L.O.V.E and Y.O.U

I want to write a poem about a word, maybe two,

The first word would be love and the second you.

Together they form a thought,

But separate they both complete my heart.

Love such a funny idea,

Giving trust, and laying aside fear.

Yeah it’s a word so many work up the courage to say,

Most the time it’s an imitation they give away.

Lets spell love out, L,

Stands for lasting anything else is hell,

Moving on to the endless O,

Oneness is what two should know.

Then the awkward shaped V.

It’s being vulnerable for your one to see.

At the end we have the E.

Endless is it’s only meaning.

It goes far beyond the you and me.

No force can stop it’s intervening.

You is a word I cannot spell,

I try, but I’ve lost my right too.

To put it so close to love is hell.

Because my love continuous seeks you,

But they are separate and alone.

Love waits for you to come back home.

Timed Focused

Timed Focused

06/01/2020

Life is a vacant space,

Go ahead and focus on the past,

Soon the future you will erase.

The present is all that truly lasts.

Ceiling

Ceiling

06/03/2020

The black ceiling calls,

The silence aborbs all.

The thoughts are just dying,

But that black ceiling is memorizing.

In it you see a future you desire,

Now all burned up in greed’s fire.

There’s even smiles of the past,

But now they aren’t around, they didn’t last.

The gray ceiling begins to bloom,

This bed begins to feel like a tomb.

“You’re alone,” your mind repeats,

It’s reconfirmed as your heart alone beats.

The gray isn’t the black,

But doesn’t mean it stops you from wanting to go back.

How do you step forwards from this place?

So much is lost. So much more to face.

But then the white ceiling arrives.

Night is over. You survived.

Being alone can be, being strong.

The past may be full of hurts and wrongs.

But the present, it is a gift.

Time to heal and the wrongs to lift.

No matter how long the black,

Or the gray that always comes back.

The white will always come with the sun.

A reminder the despair hasn’t won.

Your Heart

Your Heart

06/16/2020

Touch my chest, in it you’ll find a rhythm that moves to you,

It slows when you meet my eyes, and stops when you leave.

It thomps and hurts with an unending pain with what I put you through.

But it never stops completely because in us it still believes.

Though it’s too weak to move my legs, and I just sit.

Though It’s not strong enough to pull my eyes away from the end of the street,

It is still too stubborn to not hope in you. Too focused to quit.

It beats, and it beats never letting me stop wishing for a chance to meet.

Touch my chest. Feel it. It is yours. It is your heart.

Near, together, embraced, close, held, or apart.

My Eyes

My Eyes

07/08/2020

My eye’s are bluest when I cry,

They are the darkest when I lie.

If you want to see them shine,

Just say you want to be mine.

My eye’s have strayed so much from you,

It’s undone our marriage, it’s true.

Now no one else can they view.

Can’t be another girl, it’s you.

I wish at times they were blind,

But no rest from your image I’d find.

You are etched in my mind.

An angel of love and light

I could never forget, try as I might.

So if you see my eye’s tonight.

They glow their bluest blue,

Because they ever search for you.

Fading Imaginations

If you don’t get imagination as a child you probably never will. – Dr. Seuss

Did you ever run into the wild with just your imagination? As a kid it’s how I always played. A stick could be sword, bow, or a bazooka. Foes and enemies appeared before my eyes, and I bested my greatest challengers. I often recall these memories with fondness, and think to a car passing by I was just a kid tumbling and running around for no reason. My imagination was strong back then. The lost of imagination is one of the greatest tragedies. Because we stop believing we can beat the things that haunt us. Our belief in ‘good triumphs over evil’ is squashed in the harsh reality that is life. As a kid you believe paper wings can make you fly, or pieces of junk can be turned into a time machine. Where does our imagination go?

Reality takes it when a hero dies. Reality takes it when the darkness of this world is greater than the light. Reality takes it when you have to get a job. Reality takes it when those paper wings fail and the time machine never comes to life. Adult imagination isn’t nearly as powerfully as a child’s. It has to be nurtured the older you get because the truths become too real. Turning a blind eye to facts becomes harder. Some might say you can’t live in a fantasy world, but why not? Maybe people wouldn’t be so cruel, depressed, stressed, or cold if they just opened their mind up more. Not open to new ideas necessarily, but just to the power of the mind’s eye. Be willing to stare nonsense in the face, and accept what it has to offer.

I think back to those times in the woods, my front yard, at the lake, running around my house; all the places I explored my imagination, and I miss that time of being lost in my mind. Worries were few, and joy was great. I think I will take a weekend sometime soon and wander into the woods. Pick up a stick and fight my foes. Engage my imagination because it is something I don’t want to lose. The world is too real and harsh of a place not to get lost in a fantasy world once in awhile.