fluids that do not move turn to poison
water that sits stagnant rots
blood browns and loses all life
unshed tears harden in the throat
feelings sit in the chest and press and press
feelings that do not move turn poison
I’m very bad at goodbyes, I rarely read the ending of the story, I often fail to finish the things I start, So you and I shall just have to love one another forever. Ok? Because I don’t shall never be done with you.
Sometimes I try to write something good, but all the words come out as pretzels, all twisted and brittle.
Writing feels like my most tenuous talent. Not something I can summon, but more like a spark I wait patiently and impatiently for. Scribbling pretzels page to page, waiting for a full fledged meal to come out, something to nourish and satisfy.
What is the goddess of eloquence? The deity of perfect word placement? I will pray to you. Bleed my ink at your alter. I’ll burn my best letters for you.
I would like to say something meaningful. I would like to mean something. I would like someone else to feel a feeling from something I have made. I can not yell very loud. I can not sing. I can only hope to quietly cast the perfect words forth and hope these ordinary words, in such arrangement, form a magic spell.
I would like to catch the precious thoughts before they pop like soap bubbles. Just now, I felt one, a good one, a good idea brush past my forehead, I felt the flutter of its wispy fabric. It is gone now. This is all I have.
Do you know what the difference between humans and animals is? Animals can sleep anywhere on the earth they please, they just fold their wings and tuck their tails and away they go; but when I try to find a little patch of earth to lay my head, there is inevitably some person with the authority of a flashlight (or an occasional badge) that says, “You can not sleep here.” And me and my teddy bear look forlorn, and it still doesn’t matter.
Oh humans, why have we grabbed all the horizontal surfaces and covered them with flags and fences and concrete? I would like to sleep on this earth but you won’t let me. I cannot think of a less offensive, bothersome act than sleeping – yet we shoo away all the people without beds from this firm ground that no one else was using anyway.
“I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.” here here, Sylvia Plath, I want that too. For everyone who still has a bit of animal in them and dreams their best dreams upon the moss.
There is a slowness, the seems to come with wisdom,
and you grow wiser, slower, larger.
The elephant that never forgets, with its heavy slow footsteps, the blue whale that is never lost with its great falling tail, the red wood trees that never stray, standing so straight strong and true, the big drifting clouds that know to always change, and the strong deliberate mountains that over millions of careful years of reaching upward come to rest in their most glorious state.
Some of the most exquisite dances of my life have been the moments we hold each other – perfectly still – for hours. Feeling our bodies passing the exhale back and forth in perfect synchronized rhythm.
Feed me poetry please
Like a baby bird
Speak it directly into my mouth
what better food than perfect words
exhaled from a body so perfect
it can keep me –
– surviving on exhales.