the only true pain
is not feeling at all
sorrow can be bliss
if you’re numb for too long
Tag: writing
-
There’s a great wildness within
with no pastures in which to run.
There’s a great sorrow within
with no fields in which to wail.
There’s a river within me
that’s long run dry —
where did the rapids
up and go?
What do I do with wildness
in a concrete jungle?
There are screams that echo
deep in my gut—
whose hand is clasped
over my mouth?
When did ocean
turn to cement?
Who chose Eve
and chained Lilith?
-
Posted everywhere but here — officially announcing the release of my first book, The Closet Mystic, Volume One! A collection of my poetry, hand-picked from this blog. Click here to purchase!
-
Jupiter, Jupiter, Jupiter:
I can feel your heartbeat from here.
a hidden vein of starlight
from your heart
to mine:
through me you thrum.
I am
but a child,
and oh,
the heavens,
they throw me,
they catch me—
they throw me,
they catch me—
i am thrown—
i trust
i’ll be caught.
you know not
the hidden hands that catch those
who take leaps of faith!
so, leap—
amongst the stars,
there’s no bottom,
there’s no falling—
no,
only flying.
-
you’ve no idea
what is waiting
to pour through you,
pour from you,
if you’d just get out of the way.
you’ve no idea the river—
demolish that dam,
it is your mind.
demolish that dam,
it is your fear.
demolish,
pour.
-
the very flame
of modernity:
a tea light.
should the Mother sneeze:
snuffed.
mistake not
a house of cards
for brick,
for mortar.
let your stronghold
be a castle in the sky:
let your fortress
be a palace of the mind,
a kingdom
in the heavens,
a throne of ether—
built
on the rock
of what came before,
and what will remain
long after:
after the Moon,
the Earth,
the Sun, the stars
fall,
one by one,
back
into the cauldron.
close your eyes:
you can see it dance
on your lids,
you can feel
the stirring ladle
in your veins,
its soup:
starlight.
what
could be more unshakable
than that
which cannot be touched?
time,
unstoppable force.
the spirit:
immovable object.
-
sometimes,
love’s flame
is a fire that spills forth
as the sky cracks:
dawn’s light.
sometimes,
love’s flame
is a lamp burned.
its oil:
midnight.
love’s labors:
so oft
in those liminal spaces.
the heart’s torch:
the bravest tea light.
this love:
it is a quiet courage.
it has
no hall of fame.
it is
a gift
with no wrapping.
you feed on it—
you cannot see it.
you live on it—
you cannot feel it.
sometimes,
the truest loves
are unspoken,
& unseen,
but lived:
in the shadows.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 