I don’t want them to know that this is how I feel that this is what I do when they aren’t looking
I don’t want them to know that I’m never enough that I am inadequate that I’m scared
Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing I don’t know what it is I want
Most of the time I can’t make up my mind I can’t seem to place one foot secure one foot
And all the time I can’t stop being this way I can’t stop being this way All the time

restless

I asked for change
and it came
Only thing is
Was I ready?

What about you

Were you ready?

Can't say if we were
If, if we are

We are here
Again

If this is where we are again
we should know

Yes yes
Yes
No
No yes
No no

How to decide?

Growing Time

Mmm I guess it was about time
The seeds were planted long ago: it was about time
The sun had shone expertly,
The rain was called and came sufficiently
Caring vigilance provided
Warm touches surrounded
Encouraging words chanted, resounded
"It's about time"
Before that, "Your time will soon come."
Unearthed and new
Unbirthed and true
Only growth made sense now

Short Story of 55 Words (plus 20)

This is an exercise we did once in 12th Grade Writer's Craft. Write a short story consisting of only 55 words. You should try it.

Intent on making the evening pleasant, he slipped his arm around her, the umbrella in his other hand already open, shielding them both. "Mademoiselle," he announced.
She looked up at him, unconvinced, somehow knowing there was something he was concealing. She then realized how lost and lonesome he really was. Aware now, "D'accord," she said.

I then added 20 more words to the story - this happens later on in the couple's rainy evening.

Understanding his yearning, she allowed him to embrace her. Knowing it was all she could allow herself to give him.

Au Revoir

I was thinking of what usually gets me writing lately. Things I dream up, of stories between people, sprinkling bits of truth I know first-hand, second-hand, no-hands. I started writing this in my Starbucks, sitting there after having sat for a while. This is what came out:

I packed up but I
Didn't leave - wasn't easy
Couldn't say why
I found it so hard
Like the top of a skull
Of your head against mine
On pillows soft
Cushioned with ease and comfort
We. Were. Relaxed.
Broken In
Days of simple rest
At rest, no music on
Just breaths
Yours, mine, ours
But as I put away
What was mine
And left alone what was yours
I found it
I found it, I found it
I found it
I found the piece
That held together
You with me
You from me
Me against me
Like a hand upon a mirror
I saw
- and, hear, I'd use all those metaphors about reflections
so cheesy and overused, I'm sure you'd already know -
What I'd been failing to see: Disregard
And in this regard
I say words which whisper farewell
Now the case is closed
And I've packed up better
This time 'round
I'm at the door
Between Here and Away
Steps taken --
Easy

++

I was gonna call this pain

This will be a "mass post" as VMaltese calls it. The following piece was written 23 March 2008.

There is an Ache - it is in my heart. Underneath it, around it, the discomfort is still there. I write this and I am reminded. I write this and I am not soothed. It is in my chest. I can't breathe it out.

It is a pain that expands, it does not diminish. Only growing to remind me. I have not healed from - well, what have I healed from?

It escapes my body, but it does not leave, it does not leave me. It escapes me and I am satisfied for a moment; then it returns. I can feel it, see it, by my side, in the crowd. A throbbing hurt: pulsing, because it lives.

Living - breathing as it does.

I write this and I am not soothed. Satiation is far away. This ache has no bandage. Patching it up does not mean fixing it up.

It lives. Breathing as I do.

This ache is bondage. I am caught, tangled, bound. A constriction, if you will. It does not let me, it will not allow me, it will not permit me.

3 AM

I wrote this a while ago: 25 Jan 2008, earlier this year. Tough winter. Hehe...

3 AM

It's 3 am.
What's the point in sleeping?
Could it be that I'll stay up till morning?

Feeling so tired
Can't feel more but this
Slumber away, wake up to exist

Cos I'd sleep now
If only I hadn't dreamed how
I'd wake and be so low.

Wind's so noisy
Can't hear more but this
Won't you come home, dear?

Wouldn't sleep now
Can't close my eyes
Without seeing how

It's 3 am
Can't feel more than this
Wish I hadn't dreamed how
I'd wake and be so low.

'ForeAnythingElse

Listen first for Truth She will speak, she will speak Quiet your voice As she may come quiet, too Soften your words As she is sharp, cutting Minds will turn And words will run out Quiet your voice Truth always comes written ~9 Aug 2008

post some prose

Some prose I had written, on my sister C's arm.

This time she promised him would be the same. Cos truly, why would you ask for DIFFERENT when the first time
When the first time was just so fucking damn -- it was good. They came upon:
Little square doors with large triangle opportunities
Locked barred under green awnings.
Red sunlight invaded cold floors, armed with distant warmth.
Grey skies dotted with puffs of nothing.
But he knew. This time was different.
He had come upon her morning.

up late / update

I have a choice.

I want to write. To keep writing. I want to share what it is I know, what it is I find important, what is dire, what is insanely keeping me up at night!

But am I feeling first, then writing as a result? Or writing, resulting in feeling?

Which is it that you craft? Your idea, or your emotion? (Ok so that's a bit dramatic. But one can be ridiculous sometimes.)

Silly to think
The feeling should sink
Away then down
Right. To. The. Bone.

Etched it is
Undone it is not
Marred and deep
Not stopping, still going, down deep deep down down down down deep!

His skin is alight
Caught fire from inside out
You on the outside, you
Watch

As he breathes this rage
As he breathes, this rage
Is fueled by wounds, by words, by worlds before me
As he breathes, before you - watch!

All the air is taken up -
With breath held I wait
Listening
While he plows through his thoughts

Only seeing the black
In the rage of his eye
I am reduced to pray, to plead, then
Pretend it too will pass as I wait, wait, wait, wait

No longer
No longer is there space
In time, in hearts, in minds,
In mine no longer


+BP