Dried Flowers

In your rage, scarcely reading,

flipping through the pages of a long forgotten book.

A memory slips out and calls.

That first rose, the one so lovingly preserved,

Recalls all the lost emotions,

And suddenly, that first touch,

That first kiss, become live again.

As they were when you lay in bed at night,

Alone yet together,

Thinking about how perfect it was.

When you felt yourself falling deeper and deeper,

Looking into the past and finding the present.

The anger subsides and a recognition glows,

Now it’s clear, why this love, this passion endured.

You put the flower back in and take the answer out.

To go on and not stop,

till death do us apart.

Madness

Panting ...gasping...lungs bursting..aching for air..

A vision..

Of running through the grass..pouring in air..down to the deepest level...

until every cell is ready to burst...

“There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond

which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this

ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete

forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness

of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a

sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken

field and refusing quarter.” *

....and to those who have been denied happiness for too long.

Pretend.

To be a lover...not the earnest steadfast kind. The passionate.. voluptuous

... tempestuous ..uncertain .. insecure.. kind.

Pretend too..to be denied your love.

Imagine.

A room full of people...tinkling glasses...glittering jewels...seeing the curve of a neck..

as she tilts it back to drink... a bead of moisture makes its swift progress down the arch.

People talk...the tide swirls all around you...and you live only to watch that drop cover its uncertain path.

Outside..humanity..with its civil boundaries.
Inside...panting..gasping..aching for life.

Prison

There is a blackness to love. not the inky dark blackness in which you can lose yourself and not be blamed. its the wonderful shades of grey...like a long moonlit corridor with the rays coming in through and lending a glow...which when you pass through make you feel like...here the blackness ends...now i can be happy.
someone i know told me it has to be pain and pleasure...together..never one or the other...
it seems so unfair..when you come to think of it.
why would anyone go through the whole rigmarole of giving and taking, being emotionally drained, getting tossed about and turned from one direction to another....and all this for ..for pain? sleepless nights (such a cliche), the crying, the arguing, the need, the helplessness...the sheer horror of being so completely dependent.
pleasure...is another thing in itself...so many connotations..this innocuous word has.
be it with drugs, sex, and a hundred other kinds of addictions..its always pleasure that is the ultimate goal. a heady feeling...it is.of being loved. perhaps the greatest of addictions.
its a prison.

The bars that you see right in front, but disappear when you touch.
Those that you want to break, but not as much.
They don’t hurt, you say, but then why lay awake at night,
Trying to kill the pain?
Maybe one day, some day it will make sense.
Why ruin it when it has been great?
You run, you hide, you forget, but…
You are still living it.
And once in a awhile if you do get rid of it,
It reaches out to take you back,
Into the same darkness.
No way out because it is the worst of its kind,

It’s the emotional prison.

One that didn’t trap you, snare you, or made an animal out of you,

It just stood there with its hands out to welcome you.