They
will
love
the generic
you,
the
you
they
feel safe
with,
and
look past
the
real you
who
might
spoil
their
fun.
Home » Posts tagged 'love' (Page 43)
Tag Archives: love
Before Long Island
I
believed
in
myself
once.
A
long
time
ago.
Perhaps
too
much.
Perhaps
not
enough.
Like
I
believed
in
you.
A
long
time
ago.
Perhaps
too
little.
Perhaps
too
much.
While
your
many
faces
spoke.
Such
awful
beauty
spewed.
All
that
time.
I
heard
nothing.
Believe
it
or
not,
I
really
believed
in
everyone.
Spitting
tea
leaves.
Before
Long
Island.
As they wonder.
We
don’t
genuinely
love
the stranger
on the corner,
on the television,
at work,
on the daily news.
We
get
used
to them
like they
get used to us,
to being liked,
to being lied to,
to being accepted.
We
wonder
why they
have it so good,
why we can’t quite get it straight,
why the stranger
on the corner, can’t get his act together,
why the camera’s won’t turn off,
we wander as they wonder.
As they wander, we wonder.
Love & Fear
They’ll
cut
you
like
a
knife,
you know,
and
leave
you
in
an
instant,
scarred —
yet
polar
opposites
they
attract
one another —
it’s true,
I’ve
seen
their
workings
and they,
are pure,
they
are
direct,
they
hold
no
prejudice,
except
for
those
they
love
and fear.
Dire times as these.
In times like these
when nothing is longer shocking
than the president’s next tirade,
what more is there to write,
what more is there to speak of?
In such dire times as these
write more about love, it’s amazing, really
that love can exist,
in such dire times as these.
On a hot summer night.
I
was
tired
angry
and
loony
for
love.
So
you
put
me
in
your
pocket.
While
Meatloaf
sang –
I
bet
you
do
that
to all
the
boys.
Reason #3 for Hiking the Pacific Crest Trail
I’ve done
a ton
of sitting
in my lifetime –
more than I’d like to admit –
and nobody said a word.
The minute
I speak
about walking
nearly 200 days –
admittedly I tend to live in extremes –
everyone has an opinion.
After
hearing enough
I let them
take their shots –
most of them actually do care –
then lace my boots.
We
all
have our reasons
to stay or to go –
for fear, faith, or love –
and my reason to stay is going.
The words I’d say to an unborn son.
If you’re not ready to let go,
then don’t.
Hold on as long as you need,
and then some.
These are words I’d say,
to an unborn son.
If it seems repetitive,
that’s good.
If it hurts in a hundred different ways,
it’s supposed to.
If you don’t want to smile,
let them see you frown.
These are the words,
I’d say.
Does it get easier,
at times.
Should you forget,
never.
Is it your fault,
no.
The words I’d say are these.
Life will kick your ass.
Love will break your heart.
Death will drug your senses.
With the strength of a mother’s love,
I would say.
You are your father’s child,
but make no mistake,
you are not your father.
Those who speak of love.
Beware
of those
who, so often
speak
of love,
remember
not to
get too involved
with
their plight,
chances are
there is someone
responsible
and you
just might be
picking up the pieces,
because Love
too often
is mistaken for
infatuation,
but they
won’t see that,
they can not
see so well through the fire
the mystery
of the heart,
the failure
of the brain,
at face value, yes
they may seem true
but beware
the unhinged
romantic,
they know
what they’re selling
but not so much
what to do after they’ve made the sale,
yak-yakkity yakking
their pattern back
to heartache.
Staring at the Blank White Ceiling.
In a perfume spoiled bedroom.
On a rain soaked summer’s Sunday.
Under a bleach white canopy.
Lay a girl ensconced.
Holding close, her Care Bear, she pondered.
When would be the right time to tell the truth?
Or.
Was the truth even worth telling?
Staring at the blank white ceiling.
It had felt right at the time.
Almost natural.
As a result of her seeming neglect.
Though now looking back – his eyes,
his lips, salty from pork-chops –
the way he abruptly reached for her crotch,
now all seemed wrong.
How could he (i.e. not the crotch grabber) do this to her?
Her mind shifting gears now.
Forgetting the one night loss of self,
and remembering why she’d felt so alone.
It wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t the one who left.
She was the one making the real sacrifice.
Yet why it all felt so wrong she couldn’t quite pin point.
Her makeup had always been done.
His needs, to her knowledge, were always met.
And she always made sure to tell him, she loved him, didn’t she?
Yet now lying in bed, she couldn’t fight back the tears.
Damn him and his selfishness.
How could she be so stupid to believe his lies.
She kept telling herself that they were lies, lies, lies.
But knew deep down they weren’t, they couldn’t have been.
After confessing the truth, over the white cordless telephone, her chest felt lighter.
A warm wave of relief quickly rushed through her veins.
A relief that she knew would not last.
How could anything last in a world so concerned with change?
It was nearly 10 o’clock, which meant reruns of her favorite television sitcom would be on soon.
Wiping her face with a rice pad, and brushing her teeth, she knew she did the right thing.
Telling the truth gave her validation, a confidence that could not be smeared.
She was tired of being the so called doormat.
She lay, transfixed, to the images and sounds emitting from the pleasure box on her nightstand.
It was the one where Eric and Donna share their first kiss.
It reminded her of many kisses that had been kissed.
And left her befuddled all the same.
Not liking this feeling she turned off the television.
Awake in the dark she could feel her heartbeat, beat-beat, beat-beat.
This was and was not her fault – she’d never eat a pork-chop again.
What really hurt, though, was that things would never be the same.
Yet in the back of her mind.
Tucked away in the dream she had that night.
There was this feeling.
A truth, that she was alright with that.
Words Of An Average White Male 