks like. The bus turns and I feel his weight against one side and the window against the other. Callused hands worry each other, grasped polietly in his lap. Two ladies, seats ahead, talk about rent while a man at the front gesticulates wildly with his hands. A slight profile of my companion emerges. The reflection in the window allows a round nose and serious lips to escape the shadow of his hood. The bus is alive tonight. People talking, dreaming, feeling. The stopping of the bus gives me bursts of scent from my faceless partner. It's a constant reminder of his world, so close to me, yet somehow so untouchable. He rubs his face. People leave, the talking slows. The emotions don't. Looking out over the bus like my kingdom, the people are mine. Thier feelings, thoughts, worries have all become a burden on my shoulders. My companion puts his hands on the seat in front of us. Deliberatly, he stands, and exits. Into the night goes my silent friend. His face is still a mystery, but he has moved me. He has brought this pen to paper. But now we move on. My stop is next and I shall exit this space, never to return to the silent friend, the worry of rent, and the feel of that trip through the night.