In The End

As we get to know each other
More and more
The differences show
And as it turns out
We don't like each other at all

Love, Forget Me Not

Still, sitting on my fire escape
I wait for something or someone
Who will never come

Just Fine

Lets knuckle down and face it - the facts
I'm just a little fun for you to have - at that
Before you settle down
And return to fix what went wrong
Darling take advantage of me
As all the others have done
Do exactly as you will
They all play it the same way
Empty words dished
Pretend I believe what it is they say
But I'm just waiting for it all to end
Taking the days as they come
As I march to a silence
And beat of an invisible drum
In time you will lose me
But regain the likes of another
And all will stay the same
Your game safe and undercover
Then I will collect my things
That lay scattered on your floor
And continue myself along
As I have done in times before
And I'll be fine
I'll be just fine
I'm always fine

Toyed With

I do not really know you
And I'm not sure why I thought I did
Or why I placed on you expectations
You could not or would not give
I let myself fall
Deeply into your warmth
Wrap a sheet around me
When the morning had me cold
And with my chattering teeth
You walked with me until home
Whispering goodbyes
Before I would retreat inside alone
And once I was inside
Body returned to a natural warm
I let myself feel
What between us had begun to form
But now you're far away
After many times enjoyed
And I wonder if with each other
And our feelings we have toyed

Looking Lookers Looked

So many lookers

Stalking this good looking town

In this looker of a city

Underneath it all I found

A looker of worth

A looker I thought to be true

Looking for me

While I looked for you

Looking into each other

Deep into the night

And again into the morning
We looked towards the light
Looking to the new
As all new lovers do

Until into one another

We found we had looked
All the way through...

Luck In Extremes

He's been in bed for almost fourteen hours straight

He must be tired. Or hungover. Or both
And the girl to my left, blue string bikini hanging from her bones
Is starving herself. Of this I know
Soy milk light perched on the breakfast table in front of her
And I wonder if she has been up for hours
Working on the removal of her non-existant fat
Being on vacation would not change a routine of that
I remember the days I was exactly the same
When an apple's core was my daily intake
And ironic as here I sit sawing away
At my morning apple with a knife
Sipping black coffee while I pretend
To feel content and happy within this body
And I've come so far since the days I'd stay in bed
For fourteen hours or more
Unable to face the day for fear of what would come
Or too the days when staying awake was a drug
And living off too little let me live my life numb
Extreme to extreme
Extreme the key to being me
But learning to live in between extremes
Found me the answer to be free
So this morning I watched
The glorious sun wake and rise
To welcome another day
Perfect along the Caribbean coastline
And as I submerged myself under the crystal water tides
I took a moment to breathe in the calm and heavenly bliss
Thinking to myself how life has a way of falling into place
And I count myself extremely lucky for ending up like this

Besos

I could be with him this week
Just this one
If only it wouldn't play on his mind
When all is said and done
Paradise deserves romance
Of the most beautiful kind
Here in the evenings of darkness
Light in each other we would find
Our Mexican dreams
Contained within Jasmine walls
White linen sheets
Listening only to the sea's calls
It would not be the same
But it would be a kind of nice
A week to remember
Before we retreat again into the skies
A time for us to treasure
All that once was
Stare into each other
And love again just because

8.2.12

He was peering across both laptops at her. Eyes as piercing and wired as always. "Am I one hundred percent convinced? I'm one percent convinced that it is not a good idea."

A moment of silence and slight confusion on her behalf settled momentarily over the table. What did that even mean? The wine had started to float to her head and she was feeling giddy and girly for unexplainable reasons. Although the words escaping his mouth held no comedic value and her understanding of what he was saying to her happened to stand at about "one percent", she found herself smiling. Perhaps she was smiling because she knew him so well. Or maybe she was smiling because she was finally seeing the light in all of the clutter. That famously discussed light at the end of the tunnel - maybe it did indeed exist. Such humor she managed to find in this moment that held such a muddled mix of night and day over a tabletop and two glasses of rose.

The sky was grey with rolling clouds and the overhanging doom of a much needed summer thunderstorm that would blow over and shower the sweltering city with tears before clearing for another beautiful day of sunshine lingered above them. It was getting dark. His face was lit only by the dim light of his laptop screen staring back at him. She looked at him intently while trying to disect and understand his face. Every inch of it. The way it flinched, the way it stayed completely still and the way she had known it and not known it at all. She studied the thick brown lines of hair that made up his eyebrows and their movements while wondering what they meant. They were straight and focussed as she watched them while she wrote. He glanced up, eyes shuffling towards the large lady two tables across wearing florals and a floaty blue dress. She wondered what he was thinking as the straight lines of his thick brows turned into pointy diagonal arrows to match perfectly the biting disapproval of his eyes and their gaze.

Looking back across the table, he licked his lips, then with tongue resting on his gappy teeth mocked the habits she had that he knew so well. "Chin up" he had said earlier that day, the daily advice and apparent words of wisdom for a girl who knew how to "chin up" all too well. He gave a slight nod - approving of her in some way and she wondered why she even cared at all.

He glanced over again to the plump lady two tables across. Lady Lord of Floral and Blue could tell he was listening to her conversation and judging it, as judgement was a trait he wore so well. But who was he for her to care for his judgement? With a sigh and pause from her typing, she longed to be in the shoes of the lady in blue or anyone else who would not cave in the presence of this piercing man's stare.

- b.o.s.w

Gaining

Find a way to use the memories of pain
As your gain
Because it is the experiences we have in life
That teach us our most valuable lessons
And you
And you
And you
Taught me some
While it is I
Who taught others to you

A Weekend Regret

"I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me, as I sat silently on the bed owned by a man I'd never met but heard thousands of stories about. His life surrounds me - every inch of him. His mind, his art, his creations, they are alive and breathing within these walls. And yet there are elements of the dead creeping and roaming, silently with a noiseless presence that is urging me into a state of numbed "pensiveness". There are remains of what once was hung before me, in the style of a gallery grand, where everyone will come. Am I invited to the party? Or am I merely the eyes that watch it all come together?

There's so much silence here. It reminds me of home. Perhaps the silence is bringing the quiet out in me. It's as though this calm has created an uncertain awareness in me. An uneasy feeling. But why? I sleep next to a soul I adore, walk hand-in-hand with a man I love. And yet, when asked from this same man, whom I cherish so dearly, what is wrong, my words are gone and I feel nothing but empty. Incomplete. Dead. There is everything here and yet there is nothing. There are birds. I hear them calling. Somewhere out in those trees upon trees. Calling to each other. Or perhaps they're calling to me. What if those little singing birds are attempting to give me all the answers I have ever yearned to find. Wouldn't that be nice. And yet not for I do not understand these little bird's songs.

The time drags on. The moments of quiet creating a messy noise in my mind. Blinding my sight and sucking out any energy I had left. I don't want to go on the roof. Nor in the pool. Nor in the outdoor shower. Oh how I disappoint you. I don't want to eat anymore pasta, even though secretly I do. I don't want anymore wine, or beer, or anything like it that will produce only more pounds of empty flesh that nestle into my body as their effects seep into my core,  tormenting me with their comfort and ease. I don't want to wear any clothes, and yet the idea of being bare, breathing only in skin is enough to stir the panic inside me. The haunting I have learned to keep at bay."

I had love and bliss in the palm of my hand and I let a negative force overcome me - with regret I read this back and scoff at the beauty I ruined in your eyes and our time. 

Cowboy Parade

I am not the one

The sort

To parade into the party

Or be paraded by

Gowned in a midnight blue dress

Cowboy attire

Balanced on my head

With red lips to match

I will not be the kind

To follow you for years

As they float by

Waiting again

For the taste 

Of your lips

The ones I've known 

Over and over again

If what we have

Is real and true

You'll be the one

In the end I still know

Who I'll find standing

Waiting for me 

Just as the cowboy parade
Waited for you

Dreaming Of Reality

Maybe the dream was actually more of a reality than either one of us really knew. Or perhaps what we thought to be a dream was actually a nightmare and reality is what felt so recently like dreaming.

A Week In Mexico

I spent a week in Mexico
Lazing on the whitest of white sands
Front row seats
Alongside the raisin
Skeletor
I ate too much guacamole
Put back on the weight
I'd worked so hard
To put off - but I was happy
Beer belly
We spent a week in Mexico
Dreaming as we said we always would
You told me
"It'll be new, it'll be fun, it'll be better"
And that is exactly what it was

19D

19D's breath smells worse than yours ever could
Despite what your Daddy may have told you
And I never ever did mind
Kissing you in the mornings

Finger's Touch Away

My fingers want to touch him
But only because it's him they know

Where something's lost, something new is found.

"Why are you writing on pieces of loose paper like that?" - good question I wonder to myself as I find a way to brush off his annoyingly and rightfully inquisitive observation.

"This diary has pretty paper. I like to write it messy first and once I'm happy with it, I can re-write it here. On this pretty paper." I'm not sure my answer was entirely convincing although it's not as though the question was relevant enough for him to fly into a raging debate over either. However, it turns out my uncontrollable need to maintain handwriting perfection holds potential for absolute annihilation resulting in complete self destruction and discombobulation.  Meaning - loose paper gets lost. More easily than one would imagine and this in my world, is cause for much agony.

A few days later, at home, back from the most heavenly trip of my entire life time and I'm suddenly faced with the realization that the pages and pages of heartfelt - albeit horribly scribbled - words looped together in a script to describe my life and the feelings circulating within my being are gone. Gone. G-o-n-e. Not the kind of gone where one is hurled momentarily into a rage of misjudged panic only to find minutes later that what was "gone" was in fact just "hiding" in the outside pocket of their bag where they had five minutes earlier looked, and clearly overseen. No no. The kind of "gone" where one has searched insides AND outsides of bags, the bags inside the bags and even inside pockets of the tightest jeans that clearly would never fit wads of A4 sized paper, hoping to stumble upon a miracle or the proof that they do really happen. The kind of gone where after an hour of searching and false hope you are forced to sit quietly on the end of your bed, head in hands and whisper to no one in particular "no.. no - this isn't happening to me... no".

Yes it is. And it's gone. There's a reason you can never write something out twice, no matter how great your memory is. It'll always be slightly different, either in tone, or description or lack of connection with the moment.

I don't remember everything I was trying to say in those pages and pages of dribbled handwriting that never made it to the nice paper that is bound inside the beautiful leather journal my brother gave me. Nor do I remember how I felt while writing all I lost.  Who knows if I'll ever venture inside myself enough again to fathom even an attempt at reproducing what in this moment I grieve or if I'll simply let it fly into the abyss along with so many other things I am and have been mourning as of late.

I didn't come back from Mexico with the words I left New York City feeling. Though maybe that represents the ideas I returned home holding onto. When something is lost, there seems to be the potential for something new to be found.

And maybe it was.

Before Tomorrow

Rolling tunnels
Of barreling foam
White fluffy clouds
On sea's surface they perch
Tumbling and crashing down
Over a cluttered water field
Of busy bronzed bodies
Coo's, squeals and laughter
Enveloping the air
And the life guard blows his whistle
Loudly
From high up on his chair
Boss of the beach
Under red and white shade
Summer days
I'm caught in a summer daze
As the burning sun rises
And kisses the bright blue sky
Changing images and shifting shadows
We watch this scene play out
In all different lights
Just as we do life
Figures packed in a row
Like sardines in a can
By afternoon
Disappearing into life's eight
In silence we sit
And we are calm
Just one more two
Amongst the many we wait
To rest our heads
Along with the sun
As it goes to sleep
Behind the earth
Before tomorrow comes
And again so do we
And we will

Failed Judgement

I had never met someone with such great potential yet who was so eternally disappointing.

Rotten

Nothing about you appeals to me anymore
Your face is hard
Bitter and tainted with lies
Your mood is always somber
You look older than you are
And every inch of you is dying
If not dead already
I'm surprised you've miraculously
Made it this far
And your corpse walks
An empty shell
Searching for a purpose
In this life
Wallowing
In your own filth
Stew in it
Like the old and dirty
Piece of meat that you are
Until you rot
And the stench is so foul
That you disgust yourself
Just as you've disgusted
So many others
Who have come and gone
From your life
In times before
And if you return
To those with the illness
Matched by your own
But enough to ignore
Then I wish you luck
For the insanity that you share
Will eat you both up
In
  the
    end
Until that day
I can safely say
Your story is grand
Garnished with the most
Putrid of tastes
Blanketing you
From anything more
Than all you've ever known
Or will
And it's no ones fault
But your
        very
          own

Fleeting Irrelevance

They're fleeting
My words
In and out
Like breaths
Natural
Understated
Sometimes
Exaggerated
Always heartfelt
Honest
And as past
As they once were present
Don't read too much
Into the words I own
Speak and leak
And pour from my soul
Tomorrow will be different
Perhaps they wont exist at all
Words
Just words
My words
Irrelevant
Fleeting
Words