The Poet’s Chains.

The poet is chained to his art.
He cannot escape his own words,
The hyperbole of expression plagues him.
Euphoria not from letters, or words,
But from the magic that spins madly from their sequence.

He is held hostage by his own imagination,
Bound by his own ability to invoke what others cannot.
For his craft is but only his, and he will not stop to rest.
He will not cease to write the words that many are afraid to let out of their heads
Just because he can.

And words once written, and read, cannot be erased.
Thoughts once expressed, emotions once displayed, will not be forgotten.

Protected: Observations.

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Behind.

What is it you’re not saying
When I look at you?
What are the words you aren’t telling me
What is really the truth?

I see behind your eyes and smile
A different person still afraid
To open up and say the words
That for long you’ve left unsaid

Intrigued I am by what I know
Yet even more by what I don’t
What is it behind that stare
Something more I know is there

Will I want to know the truth?
Since once I do I can’t unlearn
The secrets of a friendship that
I’ve learned to trust and had to earn

But yet you mean that much to me
For me to want to see beyond
The facade you think you’re keeping well
That makes you think you’re going strong

Yet behind every smile there’s a flicker in your eyes
That tell me there’s something more besides
The words you’ve said that I’ve already heard
A wall you’ve been keeping because of your fear

I can’t say I won’t judge
But I can say I’ll still love
I can’t say you were right
But I’ll still be your friend
Because grace was bought by my Savior
And He put an end
To judgment when He died on the cross for your sins
And there’s no one who can judge you now except Him
But He’s judged you righteous
And you’ve nothing to hide
For the only ones who now judge you never did have the right

So come back to your first love where you always belonged
My heart yearns to embrace you how much more Heaven’s Son?
Let Jesus romance you, you’re tired enough
Come back to the Father, and stop acting tough
Come back to the arms that hold you secure
And you’d never have to worry or fear anymore.

An Ode.

May I
Never tire of these hands.
Your palm;
Larger than mine and
Always far warmer.
Your fingers;
Perceptibly longer;
Intertwined with mine in a lock of secure comfort.

May I
Always cherish the moments;
When your thumb caresses my own,
And your fingers curl across my knuckles
Just that little bit more.

May I
Never forget the feel of hands;
That were once smooth with naivety,
And have now been calloused by your responsibility to our nation.

May I
Always find pleasure
In holding your hand.
Even when the callouses become
Sandpapered fingers of labour,
And when labour becomes
Folds of wrinkled, papery skin;

May I still
Always
Love
Your hands.

A Boy I Love

A boy I love
holds my hand and
holds my heart
in his inexperienced grasp.

A boy I love
looks at me with loving eyes
that shine with naivety that is
mirrored -
in my own.

A boy I love holds me in arms that appear, strong -
because I have never known another’s embrace,
anyway.

A boy I love steals my first kiss from my lips
(Though I was not his),
and steals many more there after.

A boy I love cocoons me in his embrace,
caresses my hair with gentleness,
breathes the scent upon my skin with his eyes closed
and nuzzles the back of my neck
with such
contentment,
that I wish I could stop time
just to make these moments last.

And
the Smile that
plays upon the lips
of the boy I love
when he sees me,
is a Smile that I could hold imprinted
in memory,
forever.

I could.

I could.

But I do not.

For after all,
it is a Smile that promises promises;
filled with the home we have filled
with expectant hopes and young ones
whom we’d like to think we’d have -
together.

It is a Smile that confirms how
very,
very,
young we are.

It is a Smile that holds the
magic of youth.

And the magic of youth,
is that you only get to be young,
once.

It is not our place to make the promises that grown-ups make
for it is not in our power to keep them.

After all,
I am but just a girl.

And you are only a boy -
I love.

You.

A sorry excuse. (Disclaimer at end. Kindly do not misinterpret.)

This sorry excuse for you
lies upon my back while you are gone -
Soft, fleeting touches on my skin
that accentuate your
absence,
faint wisps of musk that pervade my senses
with every embrace that
isn’t
yours.

I lie,

completely cocooned,

sheathed,

in a body that cannot give me
the safety
that I find in your arms.

Each fluid movement of
skin
on skin
is a stark reminder -
that it isn’t you

on me.

My own body betrays me.

For although I love you,
I cannot but draw this poor substitute closer
to myself -
a comfort I am forced to take while you are
not
here;

your

shirt.

DISCLAIMER: The above moment of spontaneous brilliance in no way reflects my lifestyle nor personality, but is merely a cheeky drabble inspired by Jason’s shirt coming out of the wash.

Poignant.

Accoutrement
But lovers are like umbrellas arnt they?
They’re like gloves
They cover you up, they keep you warm
They look so good, they fit so nice
they shield you.
Then you leave them on a train
You think ‘How did I manage that?’
And ‘I didn’t like them anyway.’
Or ‘I’ve lost them.’
Marnia

From ‘No Bliss Like This’, an anthology of love poems compiled by Jill Hollis that Mifa, Maryam and I have been scouring over like hungry insatiable 19 year old girls.

A lot of it is pretty sad and makes me feel pretty jaded.
But good poetry is there to be appreciated.
Hmmm.

Okay, back to work.

Out.

Shall make valiant re-attempts to make evening jogs a habit.
At least until next week, for Road Run.

Wouldn’t hurt to shed some kilos before CNY either.
Oh who am I kidding.

Anyway, whirlwind weekend has ended. Jason was out, and I spent more money on cabs/food those 48hours than I did for the whole of last week add together.

Kitz introduced me to this new fangled thing (or at least, new to me) called Twitter. Cramming anything lizzy-esque into 140 characters is a challenge but I’ll meet it. ;D

Here’s more spewing from the lizzy tap.

These are the words I am not saying

But am writing on the back of an old

Starbucks receipt because no other

Sheet of paper is available.

These are the words I am not telling you

Because if I do tears will join the

Equation and I’m not quite ready for

Another addition.

These are the words I am not saying because

You don’t need to know how

Pathetic and vulnerable I feel

From having loaned my heart away.

These are the words I am not telling you

Not because I don’t have the words

But because I have more

Where these come from.

These are the words I am not saying.

Because eventually they won’t be there anymore.

These are the words I am not saying because

now that I’ve said them I have said them

and all I care about is that it means

there won’t be tears.

There.

Waiting
never seems to end
and sometimes you’ve just gotta pretend
that you’re good at waiting and you’ve done it all your life -
not that it ain’t true,
it is.
But you force yourself to be subdued
because you don’t want to show
that you’re probably the most impatient person you know
who can’t wait a week, another week, maybe two -
for someone who actually means something to you.
Patience is key but all I have is the lock
and its just getting harder to be something I’m not.
I know to you it looks like I just don’t care
and sometimes you can’t help but question why I dare
to try and hide
the shameful truth that I
am pining like a lovelorn fool inside.
I’m trying to shake off this feeling of despair
But although you’ll never see it
I do – and it’s
there.

In between.

One must write to survive.
The suppression, though it takes its course like slow, molten lava,
Will still burst forth eventually.
The taste of words on my fingertips
Is an answer to a hunger that only expression will satiate.
Cogs creak from disuse and rust falls almost nonchalantly
As the mind churns with diffiulty to remember
Half-alien, yet almost familiar phrases.
A silver of uninhibited excitement courses through veins
That have almost forgotten the tangy aftertaste of sunshine,
The flavour of a rainbow,
Or the melancholy of emotion.
A burst of colour, barely sufficient to showcase the imagination
Is all my insufficent words can and will reveal.
Yet I would rather write,
Than live in the monogamy of this gray prison.