Yes?

You think of me again

yes?

You wonder if the reality was warm

Yes?

And it was but

God

it is so much richer now

in distance

Let us be lovers of words and watch each other

grow.

You are whispered on my lips

and

hips

as well.

Thank you far off lover.

lets write and sing drastic songs sent from afar

but close.

rodoor

Clean You

You.

You will not come to my dreams and torment me,make me hate me,take me sexually.

Give me remorse in the color of lusting after you, while the groan you carry on your lips is as deep as a valley.

Non-penetrable by genuine caring.

Genuine art.

You.

You will not come to my dreams in the form of the ultimate love, the one I cannot win.

Craving me.

Delving into me.

Taking me.

Then leaving me.

Not leaving me in the sheets for that would be welcomed but leaving me in understanding .

Understanding the lust.

Understanding the artist.

Understanding the creative process and the yearning for more.

You will not come to me in my fucking dreams and then wake me to the idea of not good enough.

Your ass crippled from the life you chose to take place of your genuine questioning.

Glittered in the saliva of your childrens conquests while the chair you sit in folds in from the weight.

The blue that sparkles in the eyes of you will not take the bad taste you have left in my mouth out.

You.

You serve no purpose but to watch the show go on and detest the actors risking their sanity to bring you reality.

Normal.

Normal you will stay.

Untouched you will meet your grave.

Gentle.

Gentle existence.

Gentle exiting.

Harsh reality…

of all you didn’t try in order to cleanly survive.

Instead . . .

This day has brought her many thoughts of many times she was many different people.

I wonder why she has chosen to settle into this one? And why as I say settle I feel the rebellious nature of her rise and deny having ‘become’ anything accept a great woman.

A tried and true ‘Liver’.

I take it in, all of it, in my own way. My way that is nothing real at the moment accept to just be.

Come to me in this sunlight you allow to exist with the vast amounts of you, you bring.

She will grapple with the idea of leaving a tremendous ache behind. In the grieving I will find myself.

Find my love of life again.

Looking for the pleasure in the glasses of ale has found you nothing but a thick depression. The pleasure of her is gone.

Yet she finds comfort in that. I find comfort in the tiredness they have settled into.

The grand love of living life. The life, which no matter how poetically you put it, is tormented with harsh realizations of our eternal connected loneliness.

 I was not supposed to be happy.

I was not supposed to become a writer, a musician, a great mother.

I was supposed to become nothing.

Instead . . .

I grow and I see others growing.

Always.

I know nothing of this God guy and I know nothing of the lack there of.

Backward is forward.

She sees magic.

I see growth born out of art, born out of creativity.

I see destruction born out of the same creative womb.

I have no answers.

I have no solutions.

I have moments.

I have stories.

I have emotions and colors to fling as I work through the dark, bright tinge of what life brings to me.

As I think, I change my reality.

Taking on different words of me.

Different outlooks for this time on this earth. I am free, always to change my reality of me.

I care not what you think of me. I have no control over your reality.

Even when I think I do, you can only see me how you see you.

I know how I see me in all things therefore any hate is me hating what I see. What I am. What I fear. What I give energy to.

Now she gives energy to travel.

 I need and ask for travel.

 Big and little travel.

 Pictures and different thicknesses of oxygen.

 “Give me stars and tears!” she cries.

No one will be able to take in how I will heal. I now know I am the warrior

I seek.

She will come and she will glide around and she will worry and I will take in the stars, alone.

 In depth I will take them in, alone . . . alone is good. . . alone is preferred. . . alone is a given. . .

 As I go back to the land I was born on, the land I was raped on, the land many have cried and died on .

The summer brings the West and I alone will grieve and heal .

 Give us growth.

Looking for Patterns in Lola.

Looking for patterns of questioning.

Again. . . She ponders patterns.

Is she unhappy in love because she can’t escape her unstable childhood?

When she looks in the mirror in the morning and see’s her mothers face, is that nature or a warning?

Is it her drinking that makes her so angry or is it her anger that makes her drink?

Does she really enjoy kindness to others or is it the only way she feels she can find the energy to muster up self kindness?

Lola has wrung through these questions of her patterns for years. Really for as long as she can remember. She was raised in the generation of self help.

Book stores filled to the brim with ‘Do it yourself’ ‘ self help guides. “Reclaim your soul.” ,”Leave that tormented love.”, “Stop overeating and regain your self confidence! “. All teaching that YOU  have the power to be a better you.  And Lola has read them all. Each one filled her with a sense of hope and accomplishment to change her insides into the happy outsides of others she saw.

Weeks after she finishes the books, she finds herself stuck. . .combing through the thoughts.

Combing through her actions of each and every day.

Did she use the day to it’s fullest?

Did she pay attention to the true Lola?

Who the hell is the true Lola? She’s been so busy changing Lola she has no idea which her is the real her or the her she should be getting rid of!

The self help books showed no way accept to magnify all that she was and over analyze every little thing about herself and her day.

Speaking of over analyzing, she’s been meaning to work on that as well.

Shit! She just can’t stop. Add it to the long list of things to do. . . Analyze why you analyze so damn much!

Generations of people accepting who they are for the chance to change. Be the better YOU.

Today, just for today. Lola sits and relaxes her stomach. Puts down the book. Picks up her pen. She doesn’t know what she’ll write about but you can bet your sweet ass it won’t be about self help.