Honesty

This might be the only place that I am heard,

and that is with the assumption that you are listening.

In my fantasies, you are rapt with attention,

tuned in to my  transmission.

How it does feel to be an aching body behind a screen.

I have been writing for you all these years,

how does that feel?

Settling for the possibility of being seen,

rather than really being seen,

for I am a coward.

I settle into the fantasy,

because in my fantasies

all of my dreams come true.

Is it that I am getting older,

or going through something?

Should I push myself to go out dancing

late Friday nights?

Should I push myself to do more than write here to you,

the phantom of my cyber-dreams.

Here, you do not touch me,

or ask me questions.

You do not want to have my child,

or meet my family.

Here, I am in love with the thought of you.

I wonder if someday I will need more.

I wonder if this is me needing more.

Do I let myself be…or do I push myself?

I fear regretting not going to these things

when I’m older looking back.

My worst nightmare is sitting alone,

aching somewhere, wailing:

“Missed opportunities,

missed OPPORTUNITIES,

SO. MANY. MISSED. OPPORTUNITIES.”

 

 

 

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Growing

Growing like a tree,

watching,

am I the tree or am I the leaf?

And waiting,

growing up like an inverted volcano,

out like a mushroom absorbing the Earth

gaining momentum as it grows,

to know we are everything,

and to grow with it like

a film strip unraveling, our own

narrow path,

the exception and the whole.

This is here now,

but I feel as though I

have been here before.

It can be both,

my fairy godmother taps me on the

forehead with a wand striking

sparkles.

Oh!

I see now.

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Growing Up

I find myself caught in the gaze these days,

with nothing to say.

My reaction might be distress,

disturbing…

my only goal is to see,

to have some kind of validity…

I am here.

But you see what you want to see,

like a sentence once spoken.

I am only the punctuation,

probably the ellipses,

caught between how I feel,

and the base survival instinct.

To pass, I must go along with you.

Perhaps the world is not fucked up,

perhaps it’s been me all along.

Dreams and nightmares of what could be

if I were different, but there is no depression.

I keep moving, hung on the edge,

a pause,

waiting, to see what you might do next,

to record it for you.

You might never know.

I am waiting for something to happen,

beyond my reactions and my

knee-jerk responsiveness. I wait

to see what comes next, but

I am not idealistic anymore.

“I told you so”,

ringing in my head,

every wish I blew into a candle,

on a star overhead,

on a coin in the well,

fodder for come what may.

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Let’s Be Real

The qualification is measured by,

can I fall apart in front of you?

One by one,

two by two,

they fall away from my mind.

There is but one or two I could

comfortably fall,

but I suppose it depends on

how far deep I fall.

Is it so sad I hug my lover?

who will become the womb

for my nourishment

and the tomb for my despair.

Is it so sad I hug my best friend?

who will hold space as I sob,

responding to my needs as

they are cast aloud.

Is it so sad I hug my family?

Who are always there if I truly need them.

Is it so sad I collapse in public, in front of strangers,

the way I righteously fall to the floor in madness,

sadness spinning out of control,

pounding my fist to the pavement

as a witness to emotion that drives you over the cliff with only

survival instinct urging you to hold on.

Is it so sad that for at least a moment, all of our humanity is exposed

and we take off our masks and be real with one another?

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Pre-Springtime

Pregnant and full of potential,

a seed awaiting the world,

sensing that everything is yet to come,

that she has almost arrived.

The tragedy is when she arrives,

she will no longer be the seed.

She will know that further on is to sprout

and blossom,

wither and die.

She will know this in her depth, but cannot

approach it waking.

She is just full,

and tomorrow,

she will be something else.

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To You

I only write this here

and call it proetry,

because to tell you how I feel,

I’m afraid,

would be too much for you.

You told me once,

“You can feel safe with me”.

But you didn’t mean it,

I later found out.

I am not angry with you,

it was the spirits

and the moment,

despite how much I wish it were true.

I’ve written to you a hundred times and erased it,

deleted it.

Technology is weird.

I secretly hope you’ll read this,

though I’m not sure how you’d find it,

only so that you know…the other night,

as a lover went down on me,

I came thinking it was you kissing me.

I saw it so clearly.

I can feel it now as I recall,

this warmth and spinning,

can’t stop thinking of you

movement.

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Wooden Floors

Only something man-made could be so perfect,

smooth curves and flat surfaces,

geometry and focused effort.

Will it withstand the test of time?

Nothing has so far,

except the decree of a cosmic nation~

 

Change

 

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Permanence

Impact~

you range from a butterfly wing

to a metal cauldron thing.

What will they say thousands of years from now,

will a face have your name?

A crystalline structure of

transparency:

please, anybody, look at me!

Would it make a difference to know

the exact mathematical equation,

the sum of every experience and

physical combination it took

to create you?

Would you feel valid then?

Rubber stamps on the bottoms of your shoes,

the beach was never fulfilling for you.

Impermanence is key, but permanence is truth.

Everything you do matters.

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