That’s the way my love feels (throwback poetry)

June 2016

My love is like the rain. Starting as a drizzle. Turning into a cloudburst. It soaks you to your bone.

My love is like a cherry. A small bud that turns into a blossom. And then it turns into delicious fruit.

My love is like a song. A melody once heard; it turns into the most important piece of music ever played.

My love is like sand. Graced with lightning, it becomes a work of art. One of its kind.

My love is like spring. New and beautiful. Filled with tears too?

My love is like summer. Hot and passionate. Searing heat burns my skin.

My love is like autumn. A breeze. Comforting. Ever changing.

My love is frail and filled with desire. Not with demands, but with longing for an everlasting story.

My love is like the words I write. For you. Only for you. Raw. Unmasked. All consuming.

My love is hidden underneath layers of fears and doubts. But it is not hopeless. It can easily be found and uncovered.

My love is your love. That’s the way it feels.

Throwback poem

Leaves dancing in the rain
Sun licking the morning dew;
Reflections in the window pane
Grey skies turning blue.

Behind a concealing mask
Feelings are an uncomfortable mess,
To understand is an unbearable task
And it’s easier to leave than to stay, I guess.

Toxic thoughts and actions;
Driving so-called friends away
Understanding their reactions
But missing them forever and a day.

More light in the dark
More tears in an ocean
Another life’s mark
Overcome by emotion.

A head full of spinning thoughts
Cowering in the corner of my mind
To unfurl their knots.
Once again, I am left behind.

A soap bubble of for never
Floating up to the clouds
A memory to stay forever
Hidden from the crowds.

I am the shadow in my light
I am the hope in my despair
But after my lastest sleepless night
I can say that I am still there.

Throwback – I’ll never stop giving up

*stream of consciousness*

I sit, and I wait. Sitting and waiting. And I hope that no one will ask what I am waiting for. I would answer “Life”, and they would quote John Lennon “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. And they wouldn’t even know that it’s not a simple quote but that this sentence is a line of lyrics from a song he wrote for his beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy Julian. And I would bite my tongue because information like that is plenty in my brain. It’s just – no one cares about it. And that’s why I keep sitting and waiting. For life to happen. And to understand it. But that is not entirely true. Because from my place, I have a nice view. I observe and analyse, and I keep to myself. The things I know, are not the things I need to share. But on the other hand, all the half-truths and snippets of misinformation I know, are not the ones others want to hear. It’s a circle. And if I don’t find the right corner to get off, I will stumble, and my clumsy attempt to catch myself will end with me lying face down enduring the spiral, the slipstream that brought this upon me. Upwards or downwards? Which way does it go? Maybe just sideways? Either way, I will end up puking on the floor and emptying what little is inside me. All of it, until the heaving is dry and the acrid smell of bile chases everyone away. Everyone left the building. Including me. I need to pay attention to the little things. Hold on tight to the pillars of this meagre existence, to keep myself from stumbling. And while I am doing just that, all these unfiltered thoughts are rushing down onto the screen.

I put the cigarette to my lips and inhale. No filter. Rolled with my own shaky hands. Because – yes, why? Because it is edgy. Cool people roll their cigarettes themselves. It’s all pretending anyway. Oh yes, I’m a great pretender. Who gives a crap about my cigarettes and my thoughts. But I keep writing. Someday, the romantic voice inside of my head suggests, someone will read the mix of weirdness and eclecticism my brain produces. They will beg me to publish a book – a memoir – a biography of this writer and all will be good. At least, I have dreams. The other possibility, far more probable, is that the words stay unread. I will die in a stuffy room with overflowing ashtrays and too many empty bottles.
Maybe a cat or two. Sheets of papers with the start of the next big novel is strewn across the floor and the bed — music loud and on repeat. And in the centre of it all; me. Picture me like Jimi Hendrix, suffocated on my own vomit. A rock star death. Don’t be alarmed, though. I am not a rock star. I don’t play the guitar well enough and all in all, I am just a coward who never did any drugs. On second thought, aren’t most rock stars ridden with anxiety? Isn’t that why they turn to alcohol and drugs and whatnot? Always on the hunt for the next high? But one day your brain (and your soul too), are just too used to the girls screaming your name and the papers printing your photographs, your name in the headlines. And while you pretend to crave your privacy, the thought of being left alone and forgotten scares you to death. And so you power on, with some chemical help, because you couldn’t do all the shows and interviews and all that other crap that comes with being famous, without it. I don’t envy these people at all — not one bit.

And so I stare out onto the lake. The sky is grey; the water is too. And I wait for the next idea to come up. A real writer wouldn’t wait. They would write. Or am I wrong and a real writer would draw charts and write every idea down? Being organised? Where’s the fun in that? So – no labelling my ideas. Just sitting. Waiting. Staring. Smoking. And while I am doing that, the music plays softly in the background. It’s not loud enough to drown out the voices that keep telling me that I am a waste of talent. I can still hear them judging me and how I spend the days. For them, I am doing nothing. For me, I am savouring the moment. It’s as a friend told me once: We need time to understand who we are before someone else comes along and makes us into the version they want us to be. So maybe – just maybe, my answer to the question “What are you waiting for”, would not be “Life”, but maybe the truer answer would be “To understand”. I guess the reaction would be close to the same. They would urge me to get up and do something.

But, if they don’t see it, does that really mean that I am not doing anything? Because in my mind, eccentric as it may be, I am doing a whole lot. I am not giving up.

###

Author’s Note:

Written in March 2016.

I haven’t had a cigarette this year… And, I don’t know how you feel about it, but I think that the last paragraph in this piece of writing is the most important thing I have ever written. Whenever I encounter people who are struggling with their mental health, whenever I am struggling myself, I remember these words. I am not giving up, even if people are not seeing that I am fighting.

Throwback Poetry – my biggest secret

You are my greatest escape
my biggest secret
giving, never taking
For you, I feel my love growing
and my despair too

don’t forget me
don’t ignore me
my heart couldn’t bear the loss

I don’t want to be like them
I allow you to see me
and to love me
but I shouldn’t
I am not free

don’t forget me
don’t ignore me
my heart couldn’t bear the loss

you are my biggest secret
the man who makes me rise above every doubt and fear
I dream of you and I want you
until reality comes crushing down on me
and I fall

don’t forget me
don’t ignore me
my heart couldn’t bear the loss

I don’t want to be hurt
but I’m hurting you
I am not free
but I love you
and yet, I shouldn’t

don’t forget me
don’t ignore me
losing you would break me.

(March 2014)

Author’s Note…
Every Thursday I browse my body of work to see what I wrote this time a couple of years ago. Today, I am choosing to share this particular piece. Why? It reads like a premonition. Years later, after this poem was long erased from my thoughts and mind, things happened in my life that could make even myself believe that the poem was non-fiction; but when this was written, it was complete fiction. Life imitates art. And he ignores me. I am not sure if he will ever be able to forget me – after all, I am unforgettable.