THE PLEASURE OF READING

I cannot remember when I started to enjoy reading. To read for the sheer pleasure of living in that well woven story and beyond. I cannot...

01 January 2018

BACK TO THE PEN

I have not written in over a year. Well, I have. But text messages and emails and work reports or letters do not really count. I have not written a blog post in over a year.

Weirdly, I am content in spite of this. Because I have found other ways to explore and express myself. I've found other ways to interact with the many thoughts, emotions, and situations I experience. I've matured. I enjoy short walks in the evening. I've decided what genre of music soothes or energizes me depending on what I need. I've found diverse ways to connect with people and share my thoughts. I've explored some habits I'd like to keep and some I need to boot.

At first, I stopped writing because I got busy at my job and couldn't make the time. Then I had the time but my heart wasn't at peace. And I couldn't bear to write because every time I was alone with my thoughts, they went to a place I didn't want to dwell. Then I found ways to deal with my insecurities and control my fantasies. But, I'd already become lazy. I was already reading less and less. I had pulled away from the things and the habits that nurture my inspiration. So even when I did sit to write, my thoughts would not pull together into words I could shape

In 2018, I want to get back to writing. Because I am lonely without my scribbles. Because I love the person writing makes me. Because I like how literature and poetry influence my relationships and my ability to intimately connect with the people I love. When I'm writing, I feel in sync with my purpose and I'm better placed to pursue my many dreams. When I'm writing, I don't struggle to express what I'm feeling. It is easier to ponder on the diverse experiences I encounter.

I want to once again write about my experiences. I want to write about the world as I am in it. I want to pen poetry again. I want to explore new subjects.
I want to write my heart out.

So I shall write!

25 October 2016

THREE MINUTES OF YOU

Minute 1:
She likes you.
The you that tickles her desires like a sorcerer summons reluctant ghosts to awaken for Halloween.
So smoothly that she laughs her jaws and ribs into an ache, her eyes sparkling like darts of bonfire flames.
She's star-struck every time your attention is hers.
Perhaps this is how she trips.

She wants you.
The you that's quick to deeply and devilishly etch into the soul of her nerves.
So deeply and wittingly weaving in, that she cannot laugh at a joke without wondering whether you would find it funny.
So devilishly embedding into her heart of hearts that your name is the only song.
Perhaps this is how she falls for you.

She deifies you.
The you whose demons scrub up and dress up for dates with her.
So charmingly that fantasy replaces reality,
Perhaps, you should have dug a shallower pit.
Perhaps this is how deep you wanted her to fall for you.



Minute 2:
She has fallen.
Not for you. Of course not. She's wiser than that. But, is she?
She's probably only fallen for the idea of you.
Her desires have been playing in her dreams, casting you as the knight.
Your elegant fabrication of ‘gentlemaness’ so finely cast, she willingly loses her feet.

She has fallen.
For you. Because it's you she sees in her fantasies.
She wants to capture the mundane moments with you, to freeze them in little pockets of time.
She's no fool, she knows she might soon need the comfort of memory.
Fuck boys don't last long.

She has fallen.
And you last long enough to be count.
So she begins to build ice castles in the desert.
And you bring the paint for your fairytale castle.
Surely you're not one to disappoint.



Minute 3: 
She is alone.
You left, and with her sanity too.
The fantasies she found comfort in now mock her.
Your fingers no longer trace maps to uncharted paradise on her flesh.
And she knows you shouldn't come back.

She is bitter.
Memories of you are but torture.
Where you drew laughter, that tattoo now spells torment.
When she recalls your caresses, emptiness confronts her.
Promises once spoken are now drawings on sand, erased by harsh winds and drowned in tears.

She is awake.
The pieces of her broken heart pound as a whole.
She knows she'll fall again, perhaps for herself next time.
Holding on to her fairytales, she must keep going.
But what's this space in her heart for, if not toads and beasts?

10 September 2016

MORE ME THAN ME

I am in love with her.
This pretty girl who jumps out of me every time I sip this wine.

She is free, uninhibited, pure.
She is proud, content, alive.
She is smart, confident, sufficient.
She is more me than I am.

Last night she came out again. She had been naughty and flaring up all week. She had screamed and kicked like a bad child. So last night I let her out of her cage.

She came out smiling and grinning  with mischief. And she came out swaying her soft hips to some music I could not hear. She danced gayly like her feet had been bewitched. She came out, and she came with all my sass.

This girl I'm in love with, She went into a fit. She yelled at me and she broke some of me. She said she's tired of wafting in and out of my lucidity like a caged vixen. "No more prison," she ordered.

Now she is free, uninhibited, pure.
Now she is proud, content, alive.
Now she is smart, confident, sufficient.
She is more me than I am. And she wants me to be her.