I don’t wish to cry
I don’t want to wash a lie
Only the moon, why
I don’t wish to cry
I don’t want to wash a lie
Only the moon, why
I’m hurting. I have my days. I look forward and purposely deny myself the possibility of reflection. I actively pretend a part of my life does not exist, that reality was an illusion, a s sort of dream, spectacular in its own right but false in its longevity.
I stand alone with some effort to understand, just why, how could I fall so hard that I forgot where it might be that I can stand up again, and feel worthy of my own rationale. I ask myself every day if this one will have any more hope than the last, and I find my answer, the one I choose, or would choose not to decide upon in the twilight of that following night, and then some sleep, very little.
The circus will begin in the next sunrise.
When in love
the world does stop
the skies gain a pastel layer
of spectacular hue
when in love
in heart and soul
when in love
words have less matter
than do emotions
the fleeting recall
the matter of why
what when will
always be now
the forest green
will be soon
standing alone a wish
she might be near
the soft breeze of Nature’s
these tangled woods now
a silent redemption
my broken heart.
#NatureVerse #poetry #nature /153
Perhaps a song on the radio, the most familiar way to recall the one we love. A drive along a familiar bi-way where conversations took place, hands were held, knowing smiles replace the lonely absence. A farmhouse on a piece of land that had a place to sit and run our hands through landscaped rocks while watching the woods. A bench in a park that held our lives together, alone with such sweet sensuality impossible to ignore. A walk further in, a familiar bridge in a rustic wild in a place that felt like Purgatory.
Trying to figure out ways to recall what love means is certainly a struggle when one is alone with the memory. Seeing a kiss in a movie reminds me of that one time, or any time or any moment, or that moment. Looking outside into a tranquil wintry afternoon leaves the mind imagining an experience, a time when conversation turned to intimacy, turned to eyes, and what love seemingly did mean in the moment. All these memories, all of this confusion.
I’m listening to the Moody Blues, because this is always the place I go when I try to find my center. Now more than ever, the feeling of sentiment has turned to regret, a pause in the romantic nature of whom we were, and now trying to find a way to walk out of the woods with a smile rather than a broken heart. It is a memory that recalls beauty and in that recollection the melodrama perceived in the reader’s eyes matters little to the writer, for he will experience the emotion, and the reader can choose to walk away.
I’ve written for miles my confusion with love. In my basement there are volumes of memory over decades of time, that someday I might page through, but for the moment I’m drawn away because I know the memories are too strong and I don’t want to find myself somewhere I would rather return to than just recall. Yet, today, the memory is immediate, still strong, still this is defining who I am every day when I wake and when I go to sleep. The love I feel is swollen in my heart and there is little room to breathe.
So this passage is only meant to touch on what is this meaning of love I continue to search for answers to, my soul searching sometimes bringing me to tears – I try to call them wonderful tears because without the sensation of what I feel, I could not cry with the feeling and cleansing I do find myself lost in. I wonder if that makes sense to any of you readers, the point is that despite heartache, my inability to find home again, I’m still always wanting this time to be a beautiful mystique without the negative fortune of loss.
This is a love story.
The truth is, years ago, I fell in love with a woman who one day decided her life was moving in a different direction and I was left behind. My recovery took many years, in fact a friend of mine, one time pointed out that for several days all I did was talk about the loss, and I needed to change my focus.
So I did, after some time, I knew I was still in love, but ironically, I found out she had been sleeping with my best friend for months, so suddenly everything made sense, and I started to get past my broken heart. The one thing I said to myself was that I would never fall in love to such a degree again.
Jump a few years later and I decided to settle down with a woman whom had similar goals as mine – we got married, but I knew going in – this is a sad reality – I would never love again the way I had. I would simply be content. We have beautiful children together and we made a life. Sadly though I’ve never been happy, and I cannot imagine she has been. Despite it all we stayed together.
Embedded within all of this common reality is an experience I discovered while in grad school. Many years ago, I met a woman whom carried a similar energy as my own. We began writing letters and discovered a love for words, something I had missed with a woman for many many years. we then took it a step further and became intimate, spreading years between those early days of romantic parchment to now an enticement with one another. One day, in the winter, very much like our present season, I felt I must tell her that I loved her, and I did, but she heard me wrong – and the timing unraveled our affections. We had been walking around with an ‘is this all there is’ and I was afraid to tell her that I loved her because I thought I would lose her. It back fired and we fell apart. I returned fully – as much as possible – to my marriage, a broken and confused man – struggling with my reality, while a woman I loved faded out of my life.
I looked for her over the years, knew where she was but let her go. I even deleted her phone number so I wouldn’t be tempted. It wasn’t until years later I discovered she would call my voice mail with certain music that touched my heart.
A few years ago, a decade after we had gone our ways we did encounter one another, and over the course of several months we realized we were both quite in love, and our courtship outside of our marriages began again. We expressed our desires at the same time knowing we could not maintain the level of passion we experienced together but we always assured ourselves we probably would never leave this in the same circumstances as years ago.
I had found my muse and the mystique of her beauty and elegance became again, as it was without her directly in my life, the drive for my sensual poetry. Now, I am in a place where I no longer have the inspiration and that aspect of my writing is impacted, so I struggle with my words.
The one true thing I will finish with is I’ve just written a fantasy that I hope you the readers might have enjoyed. Because, there seems no reality in my words.
So now my days are spent searching for my muse, knowing love once again played its harmony with great zeal and slapped my heart and soul with disparaging abandon.
In the movies, television, a good romantic novel, the writer might suggest whatever they like. The reader can live the fantasy without the consequence of experiencing the reality. If two people love one another, yet realize they cannot, then what happens to the game of truth or dare? Truth, I love you. Truth, I wonder about you 24/7. The reader is intrigued and drawn to the climax, wondering what will happen when the answer returns … could have been a dare, and then the game is over.
I’ve written poetry on this site for years, along with several other venues. I’ve traveled many circles in words, encountered countless writers of all gender, all with the same passions, same desires, same hurts and wants and understandings. I’ve met some that so spoke to my own inner self that I wondered if our lives had passed by one another. Ironically, I have often thought of former lovers, years ago, who might come across my words, and without really knowing, wonder if, just if.
I’ve written about the mystique of woman in so many different ways I’ve lost count of my reason why. Or perhaps I no longer want to think about why. I do know what love is, and at the same time, I recognize pain, and I struggle to allow the beauty of love to become a tragic malady in the lives of human beings who feel. I wonder about the actual moment when what a person feels suddenly turns dangerous, and their bodies both mentally and physically choose to retreat, because humanity is taught to shelter ourselves rather than take risks. I don’t fault a person for wanting shelter, for choosing what is safe in their lives. I just sometimes envy those that learn how to navigate the edge.
There is someone out there for all of us. I know this to be true, because even so, we cannot always have what it is we believe we should have. Sometimes the choice is not ours and no matter how hard we try, we cannot change the mind of a lover scorned. Once described as an unmet expectation, the unraveling of what once was a certainty no longer holds the fabric of our quiet passion. We find ourselves scrambling to justify, to describe a rationale that will keep everyone happy, and then one day, it is a silent day, a meditative reflection, we come to terms with the form of alone that allows us to make a decision, to create another chapter, or in the crudest manner, gloss over the beauty of what once was a magic, a wonder, a reality.
In recent months, my mental health has been tested more than I would like to imagine. I’ve made choices based upon my desires, leaving me with an outcome that has revealed a certain void in my life that has me on my knees more often than I would like. The beauty of woman is what first motivated me to write here, the words the readers, the venue allowed me to explore a fascination that has been closed, locked away, denied for many years. I wrote words that I wanted both men and women to shudder upon, to realize just how marvelous is the sensual nature of the human condition. I had a wonderful time doing so, and have met many lovely and real and genuine people along the way. Yet love is a surreal reality in the mind of a philosophical romantic.
I came to realize I was writing for one person, and it wasn’t me. Now, all the research I do on writing seems to suggest I must write for myself. I find that to be a very lonely place, one that only allows me to struggle. I listen to music as a background to my writing. There are times when a certain song or melody takes me places that I want to go and it inspires my world on paper. Then there are times when I cannot find the right song, composition, driving force of nature to give my writing a boost.
So tonight I sat in my – local – cafe, close to my home, and I wondered how to address this question in my mind. I still haven’t found an answer beyond knowing I have known love and I am grateful. I wish it could just be that without all of the societal constraints that determine just how much we can be who we are in a managed and planned experiment. I wonder sometimes who it was that determined the rules for this experiment. I believe in God, or some entity of spiritual determination, but as I write these last words I am convinced we have, or maybe it is just me, moved a bar beyond the original concept of what He means in our lives, in my life.
I wonder about the beauty of two people in love, I wish breaking rules meant a greater understanding without the fear of discretion. I appreciate the loneliness of having to choose a place to land. My feet are still not firmly planted on the ground, so I’m still at risk for knowing what is true, what is fantasy, what is my own personal breaking point.
I wonder always about the beauty of woman and the inspiration you do bring to my life.
Three weeks ago I said good bye – tonight I say good night.
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