Passion can be a somewhat lustful animal.
When it feeds continuously, it will . . . eventually
tire of the type of sustenance for which it used to yearn.
Its constant engorgement consumes the very longing
for what once had spurred it on,
for romantic passion can only subsist mainly on fresh flesh
and it inevitably ends.
If romantic passion is wise,
it will reinvent itself, evolving into a deeper breed of love -
something more trusting, comfortable, and true.
Sadly, romantic passion is often mistaken
for the very thing which it needs so badly to change into,
thus ending in disillusionment and a craving something new.
Happily, however, the creature passion can rekindle the enthusiasm
for its old diet – though not ever as frequently as it had in the past.
There is a different passion - a lascivious obsessive beast
which, when deprived of what it longs for
or denied control of what it thinks it owns,
will stifle or stalk its prey, and kill any chance
for real love to ever begin at all.
Day old coffee
in its maker
a cold witness
sometimes
to broken dreams
and war stories
and proclamations
of
getting well
of
new beginnings
of
hearty hope.
Solemn stories and
cloudy memories
and Joe
laughter’s echo
at some obscure
joke but
the window
knows
how schemes get
distorted
deformed
disfigured.
Some have just
flown that way
inevitably
some do go
without ceremony
without fanfare
no hoopla
simply vanish
and all that’s left
are
empty seats
empty room
empty maker
waiting for
the next batch
of sunshine.
(click the picture to buy my poetry book!)
I thought when I was little adults did not cry.
“They are strong and brave and unafraid.”
Such I believed ’til my ninth birthday was nigh.
I awoke one morning with a pain in my chest.
“Best take you to the doctor,” Mother said.
Until she did, I knew she would not rest
The doctor poked and prodded, head to toe.
Then he turned to Mother, his voice somber
“Something’s askew, you need to know.”
Mom’s voice trembled as she said “tell me.”
“It’s his heart. Surgery may be needed.”
There were tears in her eyes, hurtful to see.
“If it’s what I think it is, it’s a real concern.”
Mother’s face was ashen, wholly overtaken.
“Tests are needed, my findings to confirm.”
“Be in my office next Thursday at four,
in the meantime, give him plenty of rest.”
'Twas a week away for Mother to worry more.
Each night she came to me eyes all red
and with tears flowing, feared I’d die.
It was then that I knew there in my bed.
that adults do unavoidably, inevitably cry.
Teeth fastened in his throat,
Claws buried in his side,
Blood gushes out of your mouth.
As he falls to the floor,
You pray he understands
You had no other choice.
This was always how this story was going to end.
why do you like to argue with me?
do i spark your curiosity?
why do you disagree with what i say?
did you never live your life this way?
why do you want me to agree with you?
did someone say you were special too?
why do you drive yourself insane?
is it because you like to suffer pain?
i appreciate when you answer these things
i appreciate the knowledge it brings
and of all the lessons i have learned
i like that you live the life you earn;
and telling me your point of view
helps me learn to understand you.