so two journals in one day is kinda lame but here's the deal, you have to read the last journal too cuz it alks about how my life is going, but this is a poem I just wrote that I LOVE.
The world Ive just moved into:
At every deep breath that slips past my lips, I am reminded of you, your lips grazing mine, and I am tossed into sensations I dare not speak aloud, that they may deepen this sensation of longing, the constant war with the earth, and the miles that pin us in place at such distance from one another. Enough space to contemplate kisses that do not exist, but we feel should, to ponder what could be, and dismissing what is, for passion is a force that overwhelms even the physical world, something we have feared since our entry into it. And her kiss was as if she were painting across my body, and if she were constructing sonnets and expressing them in a language of touch, that leaves me paralyzed and helpless, but serene. And I question myself quite often, if she were breaths from lifeless, would I drain my life into a cup, and pour it over her to resuscitate an angel? Exhale myself into her, if it would make her more alive, to make her feel even more than she does? It seems as if when she wakes flowers blossom out of season and the winds take shape to shake the grasses into a dance unique to every blade. And she holds an ocean of answers to questions I will never speak, for my mind skips across that ocean, striving only to reach the sandy beaches and unearth the treasure of her affection. My body curling on nights within my solitary bed, forming a question mark to fate to ask how things could be this way. And I have trembled in your hands, in my own personal earthquake, the past laid to waste, the future on the fault lines, elegantly and beautifully destroyed. And she translates the aesthetic appeal of autumn leaves, and winters snow, of my favorite sounds and sites, all encapsulated within human flesh, and laced with a brilliantly blinding light. And all of my faults hang from nooses in her eyes, and her faults in mine, for we only see each other as a whole, as we were formed and as we are. And I will dare utter that wisdom and knowledge are like paints without a canvas, they lie around and take us space in our minds without inspiration or passion, and I have been given passion, whether I have the other two is up for debate, but at least now, I have a will. She has made the rock spew water, and turned that water into wine, a savior in my eyes, she has refined me a thousands times over and shall continue to do so until I spoil and die. Our love is a force that slides across hallways, takes flight over highways, and is tenderly passed through shared lips on clove cigarettes. Our love is a symphony heard over sirens and gunshots, car engines and street noise, over riots and orgies, we are the soundtrack to life. In a world comprised of citizens burning the pictures of deities and swallowing portraits of their own to ensure Gods place inside them, and choke of their own religious standards, that she tries to abide by, but I keep her wild and untamed. Salvation is a mystery. And yet I have no intent to solve it, I merely adorn myself with the things that I adore, and they inflate my heart and carry me through the skies like an over-inflated balloon. Have you seen the face of love in the shape of a woman is a jean jacket and skirt? Have you seen warmth in its purest sense stripped down to womens underwear and felt its kiss on your neck? Have you been passionate with solace in a friends bedroom while his religious beliefs dance across the walls like childrens voices from a schoolyard? And have you held the hands of time when they wore the gloves that were her hands? I have. I have placed my hands on the hips of sunny days and blue skies while standing on my porch in pouring rain, she was wrapped in a blanket, wrapped in my arms, and I was her armor, I was her safe-haven, and she was my purpose. This prayer never marked returned to sender, but lived out thoroughly, and the stitches protecting my insecurities have been ripped away and I am left with an open lesion, bleeding forth inner from sanctums, a blood comprised of every inner fear thank you angel for this bloodletting, and you test me daily, paint me up in different forms, resurrect me in beautiful new shapes and combinations of myself but to be blisteringly, brutally blunt, the outstretched arms of asphalt and yellow lines, keeping us at a distance is stabbing wounds within me, internal bleeding at its purest sense, so please, take the time to cauterize my hemorrhaging. And make no hesitation to take residence within me.
The world Ive just moved into:
At every deep breath that slips past my lips, I am reminded of you, your lips grazing mine, and I am tossed into sensations I dare not speak aloud, that they may deepen this sensation of longing, the constant war with the earth, and the miles that pin us in place at such distance from one another. Enough space to contemplate kisses that do not exist, but we feel should, to ponder what could be, and dismissing what is, for passion is a force that overwhelms even the physical world, something we have feared since our entry into it. And her kiss was as if she were painting across my body, and if she were constructing sonnets and expressing them in a language of touch, that leaves me paralyzed and helpless, but serene. And I question myself quite often, if she were breaths from lifeless, would I drain my life into a cup, and pour it over her to resuscitate an angel? Exhale myself into her, if it would make her more alive, to make her feel even more than she does? It seems as if when she wakes flowers blossom out of season and the winds take shape to shake the grasses into a dance unique to every blade. And she holds an ocean of answers to questions I will never speak, for my mind skips across that ocean, striving only to reach the sandy beaches and unearth the treasure of her affection. My body curling on nights within my solitary bed, forming a question mark to fate to ask how things could be this way. And I have trembled in your hands, in my own personal earthquake, the past laid to waste, the future on the fault lines, elegantly and beautifully destroyed. And she translates the aesthetic appeal of autumn leaves, and winters snow, of my favorite sounds and sites, all encapsulated within human flesh, and laced with a brilliantly blinding light. And all of my faults hang from nooses in her eyes, and her faults in mine, for we only see each other as a whole, as we were formed and as we are. And I will dare utter that wisdom and knowledge are like paints without a canvas, they lie around and take us space in our minds without inspiration or passion, and I have been given passion, whether I have the other two is up for debate, but at least now, I have a will. She has made the rock spew water, and turned that water into wine, a savior in my eyes, she has refined me a thousands times over and shall continue to do so until I spoil and die. Our love is a force that slides across hallways, takes flight over highways, and is tenderly passed through shared lips on clove cigarettes. Our love is a symphony heard over sirens and gunshots, car engines and street noise, over riots and orgies, we are the soundtrack to life. In a world comprised of citizens burning the pictures of deities and swallowing portraits of their own to ensure Gods place inside them, and choke of their own religious standards, that she tries to abide by, but I keep her wild and untamed. Salvation is a mystery. And yet I have no intent to solve it, I merely adorn myself with the things that I adore, and they inflate my heart and carry me through the skies like an over-inflated balloon. Have you seen the face of love in the shape of a woman is a jean jacket and skirt? Have you seen warmth in its purest sense stripped down to womens underwear and felt its kiss on your neck? Have you been passionate with solace in a friends bedroom while his religious beliefs dance across the walls like childrens voices from a schoolyard? And have you held the hands of time when they wore the gloves that were her hands? I have. I have placed my hands on the hips of sunny days and blue skies while standing on my porch in pouring rain, she was wrapped in a blanket, wrapped in my arms, and I was her armor, I was her safe-haven, and she was my purpose. This prayer never marked returned to sender, but lived out thoroughly, and the stitches protecting my insecurities have been ripped away and I am left with an open lesion, bleeding forth inner from sanctums, a blood comprised of every inner fear thank you angel for this bloodletting, and you test me daily, paint me up in different forms, resurrect me in beautiful new shapes and combinations of myself but to be blisteringly, brutally blunt, the outstretched arms of asphalt and yellow lines, keeping us at a distance is stabbing wounds within me, internal bleeding at its purest sense, so please, take the time to cauterize my hemorrhaging. And make no hesitation to take residence within me.
[Edited on Mar 03, 2004 9:18PM]