sky is full of dreams…

And the sky is full of dreams
But you don’t know how to fly
I don’t have a simple answer
But I know that I could answer
There’s something better

This feeling won’t go

Wait for it

-the killers

trust the hours

my friend cally sent this to me. read it; its worth it. when i read it the second time, and it sunk in, i cried.

Wait – by Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

85 emails.

i miss you with feelings miles long

pretty much so deeply i’ll write a song

about love and life and all things that mean anything

to a silly tune to which we dance and perchancey sing

a ballad where epic movies and cooking meet

conveniently in middle and we’ll have tea with our feet.

“so very ordinary”

REMAKE

what would you say,
about these plans
you may never hear them
but you might know
the story behind them
the story behind these words:

“and i don’t know where to start
and i don’t know where to start
you might think its easy
you might find differently”

you change your mind so quickly
i’m sorry but you’re sometimes more feminine than me
your fickle mind;
how many hours have i wasted my time?
and you might ask the question, why,
why does love never work out for me?

“you play me like you play poker
you lay down your cards
and leave with all the money
you know too much about me”

and you know so little about me
and you know so little about me
i gave you my
vulnerability

“i do know, you’ve got me started
and now i’ll move on
you may think that you’ve got something
you might find differently, differently.”

but as your mind changes
like the earth changes seasons
eventually you’ll come back
asking for forgiveness

but you might find someone else, i’ll say[reassure]
you probably will find another way
again and again and again and again.

and maybe it wasn’t something so great
maybe i’m just vulnerable
and you’re just ordinary,
oh, so very ordinary.

p.s. video!

all i need is a ukelele to put it to music

a torn out sheet of paper
it looks like i’m reading and concentrating
on the words
but in fact i can’t stop looking
at the point where the paper ends
and the tear begins

a broken window;
it looks like i’m looking at the view outside
but in fact i can’t stop looking at the point
where the glass ends
and the broken shards begin.

what would you say she would do
in my situation?
because i want to do
the very opposite thing

i’ll be tearing out the pages
and be breaking the glass
cuz in fact i can only focus
on the brokenness
of what you and I used to be

it looks like i’m focusing on the future
and not the now, thats what i’ll say,
but i can’t stop staring at the place
where it ended
and the place where the emptiness of the page begins

but please, no apologies
because in fact we ended
and something new begins,
even if its in the form of delicate broken shards

i’ll be wanting to go in a new direction
so i am slowly following
the pattern of my broken heart.
it is fascinating
the way it is still beating

a hanging

I am suspended in the air
My feelings dutifully cast aside as you wanted
I am trying to touch the ground with my toes
But the effort sticks the air to my skin most painfully
The art of pretending things are normal is lost to me
I can pretend I have this art
There is evidence I can do that

A hanging you say and I nod
The great event will be held and recalled
As the most insignificant in history
The air sticks to my skin more painfully
And nothing is looking around more anxiously
Than those feelings cast in the corner
Chained by duty and damn sensibility

I am suspended and floating in the air
Looking down at everyone’s gloriously busy lives
Now the those feelings are beginning to die
Without water to live in
Their dry skeletons stuck in my heart
Like I am stuck above the ground
Yet it was I, who placed the rope around my own neck.

cabbages and kings

Some days I wish I could hide forever
and once I’m gone leave not a trace
of where I’d like to be.
Right now the tension’s ‘bout to snap—
lash at the ones holding it taught.
Some days, I’m so tired and weary and scared
I think things that I should not;
like running away.

Some days I wish I could disappear
leaving all the world behind me—
and go a place that’s better.
But what is better than now?
(Is later perhaps the grass that’s greener?)
Some days I want to reach out and touch and cry
for what I can see in the now;
such as cabbages and kings.

Funny how you can still feel the same as you did then.

who’d be listening?

and I don’t know where to start
and I don’t know where to start
you might think its easy but
you might find differently,
differently.
you play me like you play poker
you lay down your cards and
leave with all the money
you know too much about me but
i don’t know
i don’t know!
i do know if you got me started
i’d go on
and who’d be
who’d be listening to me
nobody

letters in the post

Out of my hand the pieces of your letter blew
Out into the dusk
I never read it
That how the song always goes
And it seems useless

The post it flew between us
The letters grew to thirteen pages long
The post faltered and faded away
The emails, the emails!
The talks full of happiness
The shine soon faded

But we knew we had something, back in the 2005’s
And the ink grew dimmer everyday
The ink, I hope stays bright!
I never know, but I kind of want to fight
For those letters in the post
The letters in the post

Now I think of you with fondness
Your name associated with the old days
Now I remember
How we used to joke about the guts spilled on the page
Why does it end like this all the time
Why does it end?
Why does it end

But we knew we had something back then
And the ink still grows dim
The ink probably won’t stay bright
I know the memories stay mine
Oh, those letters in the post

sonnet-dreaming

Why not a splattered dropcloth acting as a rug?
Another table and chair put this here and there.
Why take this away; what about mod?
I have my own styles; smile and nod.
You’ll comment but I’ll still back up my claim.
Why not a garden and a wrought iron chair?
A collection of spoons—
And some paintings—
Or a statue—
And book shelves full of words and punctuation marks.
The piano and the classics
Rather are pleasing to look at where they lay.
Curtains made of punjabi scarves;
A cat or two on the duvet.