Here in the silence
that lingers between each star.
Close your eyes,
let the sweet velvet black
And you will know
(you will know)
that this is all you need.
The twinkling silence that is you.
This is all you need.
I know when I am talking to a persons soul.
There is no feeling wider, deeper, more beautiful than to sit beside a friend and know them beyond their human story.
The vastness of them.
The invisible wonder; felt, yet unseen.
No feeling I’d rather choose. No place I’d rather be.
I try not to reject the aspects of humanity that never can reach the boundless home our spirits connect in: the place I find the shine in peoples eyes.
But how could life without that shine ever compare to the deep blue sea of a wide open soul?
I am addicted to my souls home.
I miss it, and my soul people, when I am not there.
Life is beyond anything I could ever think to complain about, though.
Life is beyond anything I could ever think.
I have seen myself in the world around me.
In the people, things and places I love.
In the people, things and places I hate.
In the people, things and places I care only slightly for.
I block myself from myself when I am afraid.
When love is too much, too broken or not enough.
When dreams meet reality and reality must win, for the greater good.
I block myself from myself because I don’t know who I am.
And I think I should.
Because others do.
I should, too.
And so it is I unzip my skin and let it all fall down around me.
The aching of lost dreams.
The stinging hope for dreams to come.
They eat my soul, I hold them close.
I am meeting myself.
I am losing (and missing) myself at the very same time.
I’ve tried all the angles. I’ve felt all the rights and wrongs about what they say a writer should do, should be, should want…but I’m not like them.
I want barely any of what they tell me I should want.
To write from my heart, that is what I want.
To touch other hearts, I want that, too.
To shine so that others might know what it is like to shine on the other end of my words: I want that, more than anything else. Life is for dreaming and being the sweet dreams that we are.
I’ve tried to write for money: it leaves me empty.
I’ve tried to write any old thing: it leaves me tired, frustrated, hungry.
To share the depths of my soul is what I am here to do.
To connect with others at the level of the heart.
I want that.
I want that.
In the lonely hours
they cry for their humanity.
For the lost past,
for the uncertain present
they wander lost.
she sits alone,
and understands it all.
That she’s never been alone.
That all this time
their pain has lived within her,
pain she never asked for,
pain that is not hers to bear.
Clear air is what she knows she is,
not charcoal-grey squalls,
nor black-rimmed mud.
A heavy reality,
a scared, scared world
drowns her in the darkness
of humanity’s shadow.
Until she removes the soot
and clears the air
I take a deep breath
and ask the world to soften.
The world never does soften.
So I fall behind its wind,
and I find my own
What is this softness
that takes my heart dancing
beneath the sad moon?
When aching life pours from the sky,
and my heart cries
to be heard
Will I listen?
I will hear,
but I will not listen, for fear,
The heart needs too much.
The heart needs too much
whoever I am,
cannot ask life to give.