I remember my romance
she was like my dance.
I remember my romance
her eyes were sweet chance.
Move me in the night
swift pull is your draw
rolls our heels delight
toes dancing, what I saw.
My head lost in her eyes
She gave mood, my cries.
©️Scott F Savage 11/2021
As many of my readers would note, my writing is scattered, paltry at times and out of synch. I post these openly with a pseudonym only those needing to know do. One true word.
I am trying to find my groove, searching lost muse’ – I welcome anyone’s help. (Can’t believe I said that here). Yes I did.
In other words soul-searching will be my drift here for a bit – same tenets, deeper constructs.
Trying to prove to himself
nothing at all
well, so having been
done, before.
Would it seem likely
everything he stood for
could easily wash away with the street salt
an overnight rainstorm.
Everything that was is now,
a memory we will all tell
our grandchildren
when we know them …
we understand them.
There’s this story out there
I’ve always been afraid
so stark is our humanity
caught in its own rainstorm
a thunder clap away!
I wanted her to want me
as badly as I needed to give.
All I joined into was a fantasy,
indeed so lovely,
to write a script
of our own version of
Washington Square,
with the windows and eyes
and love.
There was love
© Scott F Savage 11/2021
Real. Definitive. Absolute. All of those greatest fears in our lives, when we come to that decisive moment of wanting to take our lives. We really do think about the others around us, more than most people would imagine. It’s just that when the decision is made, when it happens, there’s no recourse.
I wake up every morning of my life feeling suicidal. Most times I attribute it to exhaustion. There is no possible way anyone here is going to have the right answer, to help me to change my thinking. Someone out there will try the right words, it’s to call somebody, it’s to not leave yourself alone, it’s going to be a better day tomorrow, it’s just a moment in your life you’ll get over it. After a while though those words don’t carry the same weight they want to withstand when we were 12 years old and easily vulnerable to our elder’s musings.
I’m older now and I don’t buy it. I have a therapist, and they do care about me. I know this because I read the notes after every session, and they cover all the bases necessary to indicate compassion beyond a diagnosis. I told a friend of mine last night that suggested I get a therapist and you know what I said? I said I see them once a week and I can’t wait for that session to such a degree I don’t know what to do with the days in between. Today is a day in between.
I lost a dear friend months ago and I just haven’t been able to get past it, and I don’t know if I ever will and this is not trying to pull anybody out with a word this is just me talking. This is my reality. I don’t want to live anymore. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to have to try to go to bed so I have to wake up in the morning. I want to just sleep and have all this be done with.
For over 60 years I have had to convince myself there’s a reason to go forward, and as of late I can’t find it anymore. I know I’m in that high percentage age, I get it, doesn’t mean I have to like it. I actually hate it. I hate to imagine that someone would look at me and think that he’s so weak he can’t take care of himself anymore so he’s just going to give up. It sucks to think that way, but sometimes it seems the only viable option. And it seems easier than not.
This thinking is no one’s fault but my own. And I am the one that put these ideas in my head and I’m the one that has to live with them. I don’t like them and I don’t like myself very much when I dive into such dark sorrows. But I’m tired, and I really don’t have to deal with this shit anymore. As real as it gets.
No amount of talk therapy will pull me out of this one, I just have to figure out a way to be calm.
This conversation
holds haunts and fears
a tricky moment
not everyone
only those that are too late.
Those meant to witness
without timing so near.
I woke this morning
with glassy eyes
such layers of pain
like cataracts
far too early in age
yet still a sign
the layers now are the pain.
I want to wipe away the signs.
I want today to stop.
©️Scott F Savage 11/2021
I wonder about the hours
reaching into night.
I think about the full moon
and always hope you are nearby,
I can sense your shadow.
I went to a play last night.
it wasn’t yours to see.
I still looked for you
everywhere I could.
I knew where to find you,
and would only discover no one
in your place.
I drove along the highway in my life.
I went to our spot
hoping you might be there
knowing you wouldn’t be,
but I waited.
I woke this morning in tears.
I don’t know really
an answer,
how long may I drive holding on in tears.
I don’t want to anymore.
I am afraid of what I will do
when tears come no more.
©️Scott F Savage 11/2021
In the throes of love making
when can feel the heat of her passion,
the touch, the reach, the finding
center
there when her eyes do open
enough to watch her release,
such is a beautiful respite
beyond the active daily chore
of being human
being in control,
letting the world around her
decide what happens next.
~
Tonight surely is her gasp
morning too,
whatever sunrise or evening moon
might enhance this passion
in her mind,
directed by love
a giving, a natural seduction
of the mind,
we will find our center
together.
~
In a silent breath she smiles afterward,
a glow in her eyes.
© Scott F Savage 11/2021
When I’m walking down the street
I think about you,
look for you,
wonder if you might pop out of some store front,
coffee in hand,
wearing a favorite baseball cap
living a life
I can no longer imagine
beyond
walking down the street
seeing a reflection of our lives
when we would together,
find a way to keep, believe, endear,
being in love.
© Scott F Savage 11/2021
There’s something about passion
that I miss out on
I get a taste, a tease
a foolish seduction.
Off to the races
the sky seems endless
as a country road rises
this anxiety descends
and I know
we know
what passion means.
© Scott F Savage 11/2021
 | a quiet man on Haiku Love |
 | Yernasia Quorelios on Haiku Love |
| a quiet man on I Took A Walk |
 | Priti on I Took A Walk |
| Priti on I Took A Walk |
Turning trauma into triumph since 1981.
Sometimes writing poems let's me forget about the huge sums of debt I'm accumulating while at college
"I feel the rush of your love through my entirety and I know in this very moment of my existence this is where I belong" - The Creative Chic
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