Poetry time, kids...

"The ship of true love never did run smooth." - Shakespeare

I'd say...

The best way to describe my love course? Tsunami. But with my pen as my paddle and my heart as its compass...I always manage to find, and write, my way to dry land. People can try to help me with optimistic cliches, or self-help books by those holding a Ph.D. in B.S. But if you're a creative like me, then you know the drill. When we're stranded at sea, only we can steer ourselves to land. We must sink to the bottom - feel it, taste it, fear it. But go there we must. And only from going there, into abyss, can you truly ever emerge on top. Poetry becomes my paddle, as an artists' brush stroke is a breast stroke, bring them closer to clarity and dry land. The good thing about being compeltely, and uttery drenched, is that at a certain point, you can't get any more wet. Shivering, panicking, cursing...nothing can change it. At some point, you just have to accept your saturated state, and remember to relax: you're alive, you're breathing.


"Surrender."

After the anger subsides,
And the fists unclench,
The spiraling rage,
Unravels repentance

Asleep, my ‘locks
Mop up the tears
By morning’s breath, our battles
Reek cavalier

The sunrise slaps my face,
And drags me to the sink
Cheeks red, and drenched,
I panic, I blink

I blink, and I stare
I gawk, and I glare,
Interrogated eyes:
Confess the slayer!

Crawling to the couch,
I cushion my pride,
But slowly, she slips
Through the cracks in the side.

Shuddering, I cloak myself
In quilted guilt,
Each patch, patterned proof
Of this enemy I’ve built

I burn the blanket,
And bury the bitter,
But this heart, while flawed,
Will not die a quitter

With a crushed heart, and ice
I swallow my words – my knife
Drop your ego, your gun
Let me into your life

True love must bend itself
to compromise,
I’ll walk six steps,
My plea: take five

For the table of love
Seats not four, but two,
Wear your heart, check your pride,
Stripped down: me and you

For now, I’ll silently sit
With hope, and not hate
Does your heart have the muscle
To step up to the plate?