His presence is powerful and intimidating. The symphony of his synergy: alive and absorbing. He strings me through the air, conducting my every sound. Conducting my every move. I breathe in a cold air full of nerves and exhale the warmth of his infection, but I speak no words. What can I say that will steal his attention? The maestro of my heart’s affection.
A breath to save my future,
One tongue decides the fate.
To speak the truth
And wait for justice,
Or die and deliver it late?
He is a masterpiece with a half moon smile.
There is a song I sing
When I feel the need.
A sweet, soft melody:
“Whatever will be, will be.”
She teaches me to be patient and love with raw emotion. She reminds me that being hurt in its purest form does not mean you are innocent or too emotional, but that deep pain exists where true love used to live – even breathing hurts. Every emotion must be felt; absorbed, received and answered. It’s real. Being hurt for us “hypersensitive” personas is a lot more than meets the eye.
We are the dreamers, the doers, the distracted, and the dramatic. We live for the light, color, and love and bring heart to the world.
There are times
I hold the thought of you so close
I can almost hear you whisper in my ear,
“I need you here.”
Masked in make-up, shiny things
He wisps you away on a romantic fling.
He brings you flowers and a kiss so daunting
You push away romantic hauntings.
Keep it honest, keep it true.
You could never love this dude.
Play it fast and flip the script
You love a game that’s hard and quick.
He keeps it real and is no tool
You’re the heartbreak and a fool.
Beauty basked with basics.
Love drenched in fear.
Your own limits draw the line
Of an undetermined year.
Hands worship my body.
Men battle a great fight of fluster.
They shrivel in my hands for attention
Why do they flock?
Why do they flutter?
Unready to play my game, they surrender at my feet.
Crawl on their knees and bite the bullet of discipline for my skin.
Pleas for pleasure. Pleas for pain.
They worship my body for more than they can gain.
Deserted in the desert of your dry tongue and useless words.
Salvation by slain be his name.
Return to your world of glory.
Slather it with paint and call it art; defaced.
Kick rocks until it’s a mountain
Climb it and praise your good God’s name
And sacrifice my body in your place.