A New Day
my home tidies itself on the weekend,
all things come to their place in motion
except my bed
its never made…
only if someone is visiting
as what is there to be kept back in place?
dreams ? thoughts? passion?
i go back to them every night
sometimes wishing for a sequel
because a kiss in dreams becomes sublime
there is only him and me…
with me on my bed live;
time, words and writing…
sometimes a passing lover
sometimes a fantasy
the train of thought is lost
… a phone call
mothers and sisters have perfect timing 🙂
hence i think poets write at night …
when they are sleeping
it can be exhausting living two lives, and now three!
A Job, Studying, and Facebook/twitter…
and there are those who do not believe is parallel universes ?!
i explore my mind with my muse
a spring from another time and place
who but a poet knows what longing for a muse is…
lost souls that know the truth
yet to please the mind, indulge in it:)
oh! every poet jumps off a cliff,
it’s just that we do it with more finesse,
no gory blood or broken bones,
in my being i have done it several times
to surrender, to leave control…
its like morphine, numbs the pain
you see me smiling
as i use the next ‘tallest’ tower to learn to fly
reality is all flesh and bones and gravity
what can a meeting with a fantasy be?
to give shape or form to what is within
and i want a boundless sky