Poetry

The trouble with poetry is that it amplifies everything
I want to feel this I want to feel that
It’s verbs and superlatives
Being a poet is allowing one’s heart to be dice
but being the sneaky dealer at the same damn time
It’s declaring that she is the sun when you know your heart loves eclipses
It’s telling her she’s the one, as if you can’t find more synonyms
Poetry is alcohol. Russian standard, triple distilled. It will ruin you, give you black outs like a West African town with one power station.
You will eat the grapes of her smile her smell her presence and they will ferment in your stomach and bubble up pounding on your throat till you’re left gushing words you can’t explain, hungover and empty yet satisfied.
Poetry does not believe in a formulaic way of loving you. There are an infinite number of stanzas in which I can tell you I miss you. What verse will tell me no? Feet after feet I will testify what the brewery in my gut is churning.
Poetry makes use of the times when we don’t speak. When we feign invulnerability, hiding behind pride and uncertainty, poetry loves it.
Poetry is such a dick. Poetry is a blessing.
Poetry is not something I choose.
The other day when I read your letter and you told me you loved me less, I ran, I ran really hard on the treadmill and it felt really good.
Poetry is the House, she always wins.

The paradox of loving

People have lost the art of immersion.

People are afraid to get lost in love, afraid to say things like “… Most of all, Rochelle, it’s the twists in your hair, the way you clasp your hands when you laugh, the way you utter every syllable with the utmost respect, your lips are decadence, your hips, your hips, your slender hips, but back to your lips… ”

When our hearts gush, we set out dams, waiting for the right time – praying for a sign. Listen, the universe aligns just fine!

Balance fortitude and vulnerability. A flower needs the sun and bees; still it keeps its thorns and roots.

You are made of the finest dust and God’s golden breath. Be your chief lover. Sip wine; seek solace in the caves inside. Don’t let anyone define you. Give the perception of your truest intentions.

Respect is more important than love. Don’t let the grip of infatuation trap you in false intimacy. Passions stray and stain. Check your ego before you kiss her neck, lest you whisper untruths for careless caress. Forgive yourself for not living up to your idylls.

Know that you risk eliminating the discography of your favourite artist with each serenade.

Conflict of heart? Knotted soul? Troubled mind? If it’s Hollywood, it’s not a good sign.

If your heart skips a beat,

see your doctor.

Send roses to your mother more often.

One more thing, I hope you are not looking for someone to complete you, mend you or be you. That’s selfish – and silly too.