didn’t think about me

I wonder if he didn’t think about me

like I didn’t think about him, anymore.

freethinking pen

She wanted to write about something other than love. Yet her freethinking pen seemed more adhered to her heart than to her head. A battle she never felt worth fighting.

This is all we know. This is why we create.

Write. We write. Because there is nothing more to do. We write like hearts pump and flow. We write to ensure peace hoping the fevers will stop, the imaginations will quiet. We write to pierce bodies, to watch blood flow fiercely, evenly, tenderly without restraint. This is all we know. This is why we create. And as you die, we dance, we carry your world, your jealousy, your deceit, your dreams. We write. Not because we wanted to—

We had no choice.

writers should be read

“Writers should be read, but neither seen nor heard.” 
―Daphne du Maurier 

Death or coffee?

“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?”—Albert Camus

glass house

Glass and metal view
Trees and all their glory
—granting me liberty

Perched up on the 9th story, this world is mine to take.

Hazelnut coffee, raw chocolate chai tea, blank piece of paper.Happiness complete.
The train, my God, my beauty plunging in to say goodmorning.
All my “friends” surround me. not one knowing my story.

My lips are fierce with passion. My heart spins fiery beats
a rhythym lives within my fingers and dances in my feet.

My train calls to me daily she loves to see me gaze, our friendship is an odd one
she only gives and never takes- it’s her unconditional state.
I’ve put her to the test, she never fails to come, my perfect bout of glory, my stately girl of peace.

The world I held so closely, she played me like a game,
I released and left her laughing to stand on my own two feet.

I look young yet I am old, my mind knows untold stories
this heart of mine… unsophisticated, naive
each beat spilling over   as if to tease.

My laugh is unlike theirs- it does not miss a tune
it drinks this beauty over looking the view from my glass, green world.

If this is a book or a story,
then it’s mine,
it is sacred, it is holy.

hearts that bend

“Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.”
—Albert Camus

Train tracks and paddle boats

the non-writing writer

writing is hard. not as hard as not writing.

not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic and a gruesome winless battle.

A writer who writes, knows peace, lives between truth.

Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.

Champagne and tea