prose (1)

Words elude me, and don’t escape my lips as unrecognized thoughts bombard my brain when I contemplate you.
Pensive.
I have memories of our time together that never occurred because all we’ve known is one another’s representatives.
It’s not reality.
So is it Deja-vu, fantasy, or desired destiny?
I really need to know ’cause, the more I think about you, the more you make me smile.
And not a surface smile, like,
“Hey, how ya doin’?”
“Oh, I’m fine,”
but one from deep inside a time and space that doesn’t exist for me yet,
like a father holding his baby girl for the first time,
promising he’ll always be there and knowin’ he ain’t lyin’.
It’s the smile of a righteous man who, at the end says,
“This was my life with which I am well pleased. Now, to home!”
Happy.
I guess it’s safe to say that you make me make Me happy.
But I’m still confused. Just who am I to you?
Am I chosen, or for settling, or am I just being used?
See, there’s only one of me in my world, with no one competing for my most valuable resource- time.
But you’re still attached, even though you’re unattached.
So of your time, it’s a blessing to get just a portion of that.
Regardless of it all, I think with you, I’m smitten.
Drawn in by the idea of you.
I mean, I just might be falling in like.
Anyway, I know this ain’t “The Light,”
but I hope I was able to convey just a little bit of the way that you astound me.
Maybe one day we’ll meet on a train,
or dodging water in the rain,
while crossing a parking lot,
on our way to climb trees in a park,
or gathering wild flowers in a field, barefoot,
or at a poetry reading at the library.
Or simultaneously gazing at the same constellations from across the world in our dreams.
Until then, as always, I can’t wait to meet you.

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Sycamore

I am everywhere and nowhere-

a vagabond, traveling to destinations unknown,

and seeking that uninhabited place to call my home.

Like the seedlings of a sycamore tree,

toiling and spinning in the breeze in springtime.

petrichor

In an autumn forest at dusk, waiting for the sunset,

I smell the Earth releasing oil in anticipation of a shower.

Lying on my back and swaddled in a blanket of flame-kissed foliage,

I listen as cicadas and crickets entertain the early evening.

Then I close my eyes as the first fat drops of rain break across my forehead,

sliding down my cheeks like so many unshed tears.

The universe, doing for me what I cannot do for myself.

Petrichor- the sky is crying.

to no one i’ve ever met

your smile is like a sunrise-
it imitates a ray of light, and manifests the joy i seek in the darkness of my life.
so when i feel melancholy, my imagination leads
to visions of you gracing me, through the bleakness of the night.
all that i can tell you is, you’re killing me with your smile.

and when i look into your eyes, my serenity begins to rise.
like moon drawing in the oceans tide, they pull me close and make me strong;
it’s in those mirrors that i see reflected souls of you and me
gleaming kaleidoscopically, as night gives way to dawn.
another thing to tell you is i get lost inside your eyes.

but the reality of your foundation, and the pliability of its fortification
is the loveliest of your creation, and that’s stronger than a rock!
of course, i’m talking about your mind, which grows in wisdom all the time,
a truth made all the more sublime each time our thoughts interlock.
i’d really like to tell you you mesmerize me with your mind.

i’ve written all of these to tell you this:
i think you’re kind of fly.
someday
i hope
to meet you.

Scars

my life is seen as scars.
thoughts of a war torn past consume me
as i am possessed by the obsession with a broken memory.
(why must i forget? why can’t i let go?
why does my brain race to retrace thoughts of things that i just don’t know?)
sometimes, i’d rather be anywhere, anyone, or anything else.
most times, i don’t want to feel.
yet strangely, i spend time inside of my mind, trying to outrun myself,
indulging in fantasy to escape from everything that’s real.
no, i am a coward. devoured by fears of some inevitable truth,
too afraid to face the present, willingly blind to all it’s proof.
trapped in the past, i have no future.
only pain, which tells me that i still feel and am alive.
so scars serve as proof of my existence.

Monsters

Sometimes, I get monsters-
murmurs of malevolent memories
which are so ingrained, they are forgotten.

Sometimes, I get monsters-
insidious ideations of bloodletting invade every mistake,
so guilt convicts like a wise tutor offering constructive criticism,
as shame scavenges, a greedy predator cannibalizing itself for survival;
shame begets shame.

Sometimes, I get monsters-
calamitous cravings for the comfort of chaos,
compelled by a deep-seated desire for self-destruction-
a muse to drink, denying intrusive, unintended introspection.

Sometimes, I get monsters-
thoughts of consumption, more ferocious than the most feral pangs of starvation.
Is this hunger, thirst, or obsession that threatens to overtake my being?
And why-
why do I long for those malevolent murmurs which are lost to me?
Why do I seek monsters?

*Authors note: After having re-read this a few times, I thought it might be pertinent to add that this is a poem about struggles with negative coping skills and self-injurious behavior as a result of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and not in any way about harming others. That said, I’m not changing a word.