My poor unused blog :(. I promise to now pay more attention to you, and actually write something...

You cant feel me slipping, so how will you catch me?

Panic at the thought of doing a thing is a challenge to do it. 
 ~Henry S. Haskins

Together

We draw each other’s hands and they are holding.
Every few years we add a wrinkle accordingly.
We erase the cuts and the bruises, and trim each other’s nails.
Sometimes we hold loosely, but mainly we hold tightly.

We drew that white ribbon, threaded it through our fingers
and knotted it, so that no-one could undo it.
We draw on our rings in bright white gold, My diamond

Is perfect, you were always an artist.

We draw each other’s hands, to remember the truth,
we make each other, so still we hold on.

The Silver Moons

No silence is Perfect...

Among the silver moons.
the ground is just dust, its softer than sand,
I am slowly sinking.
The vision is clear, but too far away
its simply magnified its false to the touch.
There are no walls, no windows, no doors.
The silence is loud now, the darkness is bright
my soldiers are waiting to conquer the moons
So precious, so perfect
Completely unstable.
posing eternal, they’ll crumble. Go out.
the silver sunset will melt and darkness will rule.
the Vison is lost.
The silence is Perfect

“sometimes a cigar is just a cigar”
-- Sigmund Freud

July 3rd

I do wonder sometimes why he is with me, why he puts up with me, what draws him back to me every time I create a fuss. But then I think about how much I love him, and I see sometimes how he looks at me and I know he feels the same. As if that one look is a perfect substitute for any word in the world, from it I get everything he could ever want to make me understand. My mind is a violent devil; my worst enemy. It convinces me of my awfulness, how I could never be loved, but that one look fights it back again and again. From that wonderful feeling though, comes a deep obstinate terror, that one day, that look; my soldier fighting my daemons, will slowly fade and die, until I am alone in the dark, struggling in my own little war. But for now, I am happy.

“And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.”

— Sylvia Plath

Fear

If you are afraid, then just be afraid. Do not hide it in darkness. Do not lock it away in a little wooden box. Do not stash it away in the back of your mind. Fear is organic. It will grow in silence, you will think you have forgotten it, and perhaps you do. But inside that little wooden box a tree will grow, it will grow to fruition until…Bang, bang, bang. Its fruit will drop one by one. The thuds will echo through your mind, a malevolent knocking… its trying to get out. It sparks your memory, of the friend you forgot. For a while after there is more silence, you are lulled into repression once more. But the fruit rots slowly, eating away at your little wooden box, its seeds fall through. They nestle in your mind, securing their roots in your subconscious. Growing and growing, trying to find light.

Then one day they do. Then you are in the dark. It got its revenge, that friend you forgot.