April 14, 2009

old blogs

The following are old blogs I have written in the past - stretching back to early 2006. I can't remember the dates of when they were written but they're pieces I wrote some time ago.

COME BACK SUN
sometimes i try so hard to stare, to escape, to let my eyes glaze over and remember exactly what it feels like. your touch. i replay every second until it's perfect, trying to hold onto my last pieces of immediate memory, until i lie and makeup my own version where you took me further away from everyone else. focus. your face is so much more than just a face up close. your look. you're killing me with that look. your eyes scare me for a second, as you scour me with intrigue. source my soul. i don't want you to see it but i want more than anything for you to see it. to pair with it and run away. you look so hard for it, and then you find it and i'm naked. i could tell you things that are no longer secret. i keep lying to my self and you lay on my chest listening to my peacefully anxious heart. my chest rises, then your chest falls. we co-ordinate our breathing. i can feel you smiling. i'm smiling too. you're warm, and i'm finally here. i reach you but you pull away and it's suddenly winter. the spot where you were gets a cold shock and my skin prickles and yearns for you to come back. it's raining and you're not here. it's all in my head. some of it happened but its all a mess of the past and lust and i'm confused. my eyes re-focus and i'm torn away from my thoughts of you. where is my umbrella? come back sun.

BLACK BOOK THOUGHTS
stories traded by the most familiar of voices. you haven't heard them in so long, but it feels like only yesterday when you were listening to their soft words. travels and accomplishments, heartache and mishaps. tales of a journey, tales of the dead-end. like magnets, plus and minus will always draw to each other. these are the true companions. the ones you haven't seen since you cant remember. yet when they do come back, it's like no one ever left. we pick up where we left off, like a good book put away, then brought back out and dusted off to finish reading. we're turning the pages, steady. one at a time. each when needed. it's the most comforting of friendships and i hope that the beautiful ability to separate and re-connect so instantaneously with you never goes away.

MUSIC
i think poetry harmonised with sound is one of the most beautiful things that a person or group of people can create. music brings the divided world together proving that the simple sensation of sound hitting the ear drum is one of our most powerful natural tools. being the universal language of mankind; there’s no denying that everybody speaks, knows, feels, appreciates and lives music. everything is music; love is music and music is love. it is a higher exposure than philosophy, a form of communication of unfathomable inner thoughts. it expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent, meaning that music is what feelings sound like - the voice of emotion.

METAPHORICAL BOXING MATCH
We will circle each other in a metaphorical boxing match soon enough, dancing around one another delicately exchanging punches, blow for blow, in some momentous battle of epic proportions. Float like butterflies and sting like teddy bears, as I could do you no harm. Each jab is a cheek kiss, soul-searching question, mind-excavation, sunny-day picnic on a red and white checkered blanket with sun tea and poetry and serenades on acoustic guitars while you sit up in a tree and then I chase you around the sandbox and we remember being ten and after the fairy dust wears off I fall back into nineteen and just lay in the grass with you appreciating every single molecule on this earth until our conversation falls into flowery run-on sentences such as this one. I can't wait for you to bludgeon me in the face. Don't pull and punches, as I won't be. If you couldn't tell, I don't dip my foot in the pool to test its temperature and then, slowly but surely, inch-by-inch, submerge. I dive right in, headfirst, and drown myself.
- I didn't write this one. It was written by a poet who named himself Poem.

1 comment:

a decadent thing said...

love your writing, as well as your header.

xx