that’s all there is to maturity;
knowing when to cut your losses
to put to rest the overworked horse
of burdens it was never meant to bear.
it’s learning when to stop raging,
to accept the inexorable night.
you learn to navigate
to steer yourself
through islands of heartbreak,
preferring the occasional grounding
to an endless sea of loneliness.
you just learn to stop whining,
or maybe even simply learn
to whine more artfully.
Via pol sifter on flickr
The sharpest pain is the loss of hope,
The dissolution of a fantasy.
The snatching away of what might have been,
Not the fading away of what once was.
The dying sun,
No mere wilting flower.
I am wearing blue swallow-tail coats
and canary yellow pants.
Haiku Bones prompt.
The waves come and go.
She waits quietly, wishing
they would take her too.
- Photo credit: _setev
It’s raining outside. Perfect weather for a fantasy.
It feels a little silly to insist on sticking by a format that one can’t even properly implement in English, but constraints are interesting, sometimes.
I am childish in my deviance;
chaotic, but obvious.
I am all buttons and knobs,
to any passing stranger’s whims.
I cannot let you in
or you will play around
these precise adjustments
these delicate proportions
of love and greed,
lust and anger, joy and fear,
that, if nothing else, survive.
Cupid waits for me at the bottom of the garden.
He is less willful now.
The years have tamed him.
He asks for consent.
I shake my head, and choose Identity instead.
I lie in bed and try to remember the scent of your skin
as I press up against it oh so greedily
but I can’t;
your face is flickering
and everything else has already faded away
and now I am alone
I should feel free but I feel scared instead;
they tell me that I’m supposed to, that it will pass, that life goes on
that I’ll look back and laugh and look at it as a little time wasted, at worst, and at best too,
no harm no foul, no hate no sin.
if you were in love, but not with each other,
have you still loved?
Is it still spiritual ecstasy if all it takes is a dose of oxytocin?
Mad dash, a torrent
drenched within and without, tear
clingy clothes, half-breathed.