Sometimes it’s hard, fighting you for you.
Wrestling not against my error but against your fears.
Sometimes it’s hard, discerning thoughts you can’t verbalize.
Reading your mind without the gift of clairvoyance.
Sometimes it’s hard, giving you unlimited space,
to find the you I’ve already seen and know.
Sometimes it’s hard, reminding you of the good,
when all you can visualize is the pain and hurt.
Every time it’s beautiful, to share our lives,
seeing the joy and the pain together.
Every time it’s beautiful, the love we share,
enjoying intimacy beyond the simple physical.
Every time it’s beautiful, the mundane of life,
being someone at your side who is companion, cheerleader, friend.
Every time it’s beautiful, seeing your joy,
sharing private moments of victory no one else will see.
Every time…it’s wonder, an awe and contentment for me.
Enjoyed this poem from John S today. Found it represented how I feel often. Comments are shut off here, comment at his blog.
Likened to an oval space
where I’m pressing to the wall
and move ’round its circumference
with caution and recall.
I sense it as a darkened play
just beyond my reach,
and substance in the shadows
are thin and disbelieved.
Her touch, in words, assuages fear-
a hold to ban the ill,
the empty holes and voids,
the impressions- touches fill.
Grip me with affection’s tongue
fast with lake and sun,
embrace me with your tumult
that leads us – come undone.
Such is this, caress’ way
in aftermath beyond,
a soothing wisp, a kiss she shares
and looming dark is gone.
Go here to comment and show some love…
This morning Dr. Meg made a comment saying she took an online writing style analysis. I thought it sounded like fun, so I did. Since I write several different types of things, I did the analysis based on tags.
When I used my entire blog, the test came back H.P. Lovecraft.
When I used the sex tag, the test came back Cory Doctorow.
When I used the fiction tag, the test came back William Gibson.
When I used the poetry tag, the test came back with James Joyce.
When I used the romance tag, the test came back Stephanie Meyer.
That’s when I decided to stop. Permanently.
If you’re brave and don’t mind being told you’re E.L. James, you can take the analysis here.
I could use a day
Of cold and wind and rain
Of skies grey and hidden sun
Buried under covers
I could use a day
Of touch and warmth and joy
Of legs entangled and hair amiss
Tickling my face
I could use a day
Of rest and books and peace
Of stretches long and sighs content
Benz burrowed deep
I could use that day
A year ago today, after years of ravaged body leaving him blind and deaf, Waco’s friends’ son passed away. It was not unexpected, but it was sudden. Today I felt inspired to write a piece based on some of the impressions those who loved him shared with me.
He still had joy.
He still spoke joy.
He still sensed joy.
Smile not forgotten.
He still brings joy.
If only I’d.
Defeated before I begin.
After Dr. Shell’s comment below, possible clarification is in order.
Many beat themselves up constantly by not accepting they are good and valuable as they are. Looking to “become” lovable we often think if we just did what we shoulda/woulda/coulda, we would be worthy of love.
You are lovable. You have value. Silencing your inner critic is key to finding real self-esteem.
Hopefully this will help some.
Beeps in the morning, beeps at night.
Beeps to keep our lives aright.
Beeps for low, beeps for high.
A beep each time I touch your thigh.
A beep tells me the dinner’s done.
A beep and then it’s time to run.
That beep means a meeting’s near.
Missing one I never fear.
One beep and I know to take my pill.
Another means to pay a bill.
One more beep and it’s time to wake.
Hit the snooze, more minutes take.
One more beep, I might go insane.
Just one more, my mind’s off again.
If I could live for just one day,
Without these beeps getting in my way.
I might actually have time to live.
Giving all the love I have to give.
Free from hassle, free from care.
Smelling the roses, breathing the air.
But that life can never be for me.
I’m far too important, busy you see.
So the beeps must continue through my life.
Mechanically beeping both day and night.
And that beep means I can’t finish this prose.
That beep means it’s time to go.