Solitary Breath

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I have held onto

A solitary breath

In paradox

With a racing heart

But to let it go

Is to breathe in the unknown

And so I wait

Until my face turns blue

On Indifference

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My lack of ambition to cry frightens me

It’s not that I’m not sad

I just stopped caring about it

I tell myself not to let the indifference carry me away

But I’m already floating in motionless skies

Desert Dweller

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I seek out desert

Maybe that’s why I’m always thirsty

I’ve become adaptable

Like a lizard living under a rock

I no longer waste my tears

I no longer find myself wandering through unsteady sands

Yet here I am

Contemplating gently in place

Like a snake

My next strike will be purposely executed

In Bloom

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A burst toward the sky

And I realized I was in bloom

Wasn’t I?

As I looked around

I couldn’t help but notice

That the sun now shone directly upon me

And I graciously drank its rays and gave it its due praise

We Called It Love

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The thing we called love

Was but a fleeting thought

A mere whim that we should have slain

The moment it was excreted – bleeding – from the womb

It was born nonetheless

Starved of breath like a candle’s dying light

Prolonged too long

Taking us two as its victims in its villainous ventures

And we called it love.

Not His Princess

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He told me I was a princess

But I am a queen at heart

And when I found him a jester

It tore my soul apart

A fool, I, to his foolishness

But also entertained

Sitting upon my throne I realized

My love had been in vain.

Winged Woman

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Don’t force it

And it shall flow like the river

Reaching its destination in good time

Winged woman, keep your feet on the ground and your eyes on the skies

And let your mind fly

*Stop trying so hard*

Monotony

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Monotony – to me – is a prison of mediocrity

Only a change in the stasis, creation of static, sets me free

Sometimes creating chaos, I never mind – it’s movement all the same

It takes me up, it takes me down, it’s an unpredictable game

That’s the guarantee

And that’s the irony

Stepping Out of the Metaphor

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Stepping out of the metaphor

The bonds of cliché had become a cliché

I was waiting for newness to bang on my door

Sometimes it knocks and then walks away

So I set a trap but she’s ever so elusive

Another dimensional me

I can see but it can never be

She’s teasing and taunting, leaving scraps and then flaunting

Tangling me in every attempt to break free

I want to make something of novelty

The more I think the less I’m free

She’s the metaphor, she’s the cruelest cliché

And again with a grin

With a win

She’s captured me

 

If I Could Stop Moving…

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Life, poetry, prose, words, writers, writing

If I could stop moving…

Where would I go?

I’d travel silently in place.

 

Quiet is not quietude,

But it’s a stop along the way.

 

If I could stop moving…