in the morning my waterfall falls…

how is that on my day off
I wake up and not want to write
is it apathy, indifference 
maybe just uninspired
my muse sleeping
my love tucked away
my passion idle
I feel the neglect in my gut
as if I could abandon my pen
crawl back into old skin
put on that old facade of
Kansas plain
lackluster pallor 
winter pale
even christmas
seems determined dull
my mind was bended yesterday
full of contemplation 
my body too
desire aching 
evidence of scented sensuality 
and an obedience satisfied
pleasing to someone
to me
the sun is coloring me
changing the dark shadowed walls
of my grey room
warming up hope
for today
I know I will love
do love 
it spreads across these pages
these little 
scripted confessions
and poetry
of times & places
of people & secrets 
I love my vulnerability
it feels like 
I could type out the remains
of all my shards
my mosaic
ever progressing 
I don’t want to finish it in this life
Let me come back again
again & again
again a thousand times
carrying midnight & dawn
so he finds me
intimate in his solitude
whispered in his darkness
lovely in the newness
of  every spectrum of light
…and as I begin to flow 
let loose my waterfall
my layers are opening 
and how my voice
my words
my pen
are found again
never can they
lay empty 
long

a beautiful soul…

There is this soul
who is beautiful air
a gentle teacher
a willing student 
whom has shown 
love and kindness 
my soul is filling 
because of his pathway
his belief
his beauty 
his pain
his name…
air

I am grateful

ūüôŹūüŹĽNamaste 

of random thoughts…ÔĽŅ

I know we get caught up  in the the tangle of what we don’t have, feeling as if something is missing, so much so we can’t even begin to see what’s truly beautiful around us.

We forget to look and be grateful, hardly able to remember the definition of positivity. Forgetting that what we think we perceive, what we precive comes to be.
I am so guilty of this inclination to self loathe, to be drowning in negative thoughts, which leads to negative circumstance. Yet I don’t remain there. 

I am a constant student of self, learning to cope with theses thoughts that have plagued me from when I can first remember…around age five. 

Thank goodness I have a few people full of optimism and love and support in my immediate world. And yes, often I feel very much alone and unloved. Although I have such love for them. Without them I may have drowned a thousand times. 

I know my wordpress has such dark self hating matter but please know if it is written on a page, it is released, exposed, it is no longer hiding in the deep recess of my being. For me it is healing to uncover the dark. 

This blog is my medium for that healing ritual. It is the way of me and I am ever evolving, ever breathing, some moments beautiful and elegant, and other moments slipping deep into the darkest of ache. 

Remember though, I am…far more full of love, Am loved, am surrounded by love and I am love itself…

stay or leave…read or don’t…Be a part of my life or not…yet I will have loved you regardless. 
I have had lived through some very dark and rough circumstances and I am still here standing, full of love for humanity, even in our depravity we are worthy of love, have the ability to love, are love!

Remember this darlings

‚̧ԳŹÔłŹM

Yesterday’s afternoon…

what a wonderful soul
to say openly of his struggle
to speak of his comeback
fire took his belongings 
try to turn his spirit to dead ash
yet he in his depressed stillness 
found a quiet strength 
and is on the rise once more
what a lovely man
the gentle vulnerability 
I find in his manner
refreshing ease
evident in our conversation
as we spoke briefly of life 
and its tough delivery

*This man will never know how I see him. He will never know I write of him today. And if I should see him again I will smile for rare is such raw and exposing honesty. My heart appreciates these kind of moments and people such as he. 

I have forgotten…

I have forgotten this thing
this thing called breathing
what it’s like to lay
effortless
easy
unaware 
unaffected…

I have fogotten this thing
this thing called comfort 
what its like to be wrapped
safely tucked in
warm
weatherproofed
protected…

I have forgotten this thing
this thing called forgetting
forgetting to forget
your color
your beauty
your reflection
sound of every word you’ve written…

I have forgotten this thing
this thing called L (cursor blinking)

no! I haven’t forgotten
*erases that line

I don’t know this thing
this thing called

…LOVE…

12:12 a.m. confession…

There was man who wrote erotic tweets. He was quite beautiful in words and he dm’d me a few times. We had exchanged poetry and conversations. The he disappeared for quite awhile. Until his alter twitter, which wrote beautifully erotic things too, had found my alter twitter. We had no idea who the other was until he dm’d me in the alter versions of ourselves. Of course he use very much the same type of M O. I giggled, letting him know I knew exactly who he was…I made him guess who I was in a quite amusing way by dropping hints. Laughingly sad he had not an f-ing clue who I was. I eventually told him. He only dm’d one or two more times after that, which I was totally ok that he didn’t hang around. Some people have no staying power nor loyalty. So tonight I am sitting here thinking about the last couple of years and thinking of my social media writing experiences, why this instance popped into my mind… I have no idea! Yet now, I am thinking what are the chances of that happening? Twice in the different versions of myself he came along. Apparently he didn’t find it such an extaordinary thing… 

symmetry…

there are

puzzles

a thousands pieces

ten thousand more

initially looking the same as any other

yet, in a lightening strike moment

 within the speck of light

 the edge catches your eye

maybe it has a slight deviation in shape

a deeper concave or larger salient

perhaps its color is more beautiful

a brilliancy

a feeling

your eyes¬†can’t leave

this piece

with its edge

aligning to fit

intentioned

intended to slide into

the other piece¬†you’re holding

quiet hestitation speaks in your heart

in the intimacy of an inhaling breath

you find you mirror

the piece’s edge