She is light in a room full of shadows,

That light is so beautiful to me.

Her laugh is like birds in choir;

Pleasant, irresistable, and carefree.

Sweetness flows from her mouth like honey,

So smooth and so sweet

I only wish I could catch her smile,

Though my heart would skip a beat.

Golden is the ambience that radiates through her,

A heart so true and pure

She strickens worlds with wonder.

Ambrosia pales in comparison to her words,

the God’s turn to see in pure delight,

While mere mortals have no right,

To hear the sound of even her soliloquies.

My love for her is immeasurable,

To great to be bound.

For she is all that’s good,

A treasure that I’ve found

a towering stack of waffles,

with butter on top,

syrup dripping, permeating.

ringed by rashers of heavenly bacon,

like crispy petals of a flower.

toasted bagle, or seven,

covered lovingly, with butter.

covered, not spread!

on top of that a choice:

runny camambert cheese,

or leftover baked salmon.

better take both.

potato wedges, first boiled,

then fried in butter.

saussage links,

there’s no escape.

strawberries in cream,

with canned pineapples,

tomato sauce with tabasco,

coffee with milk, no sugar.

a steaming brownie for closure.

no regret,

no regtet,

no regret,

no regret,

no regret,

no regret,

clinking saucers carried off,

birds chirping,

distant sound of the ambulance,

they’ll never make it.

I suppose it’s sad to know,

that our withering stories fade.

The love we found so eternal

Was nothing other than a charade.

Like the rose enamored by lust,

Born only in the darkened mud.

Colors of a feeble hold,

You called it ruby, and I called it blood.

We were made of daggers and knives,

Holsters hidden upon my thigh,

Whispers of kings and queens,

Echo softly as they die.

“The young eternal rose,

The kiss of a dying light.

The lies, they petal away

Fading fast into the night.”

I can’t recount the day,

When I saw a stranger in your heart,

yet I fear it happened slowly,

A glass sword tore us apart.

Darling roses are to die for,

but what I always said was true:

I’d rather have white dahlias,

and simply die for you.

Oh the knives in my eyes and the glistening daggers in your smile,

Made our fates a little more bearable.

For through veiled blackness, a glimmering, blood dripping rose

Made our ending less terrible.

#poetry #poet #poem #story #fantasy #love #roses #writing #prose #knives #daggers

Well now really when we go back then to falling in love. And say it’s crazy falling. You see we don’t say rising into love. There is in it the idea of the fall. And it is goes back as a matter of fact two extremely fundamental things that there is always a curious tie at some point between the fall and the creation. Taking this ghastly risk, is the condition of there being life. You see, for all life is an act of faith and an act of gamble. The moment you take a step, you do so on an act of faith, because you don’t really know that the floors not going to give in to your feet. The moment you take a journey what an act of faith. The moment you enter into any kind of human undertaking in relationship what an act of faith you see you’ve given yourself up. But this is the most powerful thing that can be done surrender see and love is an act of surrender to another person. Total abandonment. I give myself to you. Take me, do anything you like with me. So, that’s quite mad because you see it’s letting things get out of control all sensible people keep things in control. Watch it, watch it, watch it. Security. Vigilance. Watch it police, watch it Gods, watch it , who’s going to watch the Gods? So actually there for all the cost and wisdom what is really sensible is to let go that is to commit oneself to give oneself up and that’s quite mad, so we come to the strange conclusion that in madness lies sanity.

pouring acetone over your colored nails, 

a sweet overpowering smell,

of sugar and fruit.

toxic lies hid beneath. 

layers, and layers

of fake skin to cover 

the hatred you hide 

under your nail polish,

and sweet perfumes. 

superficial and yet beautiful,

toxic and yet sweet,

truthful and yet you hide things

deep down

where no one can find them. 

deep down

where only you 

can see. 

What is life without purpose? Can I ask you to imagine what it would be like if every single person in the world had no passions or life purpose? What would we talk about? What would we do? 

    Personally, my passions and feeling of purpose in this world are what keeps me going through each and every day, and I’m sure a lot of you here can relate to that. When I’m angry, or upset, I write. When I’m sad, I write. It’s something that through each and every day keeps me going and reminds me why I must keep living this life to its fullest. I’m sure all of you have been reading a book before and when the book ends, you have felt an insane excitement that it had a powerful good ending, or you cried because your favorite character died. That is what we do, we create worlds, we create people that can impact the reader in a deeper way than sometimes, we can’t even imagine. We write because it is a way to express our feelings, we write because we would explode if we didn’t. We write because we love giving that thrill to the reader. That is our passion, and for some of us, our life’s purpose. Imagine what it would be like if that was taken away; if writing and reading were banned. What would be left? And that, that is what it is like for most people, they love something, they do it all the time and if it was taken away, they wouldn’t have a purpose. And that is why we must fight, we must fight for everyone to be able to fight about what they care about, what they love. I think it is amazing, how when people fight for things they care about, people from all over the world, and people that are complete opposites of each other, can come together and join as one to fight for something. Everyone in this world cares for something, but only very few of us are actually brave enough to fight. Don’t give up. It will get better in the end. Don’t give up. Don’t listen to what other people say to put you down, they don’t know what they’re saying. 

    Fighting for what you care about... What an amazing thing. What an amazing thing to love something so much that you would do anything to fight for it. What an amazing thing how humans can have this amazing will to fight, to live, to do anything in their power to fight for something. What an amazing thing to know that if something ever got taken away from you, that you would fight to get it back. 

    Don’t be afraid to fight, don’t be afraid to hear what people say, they have their own problems and their own battles, they will always take their anger out on you, they cannot always understand why we must fight for these things we love so much. 

What is life without purpose? Let me answer that for you. Life doesn’t exist without a purpose, so fight for what you care about before it’s too late. 

i.

when the moon shines

and the stars shed their skins,

she sits at the well

while pearls drop into holy water

when her eyes are dry

and the wishing well is salted

she draws a single bucket

and dips in a single finger-

when the goldfish bloom

delicately in the water,

she smiles for the first time since yesterday

and rose petals fall from her lips.

ii.

when the clouds beckon

and they drop their heavy burden,

she steps into the roadside ditch

while lizards crawl around her neck

when her eyes are dry

and the leaves have covered all the tails

she stares into a puddle

plunges in her hand-

when serpents slither from her fingertips

their poison stinging her nails,

she laughs for the first time since yesterday

and toads hop from her mouth.

iii.

a pearl necklace waits

wrapped around a glass bottle in the ditch,

lizards snooze in a fishbowl

balanced on the side of a well.

“One of the things I tell the writers with whom I work is, man, when you finish a draft of a poem, or short story or novel, you make sure you go out and celebrate all night long because whether the world ever notices or not, whether you get it published or not, you did something most people never do: You started, stuck with, and finished a creative work. And that is a triumph. "

-Andre Dubis lll

There's this smell of blueberry muffins in the air whenever I close my eyes, freshly baked, there's the warm air from the oven that smells sweet and rather like a family holiday than christmas, and I don't even like blueberry muffins but when you proposed this I didn't tell you. Neither of us could deny the occasion, the date; not with the soft glow on the streets everywhere, the festive lights, the decorations, and there was even this thin layer of snow, or rather frost that I pretended to be snow, on the windows and cars and the sparkling wetness on the pavement. It was, for once, a calm Christmas, but still you knew about my issues with this day and though we agreed to overcome them - fleeing wouldn't be possible, it would just feel like more desperation - you did invite me over to celebrate it as some important holiday in winter that had nothing to do with angels and holy babies. The muffins were somewhat chewy, softer than they should be, formless, but who were we to complain? The drinks we'd mixed were non-alcoholic but honestly amazing, some ominous creation of tea, spices and, because I insisted, strawberry juice. We'd warmed it up, then added whipped cream, which made it ridiculously sweet but somehow we still both loved it, and despite my doubts that you might just be lying not to hurt me when you said you liked the taste, I realised that it would still be fair even then since I would have preferred chocolate over blueberries. The kitchen was messy as always, but in a way that made me feel safe, and your hair, half braided into a complex coiffure, was just as chaotic on the half I hadn't gotten around to do yet when I suddenly jumped up and said: "the oven!", worrying all our efforts might just have burned to death. They'd survived, and in this very moment, you were taking them out, wearing thick gloves so you wouldn't burn your hands. You smile at me, but as I try to focus on your face I accidentally open my eyes again and there I am, alone, on a bench beneath some tree. And when my vision clears up again despite the tears in my eyes that I only notice now and I see the grey sky above me, the dark trees, I smell the cold and I can almost feel the frost on the tombstone before me, the smell of blueberries disappears, and suddenly there's nothing in this world I'd rather eat.

"Merry Christmas", I whisper, but you're not there to reply.