It occurred last night in groping after the elements we derive from literary compositions, that is like the pleasure which the prince Le Boo received from seeing himself for the first time in a mirror,—a mysterious & delightful surprise. A poem, a sentence causes us to see ourselves. I be & I see my being, at the same time.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Journals and Miscellaneous Notebooks 5:278

Have you ever looked yourself in the mirror?

I mean, really looked

              into the wavering pupil that focuses on the bearings of your curiosity.

Curious to who resides inside, I allow my hand to courageously explore the page.

Once let wild, the back bone of reality crumbles into the palm of fantasy and my skin is pleasantly smoldered by the flame of my essence. 

To meet oneself is to understand one's existence. 

To write is to meet oneself.

The words I've set free which reveal degrees of enlightenment cuddle beneath my warm belly- 
                   for what good is a composed word if the only willing receiver is the fabricator.

With this in mind, exploration continues, the hand keeps moving and adept at understanding oneself shall the bearer of enlightenment become.


That's what it's all about anyway, isn't it?
                 finding
                    realizing
                   understanding


will we ever be satisfied?
   

do you feel me

by morning, before my eyes rise, i reach to my heart to feel for the string.
a little tug tells if its still attached to yours, or if its untied.
though the connection feels weak and no messages have been received in days, the firm tug back warms every inch of my body.

eyes never meet, nor do our fingertips
hearts never touch, far from your vagrant lips
cradled in the memory that once was in front of me
turning pages backwards to read when our hearts were free
deserted in your reminiscence though connected through resistance
i find flowers blooming in your eyes when you remember it's real,
your branches reaching out with wings, flying over consequence
                                              because its surreal
                                                                 bizarre
                                                                 unusual
                                                                 strange
                                                                 freakish
                                                                 uncanny
                                                                 dreamlike
                                                                 unearthly
                                              that we exist together.
tender is your kiss that gets sent by night and hollow is your heart when the time isn't right
i feel you for certain, but quite in the mist-
you have untied the string from your heart and tied a bow on your wrist
days when you switch back, my wrist better my heart
yet finding a hole in the time of this world to pull both sides of the string apart-
blue moons come and go and we wait
                                               and wait
                                        fate can wait
                                               and wait
                                             we'll wait
                                              until wait is late
                                              and fate mistakes
                                              friends for mates
                                              and love for hate
                                              and proud for shame
                                              and real for game.

by night, i'll tug on the string and hope that it tugs back. my eyes will rest as my heart will nest in the colors of whats left of the sunset.

untamable volcano

 immaculate soul, ey?


meeting you was like reading a book. every perfect adjective so strategically placed in the outline of a mirror. every line tasted like my own saliva, and felt like the skin on my very own bones. you as your own author, evil wizard.
how did you know what i wanted to hear? am i that obvious? do my wants and needs burst out of my pores like the untamable volcano?
what was your plan, evil wizard?
your steaming hands lead me to the rabbit hole and lured me in.
i didn't fall, i walked. i disregarded every warning and kept walking. walking walking

cautiously, yet heart frolicking in hand.
       the trees went as high as my vision could reach. the crashing sound of currents rising and falling found me through the cracks of the trunks that offered comfort in its appropriately nurturing way. the branches stripped me of my clothes and bathed me in its sweet nectar.
now as i lay drenched in your black magic, i start to sink into the pool of hearts that you've captured with trickery.
you are a master mind,
                a composer of emotions.
                                    of the symphony that dictates my intuition.
              heartily, you strung every chord and played every string to its perfection.
                                 
i thought once that the plan need not be accurate so long as it shows the disposition of the heart. yet, the unintended plan of a beautiful heart could lead to a dead end with no solution.

     but as truth comes to light, so did the sun in hole you've captured me in.
     darkness sheds as does the lies you've fed to me with a wooden spoon.

how many cracks can a heart hold before it breaks and is no longer useful?
when one must endure as much as this silly heart has, mutation occurs. every crack is sealed with concrete. concrete that weighs it down but keeps it together. a stone heart. unbreakable, unlovable, un treatable i shall become.

you no longer deserve my words or space on my blog.
this heart of stone will keep your initials as a reminder of the cold world that never forgives, never accepts, never partakes. as a reminder that i am indeed alone and should learn to love it that way. one soul, one body, one mind. anything outside is merely entertainment-visitors not residents.

how much control do i really have? they say the mind can do it all but so far, this brain is undoubtedly connected to my stone useless heart.

wavering, lingering, waiting for something good.

"...forget a love which didn't work as all love finally doesn't work..." - Charles Bukowski

music: vermillion pt.2 bloodstone mix by slipknot

secret blogger

you are the life of me and the death of me.

keeping your gaze captive in hopes of communicating that i love you too.
sweet truth that leaked out from your nervous bite
those words that comfortably reside in your eyes yet taste differently on your tongue
bittersweet stares that have salivated the pores of my untouched heart.
the heart of a warrior, a survivor, a realist-
                                          tumbling in the weeds of uncertainty
                                          weeping at the feet of its mercy
                                          wondering aimlessly in the unfamiliar bed of flowers
    my heart    bittersweet--

    i woke up today on your planet.
the sun was meeting the tip of the mountain and the fragranced flowers stained my cheeks
with the orange pollen on my figer tips i drew a picture for you in the sky-
                                                  a picture with purpose- secret to even my own conscious.
            
i miss my mom.
terribly.
i miss the sunshine she let into the house
           the love that reassured
           the words of wisdom
           the certainty- 
                         someone loved me despite effort
i'm itching to tell you that.
         because i need to tell someone.
but shut goes my heart. shut goes my mouth.


being alone consists of unspoken words and heavy hearts

but thats what blogs are for:
                     a silly girl, alone, missing her mom and secretly loving her non-boyfriend.

shh-nobody knows but you.

music: birchwood beaker- this is kit

-xoo

round is the circle

lately, i haven't been able to tell which direction the wind is hitting.

the flame bounces in both directions

and the leaves to my branches are too heavy to move.

immobile, the tree waits for the sun

                  

     the sunflowers bow their heads in humble matrimony

     

     a marriage between oneself and the inevitable circle of life

     for better or worse love and understanding must remain

starving for the attention of Mr. Sun

but round goes the circle

                                         and patience prevails.

         

                     Love will come

        when     fear     subsides 

         once    hope     conquers 

            the    pain     the derives 

         from    love     and the

                     fear      of it.

and round goes the circle.