breaking the silence

it's been a while since i've written anything. i don't know if that's because of a lack of inspiration or because of a lack of any interesting subject matters in my life. a friend (nats) however has been mentioning my present writing drought and has asked me to start writing again. i don't feel like it.i don't have anything to write about. but then again, i remembered something i learned a few years back. to write, one does not need inspiration. one simply needs the time and the medium. so here goes nothing. back to the drawing board.

breaking the silence

my arms reach for her. in the small space that she occupies in my hippocampus, that is where i often dwell. my arms reach for her as my eyes shift to unfocus on the distance. in my mind i have already reached her. in my heart, i never even let go.

i long for her with a fever that burns. it is a physical sensation that splits me in two. some nights i wrap my arms around myself to keep from coming apart. other nights, i find myself taking comfort from just letting it happen.

staring at the pavement

how great would the distance have to be in order to separate two people and keep them apart so effectively that they remain strangers? leagues? miles? metres? feet? how far would i have to be for you to stop searching?

it takes 506, 506 steps, from your door to mine. it only took 506 steps for you to forget.

Waiting on the Seventh Coalition

"Never in this weather," she said. Jaw set. Eyes steeled. Emphasis on NEVER. It was something she did often. Not the remark but rather the brushing off of a request the approval of which I would have gone through chest-high flood waters for. I shrug, "Okay." Add a small wink to the disyllabic reply, a hint of a smile, little nuances that fail to cushion the impact of an all-too-quick rejection.

Do you want to grab dinner? Hang out? Movie? Coffee? A small slice of cake? Donut? Just five minutes? Seconds? Four? "I've eaten." "I'm with friends." "Seen it." "Not in the mood." "Had one already." "Busy." "Can't." "Sorry."

I take it, all of it, knowing full well the names reserved for people like me. It is a daunting task, scaling the fortress you've put around yourself, but I forge on nonetheless. It is a futile war, one I know I must fight despite foreseeable failure. Your favor, cold queen, does not shine where my weight-worn shoes tread. Still, I march towards my Waterloo.

"Never in this weather," she said. "Okay," I reply. The battle will resume when the grounds have dried from the night's rain.

composed

these rooms are quiet now with sheets that are unslept in.
noises steal in from the streets. the air within these four walls are stock-still.

time is marked by the third hand. tick. tick. tick. tick.
purgatory must give more solace than this. tick. tick. tick.

it's harder than i thought and the heart screams for you to come back.
come back.

let small blessings come as the children of reason and distraction.
i made my choice and the rooms will remain silent.

asdgag

a;ksdljgpaei

stuck in the crevices of connotation

how does one,pray tell,confess
the inner confines of the soul?

the forms are hardly ever defined
and expression is all but sufficient

oh that you could understand, feel
the unbearable inferno at this core

that articulation could linger
in the nooks afforded by innovation

that expression could be inspired
beyond the guise of convention

that love and fear, joy and doubt be fulfilled
in the crevices of connotation

all that would remain would be a solitary fading ember
if the fires of this hell were cooled by a long-yearned for utterance

rusty pen

old words, used moments wrack me
it is a disquiet that will not cease

torn images, yellowed pages resurface
and sordid guilt grips tighter from within

broken touch, shattered pleas resume unwanted
the undertow is strong and it will not be quelled

one memory persists despite the struggle to overcome:
you, seeing you, loving you, knowing happiness.

bearing the weight

the dust settles
but the sun beats down unrelenting
there is never anything worse
than waiting
in the middle of summer

sweat clings
like a fitted jacket to the skin
there must be something better
than waiting
in the middle of summer

the mind wanders
and the soul finally struggles free
there are some things worth
waiting for
in the middle of summer

traffic

a finger scratches a spot on the head

confusion: missed points

who am i in a race against?

anxiety: the point is still missed

time is jotted down according to non-random circumstance

apprehension: points that will not connect

it is rush hour and motion is all that matters

despair: and it all flies past

acquiescence

you held my hand and across the meridian the sun grew dimmer
giving this threadbare nook added luminance

i dreamt of you and worlds within worlds, worlds outside our own,
responded

you spoke of love and awoke inside me the force of a gale
in the distance, a tree shook at the impact

i dreamt of you and worlds within worlds, worlds of our making,
blossomed