To walk away from one moves you toward the other.
good bones…
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
— Maggie Smith —
look within…
under this glorious moon…
We could be taking in such sweet delight.
We could be enjoying the best sex of our lives.
We could be hard and wet from such an invite.
We could be smiling as the other writhes.
Come to bed.
While the moon whispers what is most true.
Come to bed.
While you see this look I have from wanting you.
Come to bed.
This pleasure we share needs tending to.
to rise up, rooted…
If you love yourself, you love others.
If you hate yourself, you hate others.
Because in relationships with others…
the other is nothing but a mirror.
— Osho —
youth…
empty roads & broken bottles…
the darning needle…
your love is downy soft
a gentle brush ‘gainst lashes closed
a fist wrapped tight ’round rosemary and mint
it beats like a drum in the basement
it’s echo a pillow plumped in sheet forts built long ago
each crinkle of your smile
a constant call that does not rest
that will not abide the loss of what can be won
sweet determination
sufferance of fools
and saviour to none
your love blossoms under full moons
in the spaces between words on pages
and gasps of air ‘tween laughter that rings true
this is your fullness
the light you shine on a world living for itself
you pause when you used to run
you doubt despite assurances you are right
you speak without apology
into a mic made of bone and air
dear one
hold the hand that reaches for you
but let it go, let it be
and float
float
and float
here among the clouds of your heart’s home
hear the beat calling your own name from within
the sky that holds all that love
that is you
— Lola Moi —
my heart is not a clock…
Love, like art,
must always be free.
– Wachowskis and J. Michael Straczynski –
last night i sang…
I’m fighting myself. I know I am.
One minute I want to remember.
The next minute I want to live in the land of forgetting.
One minute I want to feel.
The next minute I never want to feel again.
— Benjamin-Alire-Sáenz —