See me in misery. See me in ecstasy. See me in naked vulnerability. See me in debilitating anxiety. See the progression of trauma that scarred my psyche. See me see the divinity in intimacy. See me ending communication with certain family abruptly. See me screaming loudly under dark skies holding a crucifix tightly in death’s valley. See and hear me attempt to explain my mind’s complexities. See the discovery of my Precognitive Empath abilities. See my passion for deep transcendent sensuality. See me weep as I read notes on the back of sentimental photographs silently. See the evolution of my appreciation for women and femininity. I am hopeful yet disconsolate; see my duality. Hear me angrily tell my mind’s distressing ruminations to shut the fuck up repeatedly as if I’m disconnected from my own body. Close your eyes tearfully, and briefly be the embodiment of my agony.
Tag: Thoughts
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The eyes close, and the tears flow, and the winds blow, and the color of scarlet rapidly drips on snow, and words are spoken that no one will ever know. A diary heavy with immense sorrow is slowly let go, and the coldness reveals its bitterness as if trying to freeze the moment in the bosom of winter’s secrets. Winter blankets the remnants with snow’s heaviness encapsulating tears, sorrow, affliction, love, beauty, and written sentiments that are endless. Scarlet infuses it with its loudness interrupting the frozen white silence. Towering trees stripped of the leaves of their branches sway in strong winter winds as a solemn acknowledgement of what they witnessed. So heavy is the sorrow of life — the pain, the torment, the agony, the indifference. The winds become calm — snow gently falls on the beloved one who sleeps in the cradle of winter’s balm. Scarlet expands as far as it will go, soaking the pages that document the times and places of the depths of sorrow.
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Stillness settles; the weeping soul finds solace. Release comes; rivers of sorrow overflow, forming streams of emotions that only weeping angels know. The weary spirit finds rest in a place where hyacinth and lavender winds blow. Mysteries are revealed. The last loving whispers of infinite souls are unsealed. Aura is replenished in meditative essence. In a quiet room a powerful rebirth takes place with only the walls to bear witness. What is written is akin to divine poet laureates collaborating to diligently craft every sentence. In the stillness, the divine feminine begins again in beautiful nakedness. To truly love her, is to embrace her with a pure heart and dry her tears with a thousand passionate kisses.
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She is nourished by sunshine and rainwater, like fields of lavender flowers rooted in the rich soil of celestial valleys, graced with the calming sounds of peaceful glistening rivers. She spreads her wings and glides over all that she’s dreamt of. The serenity of her soul is the most beautiful and ancient wonder. The celestial bodies crown her. The intonations of her voice are like refreshing flowing streams in early summer. Her gaze is like the aurora borealis in winter. Her whispers are like breathtaking portraits painted by a master. The colors of her soul are hues of blue, purple and lavender. Astonished minds contemplate the most descriptive words that closely describe the ethereal beauty of her.
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Slow the fuck down and let the moment take over. It is not a race when you make love to her. Be like a wine taster and savor her flavor. Sit back and gaze upon the sexy embroidered black lace that drapes her. Enjoy the freshness and sweetness of her breath when you kiss her. Enjoy the feminine arches of her feet, the prettiness of her pedicured toes and the wonderful colors. Enjoy the color and length of her hair and it’s texture. Enjoy the wetness and beauty of her vagina. Enjoy the fullness and the shape of her breasts; enjoy the picturesque silhouette of her neck. Take note of the sexiness of the arches of her eyebrows, the shape and color of her eyes, and her eyelashes that have held the tears that she has cried. Admire the bridge of her nose, as if sculptured by a master. Feel the fullness and softness of her lips. Look upon the shapeliness of her legs, ass, and hips. Say something sincere to her, and then give her an intimate kiss. Massage her body with moisture; and after, watch her sleep in heavenly bliss.
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Still, there are words left unspoken years after I thought I had completely purged you from my system. Fucking other women was supposed to be my exorcism. My feelings for you were supposed to end. With every intense release of passion there should have been more distance. I made love passionately and intensely in the rapture of deep intimacy to women who told me that they loved me, but your memory is my prison. In the company of friends and associates I feigned indifference to stave off the outward signs of emotional ruin. Fuck her they would tell me, and I would pretend to agree with them. I’ve never been a man to be consumed by any particular obsession. As a fatherless child, I was raised by stern uncles who taught me to control my emotions in the company of men, and be exceptionally stoic in the company of women. Perhaps they would think that I have strayed from their discipline if they ever heard any of my intimate whisperings. Confessions have been told and tears have flowed before love making at 3:00 A.M. Naked and drenched in sweat saying barely coherent words through heavy whispery breaths, an attempted exorcism is in progress yet again.
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War
I seek not strife, but if it is war let it be war forever. I am of the likeness of my mother, erasing the face of the cowardice of my father. I have sought reconciliation, but now war is in my heart, so I seek reconciliation no longer. I am the son of heaven’s daughter. Instead of sorrow, I would rather laughter. Instead of unhappiness, I would rather have joy now and in the hereafter. The sentiments of my soul run deep through many mighty rivers. To the mighty and beautiful Redwood trees I will read my story aloud then listen closely for the whispers of their ponder. I’ve strived to be a man well remembered. I wade in deep dark waters facing the sinister anxiety that seeks to destroy me; for long I have warred with unrelenting horror. It is when blood runs and tears fall that I have given all that I can render.
—Intermission—
Passion
Beautiful whisperings, crying, and the exchange of expensive rings mean nothing if sentiments of love are not genuine. After love making, so much beauty is found in intimate conversation. There is so much depth and true feeling in the heart of an ardent woman. In the embrace of true love there is room to begin again. When long held secrets are divulged and tears run you will know that a genuine and unbreakable love has come. Endless joy is a spiritual immersion. I take a look at myself, the younger version, and I take heed to the wisdom of love’s lessons. There is nothing more romantic than sincere words spoken of the heart’s emotion followed by kisses of passion. Carnal desire is pleasure, but when paired with true love it becomes blue flames of everlasting fire. Marriage is not signatures on paper, it is the coming together and bonding of one another in passionate love forever.
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We weep, yet we are not weak.
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If I am no more in your memories, then in the darkness of night I will recite loving stories to the trees shedding leaves as if tearfully acknowledging the longing sentiments of my heart that relentlessly stalk my dreams;
I will document the pain of my soul in my many diaries, keeping the words you said to me in dormancy until I return to the dust, leaving the state of my being physically, or until the day you come back to me.
Whatever will be will be, but if nothing else, remember that I truly loved you unconditionally with distinct sincerity from a heart of love and purity. Still, even now, I would give you all of me, hoping for healing from the brokenness of my forsaken reality.
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Again, I take the inventory of me with brutal honesty weighing in the balance what the measure of a man should be, and with sound reasoning I have found that there has been progression, but in terms of significance it has been insufficient. Therefore, I must cast off the weight that pulls me down if I am to make my glorious ascension. I do not sleep because there is darkness, neither do I rise because there is light. There are no adherences to normality, for the eyes of the sorrowful are always heavy. Perhaps I have become vampiric in nature, awakening only because I need to feed — and because my heart is shattered, scattered among the harshness of weed infested infertile soil yet somehow I breathe. Ritualistically, Coltrane’s; A Love Supreme is my steadfast prayer; just before coffee with sugar and heavy cream, I silently shed heavy tears.
Intimate Compositions 