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

Lessssssssons

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Where are the whispers that used to fill the inside of veins, “you want more”.

Give me lessssssssssss ons.

Give me lessons?

Give me freedoms.

Give me sleep.

Give me guiltless memories.

Give me kind interactions and a pillow of done enough.

Give me…nothing…no worth.

No.

No lessons.

No grace.

Give me jokes in face.

Your moms face.

Your moms face burnt with fire the bombs left her.

Left her an eye to give back to the soldier that saved her life…but he took that eye.

Lesson learned.

Why aren’t we laughing?

Whispered Flaws

I write to you in my sleep.

Diamond sky, stardust lining ALL skins.

The waters touch quenching ANY thirst here or after.

The desert crumbling beneath toes dipped in valley.

You are there.

Visioned.

Seen.

Falling from risen.

True in being nothing.

Giving everything a meaningless meaning of seeing.

The dreams, like clouds, we dance upon their vapor.

Whispered flaws yelled from clasped claws…

Sleepily you write to me also…

Super Human

“You need to remember you are strong. You’re unstoppable when your strong.”

She tells me this while she sits in her own soft sadness.

We are the same. Craving love and attention, we have starved for long enough.

The nuclear family was not the support beams they were cracked up to be.

In fact the cracks were huge and she slipped through them.

Thats how we found each other.

I still have not healed fully from the chaos that was the co-dependacy and I feel her want to pull me back in and yet at the same time it is the safeness I have yearned for.

The  home of, “All things are possible.”

Don’t tell me I need you…

No answers are needed…

Only tell me I am doing it already.

I am able and strong.

I am great at doing this for others…now me…

They are nothing with me and everything with themselves.

I need this as well.

Turn to the ones living the dream.

She has to remember.

I have to remember.

This time…I am here for her.

Who will tell me?

No One. I have to tell myself.

I tell myself I am strong enough, thank you for the idea.

You, strong enough too.

Strong enough to let the world into the private warmth and chaos that is me.

Comfort while icily looking forward.

Crave the intensity of love and not the ambition.

Dance soul.

Get the hell up and dance.

Bear the soul that is deep as the ocean, the world is watching and in need.

All you envision is all that was given to you by the Universe, for the benefit of the Universe.

Sanity feeling like insanity.

Enlightenment feeling like darkness.

The tingle begins. It begins with in her grasping. . . HER.

You are the super human you have been envisioning.

Intense is the leader, hold your hand and let you guide you.

The soul is within not out, so again. . . Dance. hands high, voice just as big.

Take it all on, it was all meant for you…

Happiness is what I speak of damn it!

Enlightened with music, art, sight and sound. Take all on and be all.

For all is nothing. And nothing is simple right?

No choice. It was what she was born to do.

Me?

I am just fine. No aches at all thank you… good day.

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.

Mud

Let us not loose our minds.

Let us know we are the stars children, created to dance in the colors we choose to flail about.

Let us not let our eyes roll back in ecstasy only alone in the room of closet.

Let us release and love the outburst that is us.

Let it be more colorful than beige.

Bland.

All color taken out.

Let it sear the skin and make all things seem inevitable.

Let the pleasure dry the mouth and moisten the hips.

Allowing the swerve of the curve of your lip to rest on the knee.

Tickle the insides of me.

Let us not loose our minds in the desert of doubt the plantation more raped than pleasured.

Let us breathe in the sweet smell of delicate encounters chipped by desire.

Let us not reflect like glass yet soak up like earth.

Allowing the moisture to turn us to mud.

Feet swollen with ache in fun.

Ache in romance.

Ache in acting.

Ache in painting.

Ache in laughter.

No ache in heart. Leave ache of heart in the land of bland.

Give in.

Give stand and. . . well. . . dance. 

Look alike

The face of why.

The grip of a good bye to an idea that was . . . you.

Who you thought you were is no longer and what you are becoming is . . . painful.

But necessary.

A given even.

Take in the addictions you have craved since birth.

Let out the ones that no longer serve your purpose.

The poison can be caring and it also can lust. Creating dust in the mask of self kindness.

Give nothing to a mind that is driven by snow and madness.

 Give everything to the sky that birthed you and will survive long after the skeletons.

Dance in the purple fungus of time and relate to all things even the sadness.

Even the death.

All is all. All is all. All is all and so are you.

All is taken from the example of a mad man.

You wonder if the moon will still hang after these tears are shed.

The smile returns with medicine encrusted in promises the land never intended to make forbidden.

Raped are the medicine men.

Their children’s dreams driven out by desire of more.

The herb takes form of smoke and lets the thoughts trickle back out and they are free again.

Free to take on this look alike. This crazed ego that was given to them by sand.

Breathe in mother Earth, breathe out your idea of mortal.

 Take with you the idea that nothing is how it should be and all is as it seems.

The boogie man is real and he was not nurtured by the earth but will ravage it and all who try to dance upon it.

The fog lifts and you see again.

There you are.

In there.

In the deep grey of doubt but I see you still.

Come about the way it leaves. Inhale earth medicine received.

Depression can leave. 

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.

ggrroo00OOWING

My father. Strict and blocked. He is an artist. he will not admit it even to this day.

So many different memories come up when I think of my father. His sternness. His anger.His drinking and pilling. His cheating and tearing up the family over and over again.

I wonder often if he is the reason I have a hard time believing in the ‘family unit’. That term seems false to me. Restrictive. Keeping people from claiming themselves, for the better of the unit. Shells. Shells are what they become and I fear I may be one as well.

My father loves to ponder and draw. But thinks it silly to allow such gifts for himself. I did not grasp this when I was younger. I thought he was mean and powerful. I thought he hated me. Wished for the life when I did not tie him down.

I pulled this picture out the other day. I am beginning to look back at where I came from. Admit to my adult self what I have lived through and how to see all I have changed. Not just for myself but for future generations. My daughter finds it completely acceptable to call yourself an artist. A word that would have brought about immense laughter in my house growing up. Not because they didnt really think we were but because it would have meant they could call themselves such things.

Today I am reminded of the amazing possibility for the soul to change. I have changed and I can accept my family unit and invest great deals of creativity and emotion into this dream as well. . . I was not taught to be happy so this will be hard but I am ready. . . I accept I am still ggrrRoo00OOWING.