as if hidden, you are this

bluetreeI am hidden. Are you? As if to be hidden behind words that speak illusively, at all times, bouncing off buildings and walls. I shoot an arrow and it comes back to me. Some day.

Who are you anyway? Are you the words or are they merely what comes out when trying to speak? There is no time to leave important words unsaid. I speak of eloquence.

Inspirational times with comic undertones spark a tune in another. Sometimes. But, truly, it’s all for you. You who deserve to be timeless and unforgotten. You are where my eyes open to receive what I’m waking up to now. I am here now because you were there and smiled and felt.

Create. Create all you can be. Be creative. Be daring. Be you. I will walk with you, and you will walk with me. But don’t forget to be balanced, be calm and be all that you should be behind the eyes of you. Don’t tell anyone if you falter.

My calling is you, an obligation to fulfill. You are what begs to flow from me, knowing what to make of it along the way, unsuspecting. You occupy the space between sentences, between thoughts that hang and then drop.

You are my arrow I shot long ago. It came back to me with its secret. It told me with its fire: be the you that wakes up in the morning, still groggy, remembering what exactly went on the hours before while dreaming.

Your image burned in my brain fills me with the opposite of order that I need. I let you build up so that I can understand you better. You give me the power to say No. You allow my creative—my unknown—to surge, to cascade. You are endless and you are real. You make me want to write a story, phenomenal, of us. As a river raging knows my name with impatience trickling, in an instant I am known. Finally.

But it’s just me here now writing… and, all I have are my verses wondering how to get through to you. I seem to be writing as if from a distant land when I realize that life without you isn’t possible. I want to stay there in this moment forever. You are the river that I once swam up, I swim again. Stay with me, you whisper.

© r.e.l. 7/17/13

Published on Rebelle Society  5.10.14

[This is Behind the eyes of a writer™: A series, part fourteen. Continuing on from a dedication, part thirteen in Behind the eyes of a writer™ series, I tear you apart in pieces to unglue what you’ve become. Part fifteen in my Behind the eyes of a writer™ series is next]

f*ck you, valentine’s day

heart_candle2

Fuck You! That says a lot, but does it really?

The extent to which I feel it is not adequately described with a common phrase. Dear Love, you do not remind me of red hearts right now.

You do not remind me of champagne and bubble baths for two, with chocolate kisses mixed in. You do not entice me to smile or make Valentines. You make me want to cry.

I haven’t cried though because it’s more fun to curse you and all of your celebrations — especially your presumption that all beings who wish to buy food on a given day also wish to be reminded of you. What do you expect me to do? I am the one who was left, the one whose heart was trampled on.

Should I buy paper and paste and send myself half a Valentine with a rigid break in the middle, with blood still crusty on the edges of its break? How do I depict the scars that have built upon each other, one atop the other in layers, in breaks?

Each break is different, so it’s not like they are all piled up nicely for display.

I don’t want to give you the power to allow me to cry now. You are only a fucking holiday. You are only trying to make money off of the unsuspecting, love-struck souls who have bubble hearts floating above their clouded hearts. You make plenty. You have them.

You think you have love too. But, think again. I didn’t say Fuck Love, I said Fuck You. You are a reminder to all of the brokenhearted that they should just go home and cry. You remind me not to paint my toenails red.

The worst part is that you make me want to hate love. Nice try. I don’t. I only hate you. But instead of celebrating love today, I want to wear black, and hide in a cave. All in your honor.

From there, I think I will make you a Valentine, as I sit here telling the fire these words. The fire is watching me type. I am being told that I should burn you up. To purify you? To purify myself? Truly, I hope you feel the pain and have no one to rescue you with water, no one to pat you until you are free.

I hope you die before you wake up.

And now, I just cried.

Originally published on Rebelle Society 2.11.14

it triumphs

Broken_Hearti know that look
that heart
that beats inside you
and dreams…

it loves
it craves
it hurts
it triumphs

i know that heart
like i know myself
it is you
it is me…

you wonder if
and when
and how it can be

to make your life
your way

you wait and feel
pray
and cry

but, you believe in your heart
in its mystery
in its unknown
you believe because i do too

© r.e.l. 10/3/13

for my daughter

precious heart

i just whispered,
precious heart,
that you beat in colors
inhaling all of life
but also parts that should only
be viewed as if through an hourglass

don’t worry though,
it will all be ok …
breathe with me

you have  p r i c e l e s s  time
on your side

so, hide with me in the beach grass
… and listen to the wind and the waves

take my hand and join me
in the rest of our lives

© r.e.l. 5/23/12

Featured in redbubble’s Inspired by Life

 

as if i’ll know

hear me
as if you feel
who i am…

as if you’re about
to melt
but don’t know how

as if you are the only person
who i’m speaking
to now

as if these words
mean something
maybe the world
to you

as if i’ll know
your heart is
beating faster

as if
your wish
just came true

© r.e.l. 1/7/12

image by s i m s h a

Posted for Thursday Poet’s Rally 1/12-/18/12 on Promising Poet’s Parking Lot

Recited live for Jonathan Montaldo poetry event at CIIS 2/28/12

Posted on Medium 3/18/14