Three ghosts.
sheepish, avoidant,
hidden behind hollow greeting.
all faded
all distant
within an endlessly present vitality.
Three ghosts.
all stoic
all cold
each standing as tribute
of an aching reminder,
of a belief of inadequacy,
though never
explicit,
yet always
implied.
3.04.2015
3.13.2014
the writer and the muse
The girl with blue eyes.
Blinking, bold, big blue eyes.
These eyes were special.
They did many things.
Observed. They confided.
Laughed. They lied.
Invited. They darted
Avoided. They comforted.
Trusted. They judged and forgave.
They reflected
and protected
the inner workings of her rhythm.
But at times,
this girl's rhythm began drumming along to
a more despondent beat.
A despondent beat
that brought about pools of tears
that crowded and spilled from her
two blue eyes.
Pools that brought about exhaustion.
Pools that brought about change.
Change in her rhythm.
Change in her eyes.
The girl with blue eyes.
Blinking, bold, big blue eyes.
Eyes that turned two shades bluer,
every time she cried.
Blinking, bold, big blue eyes.
These eyes were special.
They did many things.
Observed. They confided.
Laughed. They lied.
Invited. They darted
Avoided. They comforted.
Trusted. They judged and forgave.
They reflected
and protected
the inner workings of her rhythm.
But at times,
this girl's rhythm began drumming along to
a more despondent beat.
A despondent beat
that brought about pools of tears
that crowded and spilled from her
two blue eyes.
Pools that brought about exhaustion.
Pools that brought about change.
Change in her rhythm.
Change in her eyes.
The girl with blue eyes.
Blinking, bold, big blue eyes.
Eyes that turned two shades bluer,
every time she cried.
10.13.2013
Brooklyn, Brooklyn
It's 2:30 am,
I feel morbidly sick,
my heart is tired,
my eyelids are drooping,
And my fingers are tingling for pen and paper.
Curses.
Can we reschedule for a more reasonable hour?
I feel morbidly sick,
my heart is tired,
my eyelids are drooping,
And my fingers are tingling for pen and paper.
Curses.
Can we reschedule for a more reasonable hour?
8.11.2013
Little Voice
"Are you going?" she asks.
"Yeah, I'm gone," he replies.
Her eyes transform into pools of melancholy.
A tear falls. Followed by another.
And in a sudden burst, tears stream uncontrollably,
moving the pools from her eyes down to the pockets of her sweater.
And in that moment it was certain.
A rather large part of her little life had been left changed by the boy who told her,
"there's nothing 'just' about you."
The boy who asked. The boy who listened.
The boy who wanted nothing more
than for her to see herself the way he saw her.
The boy who was leaving.
The boy who was gone.
"Yeah, I'm gone," he replies.
Her eyes transform into pools of melancholy.
A tear falls. Followed by another.
And in a sudden burst, tears stream uncontrollably,
moving the pools from her eyes down to the pockets of her sweater.
And in that moment it was certain.
A rather large part of her little life had been left changed by the boy who told her,
"there's nothing 'just' about you."
The boy who asked. The boy who listened.
The boy who wanted nothing more
than for her to see herself the way he saw her.
The boy who was leaving.
The boy who was gone.
7.05.2013
there's life within your bones
Infinite.
Barefoot,
feet kissing the warmed pavement.
You walk loosely through the center of streets
throwing caution to the wind.
You turn your chin up to the sun;
that constant friend
that warms but also burns.
Sitting awestruck.
Mouth shamelessly gaping;
smiling like a child.
Your jaw dropping further and further,
as if trying to taste the colors you see
majestically displayed across the black sky canvas.
Weaving and dodging.
Effortlessly flying.
The wind takes a tight grasp of your hair
then fills your lungs with the sweet summer night.
You gaze over the twinkling lights.
Holding fast to your driver,
he shows you your city from new heights.
You smile.
Infinite.
Barefoot,
feet kissing the warmed pavement.
You walk loosely through the center of streets
throwing caution to the wind.
You turn your chin up to the sun;
that constant friend
that warms but also burns.
Sitting awestruck.
Mouth shamelessly gaping;
smiling like a child.
Your jaw dropping further and further,
as if trying to taste the colors you see
majestically displayed across the black sky canvas.
Weaving and dodging.
Effortlessly flying.
The wind takes a tight grasp of your hair
then fills your lungs with the sweet summer night.
You gaze over the twinkling lights.
Holding fast to your driver,
he shows you your city from new heights.
You smile.
Infinite.
5.16.2013
Central Park in Fall
I sat up high, watching. Seeing everything from above.
You hit play as you sipped on that bitter drink.
The one that made you see fuzzy and speak silly things.
You spun and twirled with one hand waving free.
With the other, you firmly clutched the bottle.
You clumsily put the drink down and stopped.
You looked up at me,
paused,
and smiled.
You stuck out your palm
asking for mine in return.
You grabbed hold of my hand, and ever-so gently pulled me down.
My feet hit the floor and we effortlessly laughed
and turned
and danced
and sang
as Wayne Newton softly coaxed us on.
Danke Schoen.
For all the moments we've shared.
Especially this one.
You hit play as you sipped on that bitter drink.
The one that made you see fuzzy and speak silly things.
You spun and twirled with one hand waving free.
With the other, you firmly clutched the bottle.
You clumsily put the drink down and stopped.
You looked up at me,
paused,
and smiled.
You stuck out your palm
asking for mine in return.
You grabbed hold of my hand, and ever-so gently pulled me down.
My feet hit the floor and we effortlessly laughed
and turned
and danced
and sang
as Wayne Newton softly coaxed us on.
Danke Schoen.
For all the moments we've shared.
Especially this one.
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