“If I was a dandelion and the wind blew me away
and
I
was
scattered,
would you follow me?”
“I would.”
“But how would you find me?”
“I don’t know. But that’s not the point, is it?”
“Then what is?”
“I’m the wind.”
‘
Category: my writing
Almost poetry: Let me tell you…
You purr when I love you with my hands,
did you know?
A sound like a storm inside your chest,
where contentment and pleasure battle to rip your skin,
and bloom from your mouth,
and the only reason they stay inside
is your stubbornness,
and the promise of sleep,
and maybe my arms around you.
You purr and my bones mend,
did you know?
Almost Poetry: Train thoughts
We meet in the middle.
The lavender field bursts with quiet.
The book in my hands a relic
of my imagination and my once-found peace
The dirt on your cheeks confesses
long hours of work.
Your shirt isn’t tucked in your pants.
As the sky loses its boundaries with the lavender blossoms
and the blush on your ears pulls me closer,
I think back on that scene I read earlier in the train.
About the woman that was searching for
her soul at the roots of the riverside trees.
I wonder if she found it,
like I found you.
Almost poetry: awake at night
you ask me why I don’t sleep at night,
why I work while everyone is dreaming,
what makes the absence of light a preference,
and see,
it’s not that I don’t understand your question,
or that I don’t have an answer,
but I’m afraid you’ll not listen
how loud are your thoughts
in the dark,
like being underwater,
when your heartbeat echoes in your bones,
beat after beat after beat
while the oxygen burns in your lungs,
and see,
it’s like that for me when everyone’s dreams
are deafening,
a deep blue silence that keeps my body afloat
and my mind from drowning
Going after inspiration
When inspiration abandons me – which happens every so often that has become mildly annoying, I’m going after it. I try everything because I’m all out of ego on the matter. Most of the times, I try to lure it back with chocolate cookies.
Almost Poetry: Writing
The soft scratch of the pen on the paper
Soothing, like
Two hands on your shoulders
Kneading away the tension
Only
It’s your mind.
The acrid smell of ink
mesmerizing, like
Old whiskey you sniffed in secret behind your parents’ back
Only
You still get drunk.
The formed words
like souls,
Pulling you in,
Spitting them out
Only
They got a part of yours, too.