Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Ramblings...

Where has my inspiration gone these days?

I have so much unfinished work, ideas that popped into my head that I had to jot down, but have not been able to complete. I wouldn't call it writer's block... it's a case of life.

Having to deal with the hectic moments thrown at us on a day to day basis have the tendency to take us off track. It forces us to live on the surface with no time to get too deep.

No time. Not enough hours in the day.

It's so funny how the realities of life give inspiration and take it all away at the same time...

Excuse my rambling...I don't even have time to make sense of my thoughts.

Oh, life!

Sunday, March 13, 2011

last night


Photo By Christina Kretchmer

lust-kissed stains on a navel
adventurous lips exploring her land
his fingertips colonizing her sacred places
touches chilling her core
she drips from condensation
writing love letters in her skin
watching each letter stream
into
a
drop
hitting the floor
oh, all the letters they’ve written in the dark and walked upon in the day
their bodies and breath in rhythm, harmonizing a capella
a choir directed by love
producing a sound that drives her to tears
he licks them away
his grip tight, her body relaxed within his security and safeness
bodies so close, his heart pumps her blood to continue her existence
her lungs give him breath to moan praises to her name
from the outside in he kissing the scars left
from wars fought long ago against
careless visitors who stomped all over her terrains
he’s delicate
treats her body like a sanctuary
a body that gives him life and is the host of creation
he caresses the outside of her womb with his tongue
in gratitude
she guides his head to places that his irises have yet to see
trembling as he finds her undiscovered islands
no mouth can formulate a coherent word in this moment
their bodies talk in many tongues
no translator
their bodies understand each other’s language
knees shattered, she breaks his bones
with just the air from her mouth around his loins
shadows on the wall
a puppet show
telling a story of endless love
making, until their bodies beg for rest
laying wrapped up in sheets with embedded
sweat-shaped outlines
whispering the secrets of where they’ve been
heaven and back

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Friday, March 11, 2011

...

She said he was the open door to the starlit dreams she wished upon
he said he could be all that and more
but only for a night
she gave in hoping that one night would feel like eternity
wishing clocks would break
so she could forever feel that feeling you feel in the middle that climbs up into your middle searching for a center that doesn’t exist
clit. heart. no soul

Her ceiling stares at her underneath him recording the number of times this scene has taken place
just a different actor
she stares back at the ceiling remembering the day she lost her soul
rather the day her soul was taken
more like the day she prayed the devil to do the things that God wouldn’t do for her
all for that feeling

She crosses her fingers while she crosses her legs around him
hoping that he stays, locking him in incase he tries to leave
her eyesight sore
bruised by the backs turned to them running the opposite way
she calls out, but her voice is unfamiliar
they don’t even remember her name
the conversation doesn’t get that deep
she has no face
exists from the neck down, sometimes just from the waist

she invites him into her earth
tries to tell its history through her body
he doesn’t speak her language
nor cares to learn
he’s but a mere traveler passing through
packing up souvenirs

He becomes another ellipses in her narrative
an incomplete character
an outline
a blank waiting to be filled

She repeats to herself that this time will be different and this one will be the one…
ignoring the sun rising at his falling

Blinded by her heart’s fears that plummet out her eyes
she’s sees the door open
she whispers: “but you are the open door to the starlit dreams I wish upon”

The door closes in answer

But only for a night.

Tide

Memories washed ashore of a time before
that is never no more
but just a sore
spot
bandaged and forgotten
until the salt
seeps
in
reminding you to leave it open
and
heal.

calling you back to my center

Anyone who knows me well, knows I love to write, used to write, and wants to continue to write. Life's changes can center and decenter you all at once. I decided to let up on the suffocation of expression.


Let's see how this goes...