these days, i can see him when i close my eyes. i can feel him, maybe in the breeze, maybe in the comforting sound of another page of fitzgerald read, maybe in the warmth of my morning coffee. it’s strange, it’s rather pathetic. rather tantalizing. i look for him everywhere, i find him nowhere. yet he’s in every single place i look. he’s my best friends’ hug, he’s the softness of my plushies, he’s the faint zingy smell of my guitar strings, he’s the city lights, he’s the sparkle of the stars. he’s the comfort i feel so remotely as i dream of the place i so desperately want to be but can’t.
i need to stop channelling all my emotions into one person, stop personifying all my wishes into one boy, a best friend so dear he’s my soulmate.
he’s comfort , the thing i so yearn for.
he’s my dreams, the exhilaration of them coming true.
he’s a place, the one i’ve been wanting to escape to.
he’s every piece of happiness.
True Love by Wislawa Szymborska
True love. Is it normal
is it serious, is it practical?
What does the world get from two people
who exist in a world of their own?
Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason,
drawn randomly from millions but convinced
it had to happen this way – in reward for what?
The light descends from nowhere.
Why on these two and not on others?
Doesn’t this outrage justice? Yes it does.
Doesn’t it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles,
and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts.
Look at the happy couple.
Couldn’t they at least try to hide it,
fake a little depression for their friends’ sake?
Listen to them laughing – it’s an insult.
The language they use – deceptively clear.
And their little celebrations, rituals,
the elaborate mutual routines –
it’s obviously a plot behind the human race’s back!
It’s hard even to guess how far things might go
if people start to follow their example.
What could religion and poetry count on?
What would be remembered? What renounced?
Who’d want to stay within bounds?
True love. Is it really necessary?
Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence,
like a scandal in Life’s highest circles.
Perfectly good children are born without its help.
It couldn’t populate the planet in a million years,
it comes along so rarely.
Let the people who never find true love
keep saying that there’s no such thing.
Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.
A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allen Poe
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow —
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand —
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep — while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
First Love by Brian Patten
Falling in love was like falling down the stairs
Each stair had her name on it
And he went bouncing down each one like a tongue-tied
One day of loving her was an ordinary year
He transformed her into what he wanted
And the scent from her
Was the best scent in the world
Fifteen he was fifteen
Each night he dreamed of her
Each day he telephoned her
Each day was unfamiliar
And the fear of her going weighed on him like a stone
And when he could not see her for two nights running
It seemed a century had passed
And meeting her and staring at her face
He knew he would feel as he did forever
Hopelessly in love
Sick with it
And not even knowing her second name yet
It was the first time
The best time
A time that would last forever
Because it was new
Because he was ignorant it could ever end
It was endless
So that I may
So that I would
Know my new
So that I know
So that I may
Begin to fill.
- no one is perfect and full, but life is full-filling
Build and Find. Happiness is built, and found. Build the kind of happiness you wish to find. And if you are lucky enough to find it first, build with it too.
- thoughts before midnight thoughts, within
And all I ever wanted to know - was that I was appreciated.
I wasn’t your mama but I was our mama when our own was always gone.
That I fought hard with bleeding nails to keep you safe. That the beats I took for you were always worth it.
Just so you could have what you wanted , I went without.
When you were hungry, I went went hungry to keep you full. That I stayed up nights to give you clean clothes.
I just wanna know it was appreciated and then we can keep our separate ways.
I want to write but I feel that I’ve forgotten how. Is it better to say something just to capture it, so I don’t lose these words that hang about me like a cloud? Or must I put my pen on a pedestal until I can write something “real”–until I feel something worth feeling aloud? The irony of trying to conform to some platonic ideal of what it means to be genuine is not lost on me, but I fear I am. What does it say about me that all my days are aching? That in all my nights-turned-dreams-turned-nightmares you are making my art without me in it?
–the genuine article // 4lornly
Written by Sara Jain
O sing to me, sweet lullaby
Sounds that speak your heart
Hymns that soothe your soul
The notes that wake you up
The tunes that give you rest
O play to me, sweet melody
The lyrics’ secret parts that
Keeps you searching all of
The pieces that you own and
The pieces you wish you wrote
Make for me your masterpiece
The symphony of your life’s work
Let me see you in your arias and
Embrace you tight in your discords
Let me be orchestrator and company
Let me be the one to praise your work.
- the song you wish to live, to write, I wanna hear
“Eyes the vivid, lovely color of soft perfection, a heart the hue of your soul.. in your wanting mind sits a lovers fantasy, red thoughts inside alight with the light of fiery stars, bold. A warm kiss rests upon your divinely tender lips, blissful gentle love sits so deeply within.. just to taste your imperfect essence on my own, I would rather be seated with you in sin than condone this life alone. You are my most loving love, my dear, the stuff dreams are made of, it’s very clear.. and I only wish to have you closer, to hold you very near. I love you like none before you, and that shows in all that I do.. true.”
Hold me near your heart, let me rest inside of your chest.. beneath the cage that softly holds each beat, for whatever may come on next. Bliss in love, a kiss from above.. tender fire do shovel from under us as one, a love unlike love in that it’s what dreams are made from - Dreams of Alex - eUe
Father says I’m all tied up.
Mother says I swear too much.
But I swear for my honesty,
I swear for my pain.
I swear, might be going insane.
Then I looked up the sky
In the dead of the night,
Watched over the moon,
Looking so bright.
Left behind half a dozen girls,
I’d say friends but it’s complicated.
I looked up the meaning of love.
Then I woke up for my job.
Watched the fog,
Hanging over the mountains,
Crying beautiful fountains.
I think I smiled for a moment,
Would have fallen to my knees.
Everything in the past?
Think it flew with the breeze.
And I thought to myself “geez”,
“I might be lucky”.
What are you looking at? Sitting right across me, with those deep brown sad eyes.
God, I love your eyes.
Why is my hand in your hand?
Why does it hurt?
Where does it hurt?
What have I done, now?
Why is there blood on the paper that has my last morbid thought, scribbled over it, in blue ink, now stained red.
There is smoke, and all of a sudden I feel grateful, for holding a cigarette with my other hand, as I take in a long drag, letting the smoke escape my nostrils, real slow, why can’t pain escape my body just like that, easy.
You take my wrist, closer to your lips and place a kiss, softer than cotton, and I can see where I cut myself last night.
See it’s these things that you do, they make me want to hold you in my arms, closer, forever, but there are no forevers, in this world. There’s only now, and right now, I want you to leave.
But you stay. You’re annoying that way.
I’m a lover of your ways.
You’re saying something now, and I close my eyes, because your voice is my favorite song. I want to take in every decibel of that sound before there is nothing but aching silence.
“Why do you write about death so often, why is your heart a burial ground and your mind a ruined palace?” You ask.
Stupid question, your stupid fucking questions.
I’m not a fucking writer.
I’m in incredible pain.
Finding ways of relieving myself of this
overpowering, ever so consuming, pain.
And I write about it so often, hoping it would feel beautiful when it becomes a poem, and stay there on paper scribbled in blue ink, now stained red.
I’m not a fucking writer.
And I laugh. There are no forevers.
Get up now. And leave.
These old photos kept
In the back of my mind
Of you - when you were
The sun, and to me
Shed your sunshine,
I remember, I mourn;
I’m just a shadow now
Trying to forget those
Joyous days gone forlorn;
- prints, torn photos, broken windows too
You laid there in the bed,
Almost swallowed by it
The cancer had run its course
Until there was nothing left of you
Except eighty pounds
Of your hopeful spirit
We never expected you to leave so soon
But glad for the time you were here
Spreading your positivity and love
To all who knew you.