Vienna

Maybe I was just alone and stupid but I really loved you kid. But maybe that was just my mistake. Maybe that's all it was.

Juice

You drank my heart up
like juice and
hardly left any
for myself.

-no title-

"Sometimes it's the quiet parting of ways that is the most painful. It's the slow, drifting apart that can sever the heart the deepest."

Rumi spoke, again

Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror
up to where you're bravely working.

Expecting the worst, you look, and instead,
here's the joyful face you've been wanting to see.

Your hand opens and closes and opens and closes.
If it were always a fist or always stretched open,
you would be paralyzed.

Your deepest presence is in every small contracting
                  and expanding,
the two as beautifully balanced and coordinated
as birdwings.

-rumi

"à ceux qui sont malades par mer calme"

my mind
is like a small sailor
sickened
by the calm sea.

i stand here with the openness of
vast,
blue water spraying
across my chest, upon
my face;
my toes curl by the edge of it
and i am sickened
by a vapor of
nothing.

no movement.
no tumultuous rocking of
sand
shells
and sea, together.

nothing.
no chaos
or calm to disturb me.
mere air and the poison
of my own
mind
waltzing
disturbingly
through it.

if i must see another
man and woman
kissing
i will throw myself
overboard, and with it
my desire
to be in love
and feel that very same kissing
sensation.

and i will go
over and over
and over again until
it is gone.

i am alone.
my lips
have never once
tasted a kiss
and i feel very sorry for myself,
but not nearly
as sorry as the ocean does.
with what right do i have to burden it?
what what misconstrued privilege do i
elect those i deem
worthy
to throw my body in its body
to make myself
whole?

i may be sad, but i am not cruel.
i am not cruel.

i might be broken
but the music still plays even if
it is not
my own for a while.

who are you
to rob me of the only thing i have ever, ever
wanted?
who are you
to walk on this calm water and make me feel a storm?

who am i
to let you?

yours,
k.p. 

Simple

You know you've found love
real love
when all the songs make sense.
Even the sad ones.

-k.p.
January 29, 2017
Sunday
7:11pm

Pompeii

You were a god in my eyes. You were a god. I always saw you in the best light, the kind that falls gently on your shoulder and rests there like a lonely hand looking to be loved.
You were somehow perfect. Those blue eyes watching everything, yet only now do I realize, seeing very little. Your cold hands. Your buried secrets. Your wild heart some how asking, without permission, to be loved by me.
I wanted you so much. I ached for some kind of infinity with you, but that was never meant to be in your mind. So, slowly it vanished from mine.
I was too young to understand. I was too young. My heart was just beginning when I met you and all I see is that brave, foolish heart marching at you in the dark unknown begging to be loved. Bravery really is a kinder version of stupidity, isn't it?
Don't cry. It's okay. My heart is no longer afraid. It was once so very pale and white and silent, after too long of loving you; quivering by an endless cold that did not really exist. It was once a tired animal, small and fragile, stroked by the chilling darkness of loneliness that fed upon disillusions and soft fantasies of us. Us. 
Though it's quieter now, and it doesn't seem to dance the same reckless way it did before. Now it listens. It learns. It knows its worth lies somewhere far, far away from those who simply hurt it.
I see your pale ghosts like immortalized statues and they used to make me weep at how beautiful and tragic they were. I thought I could fix these broken demons, trace my gentle hands across their shattered faces and patch them up again. But I can't. I never could. They were never broken. I was. I didn't see it, but the glass between us was broken and I thought it was merely you and your demons. But it's not. It never was.
I'm not blaming you. I'm not. Actually, I'm not really doing anything except writing silly words and thinking about you when I'm not certain I should.
I guess the fire is coming now and instead of running to a burning ocean to die faster, I just wait for the flames to come, watching, until I too become a frozen statue next to you, my charcoal hand almost reaching yours. Almost.
What a sad tragedy we are. And to think every love can be a great one if you only care about the other one while still respecting yourself. That's it. That's what we could've been rather than this tragic ending of fire and flame.
We are not heroes or martyrs. We are stupid lovers that never even loved each other. What a cosmic waste we are. Utterly pathetic.

-k.p.
January 23, 2017
Monday

Bruises

"But sometimes," she spoke with a sudden passion that was reverent and gentle, "the books and the music and the poetry. They don't start talking to you until life nicks you up a bit. The best art is the art that pulls at you and with it's bare hands invites you in just as you are and talks about your demons. Life has a funny way of hurting you and then healing you. They don't always come in any order or in a specific way. They just come and often it's because we are hurt we understand the chorus, the verse, the stroke, and the artist. That is why art is important, but pain--yes pain--is essential."

Please, please, please, let me get what I want

They say life exists here and now but that's just a lie.
Life exists with you. Life exists briefly when I think about you, always. When the music plays and I actually feel something.
When I look at you and feel the way my heart plummets and flip flops around like a fish out of water--just for you.
You.
I'm exhausted of this madness.
For once in my life let me get what I want.
For once give me a kiss. Let me be alive. Let me feel this life run a course through my body like a strand of electricity streaming through my bones, my hair, my heart, softly closing my eyes as it does it.
I want to feel something. All I do is ache.
I ache for a breath of something wild and dangerous and exhilarating all at once.
I ache with real, potent aching to feel someone's lips on mine, making undone all that needs to be undone. One tug of lips that pulls the fraying strings in me and chases my demons away. A kiss. A stirring inside me. A feeling of total, blissful wanting. Maybe it's more than wanting I desire. It's desire itself. It's knowing I can be desired. I can.
Can I?
"I've never known..." I whisper as he's kissing me. He doesn't understand. He keeps kissing me. "I've never known," I say once more before his kiss stops me one last time, "I've never known I could have it. What I've always wanted. You. Me. A kiss. To be loved. It's all I've ever wanted." Without a word he keeps kissing me and then he leaves me, just like that.
I am alone again.
But.
C'est la vie.
That's life.

-k.p.

My heart

My heart has been beating
               all my life.
Then came you,
and I'm no longer sure
if it beats the same
               or beats at all.
It's confused.
But I'm having fun watching
the way it
figures it out.

-k.p.

My, Mary Oliver

Moments

There are moments that cry out to be fulfilled.
Like, telling someone you love them.
Or giving your money away, all of it.

Your heart is beating, isn't it?
You're not in chains, are you?

There is nothing more pathetic than caution
when headlong might save a life,
even, possibly, your own.

-m.o.
Felicity, 2016

My problem

You know what my problem is? I wrote this blog as if I was talking to somebody, when really no one is there. Even if you read this you are not here. You are there. You are living whatever your life is where ever you are living it and maybe, if I'm  lucky, my words have meant some small something in it.
But no.
My problem is I write these words in hopes that someday, I can be writing to no one but myself and I can be happy, even though I already am. You follow?
My problem is I hear the end of a song and think it is the beginning of one.
My problem is my phone is heavy while I write these words and my heart is also. And I am alone. I am always alone.
-k.p.

Rumi spoke

When I remember your love,
I weep, and when I hear people
talking of you,
                         something in my chest,
where nothing much happens now,
moves as in sleep.

-Rumi
Send The Chaperones Away