I miss how the blank page was painted with my musings
How each private thought became public to support
I miss how obssessed and satisfied I’d be with you as my passtime
How I miss being free to fly with language
What ended this love?
Why did I stop?
What tore us apart?
Why didn’t I come back
Did I get too busy?
No time for excuses
Did I forget you?
No I never could
But now I am back
Yes I am back
But now it’s different
Yes I am different
But i love you more than i hate you
You cripple me
Because you are so good to me
Because you raise me up
I can’t
I can’t do it myself
I hate you
Because even with a careful slight of hand you choosr ur words
Subtle
If I like them nothing makes me happier (there in it’s self I guess is a disadvantage, although i guess I’ll always have my sparkling water)
If I don’t like them… It’s probably because they unintentially hurt me in too many delicate ways.
I’m sensetive. I’m overwhelmingly emotional. I guess crying and laughing is what I do. Is it caused by you?
No. I’m the catalyst, your just the temperature that speeds up the reactions; my reactions.
Do you think I’m pretty when I cry?
Oh you think I am always pretty.
You don’t mean to make me so, but you do none the less.
Maybe the ocean doesn’t mean to drown it’s sailors but it’s a catastrophic imevitable trick of nature.
Why are love poems written?
To express their content?
Or to express their suffering?
Love is the beautiful, unnecessary prolonging of hidden suffering. Notice:
As you picture their hair, their eyes, the shape of their lips and how their tongue sits silently in their month… You forget the world, you forget other human beings, your responsibilities – just for an instance.
Love is isolating. You ever had a best friend you spend too much time with? You had a fight. You have no one else…
Maybe you’ve done it with books, tv series, video games. You commit your livong breath to the sourse of power and when it’s gone you realise you don’t really have anything else left.
I guess you can find something else to do.
But I’m okay with being selective. Letting myself suffer happiness only from those who I have interest in. That’s not only you, but authors, playwrites, performers, waiters, chefs…
Friends is a different matter.
What makes a friend?
Is it just someone we like?
How much do we need to like them?
Do we need to spend a certain amount of time together?
Does this depend on each imdividual friendship?
Why is obssessive a bad thing? Koalas and slothes hold on to their tree for dear life. I hold on to whats worth living and dying for.
I am passionate for the arts. I have never been in control of myself. I’ve been guided by pens and pencils; words and paint; melodies and lyrics. By emotion.
Have I ever been in control of myself?
Do I let my passionate take over.
For now as a nieve teenager who’s only had the privellage of experiencing the wonderful I will continue to let my metaphorical heart lead me…
And let the logical part of my mind criticise my youth.
I understand now
An act of passion can’t just be for pleasure , not even just affection, but a declaration of promised trust, loyalty and devotion to the other.
Its selfless and thoughtful.
As simple as the first gift of chocolate…
Even be it in friendship, that kindness, goodness, trust and communication.
Looking them in the eye not for your benefit of seeing their beauty, or theirs to yours, but to proof you are so drown in focus the rest of the world fades out in that very moment.
How do we know when our emotions are real and not imaginary?
Surely even if its in our head its real
because our hearts can’t feel
we live in our heads but we have to trust it.
You make me swoon,
God you make me sigh.
The very instant you passed,
My eyes followed, forever following this untamed attraction.
For today I was told all art was effectively love, sex and death.
I find my art is within me but topped with a cherry you.
Not you alone, though you are my wonderwall, I fall upon the rest of my favourite thoughts; my friends and family.
My time comes and goes, memories to take to the grave, bigger value than materialistic money.
So as you drum my heartbeat,
Pull my strings,
I swirl in a fantasy of freedom and flowers in your face.
This is not a love poem,
Grateful I am though, for all the
Love I am continuing to find.
Which kills me inside when I know every day I spend alive, the thought of the end consumes me and I’d rather die.
I could never leave those around me on their own, especially seeing as one’s eyes would never blink me out of their sight either.
The spreading warmth, the shining glitter, the golden medal, the brightest smile.
I know there’s plenty to live for.
To love.
To die.
To live.
To create.
In a way our children are our art, our magnificent creation, the future generation.
Micaiah’s xoxo
You could try twist it some other way,
But today…
I fell in love at just the thought.
At the thought of love reminding me of romance.
It leads me to contemplate my motives…
How much is this about my selfish desires and dreams?
Do I care enough for you… Without the thought of myself?
Yes.
Now I’m not just saying that, but I know when I miss your voice it’s not because of what you say about me or to me but instead the passion, care or carelessness fun you paint your tone. I cling to the very sound, and can lose words, even lose understanding…
Because only you so professionally and honestly respond and teach the educational and social endevours the manner in which you do so.
If I were to shut up, let you wash away the sand with the never ending thoughts I would be most content.
It’s an entertaining comfort, of satisfied smiles and bright eyes into the tainted soul.
This is not a love song, but a spell.
I feel like a fool, falling so mindlessly like before… Surely I should have learnt my lessons before.
I remember now why I was… So much more promiscuous.
I’m setting myself up to fall. Hard.
I’m scared
Micaiah’s xoxo
Passion is energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you.
– Oprah Winfrey
Passion is a found creation inside us.
Passion isn’t found in money either.
Love what you do and do what you love. Don’t listen to anyone else who tells you not to do it. You do what you want, what you love. Imagination should be the center of your life.
– Ray Bradbury
Once upon a time, a friend of mine was whisked away into a new life away from mine.
I was not the only one affected but she left me a present, with message.
I felt the need to share that today, even though I do not know what it is that brought me back to it.
Serendipity, I’ll call it.
So here it goes:
God makes things happen,
It all has a purpose.
When things change,
It is bound to be worth it.Just look at me,
It seems I travel everyday!
But during this change,
I met friends along the way.I will always think of you,
The girl with ‘the older guy’
A bird with perfect wings,
But was unable to fly.Just because you can’t fly,
Doesn’t mean your wings can’t open.
We just have to wait
For the circle to be broken.Now you best believe me, M,
When push comes to shove,
Forget what your parents said
And never give up on who you love.
Micaiah’s xoxo
I got into bed and it was cold.
Fresh thoughts blinded my nostrils in a sense of chaotic randomness.
I am left in nothingness and the thought of you.
My legs shake, my pulse vibrates, maybe that energy drink is still in my system. Yet my body is so weak I cannot lift my left leg to dismount the heavy pain it is causing my bruised knee. Too lazy, that’s me.
My heart aches with passion, tinted dark with the temptation of your temperture. My morals painted tertiary mixed too erotically to go back.
Instead I am left with this muddy vision of earth and our lot.
Glasses, like geeky instagram filters and overpriced, old wines whining like vain princesses. As my prince reveals his hot hand of help – of derision. It’s smug grin created from manipulatively seductive mockery.
I am not subtle? Am I not the Brazilian jaguar you dream of so timidly in your logically strict, unstoppable brain. Maybe not.
Keep it hidden, what you dream of. As my dreams are curses and your curses are vulnerable secrets no one knows. Hiding away from their master’s subconscious.
Micaiah’s xoxo
MicaiahRose 