Love

Love.
How is it,
that the greatest, most powerful emotion,
has become a cliché?
The word has been twisted,
overused,
spoiled,
defined,
redefined.
The whole concept of love has turned into a fantasy!
Every possible thought about love,
every angle of attack,
every method of defining love has been exhausted.
Drained so much, that even writing about how cliché love is, has become cliché.
And yet,
here I am.
Writing about it.
My experience with it,
and my fantasies about what it should be.
When I think of love,
I think of chocolate.
I think of red satin,
big balloons,
hearts,
stuffed animals,
and hallmark cards.

And that makes me sad.

When I think about love,
I want to think about the feeling.
When I think about love,
I don't want to have to think, I want to feel.
I want to feel safe.
Comfortable with them,
alone without.
I want to feel like I would do anything for them.
I want my world to revolve around them,
and when we kiss,
I want sparks to fly.
I want to feel like the world as I know it, is over.
I want to tell them all my secrets.
I want to stay up all night talking about stupid things,
or about the things that matter.
I don't even care if we talk.
Just as long as we're together.
........

But what happens when it's over?
When I've become half of a better whole,
and suddenly,
half of me is gone?
What if she's not even gone?
She's close enough to touch,
but not the way we used to.
The pain.
The longing for what we used to be.
The pain.
The doubts that we ever used to be something.
The regrets,
the sorrow,
the denial,
anger,
hatred,
loneliness,
sadness.

The pain.

Is it really better to have loved and lost?

I guess I'll find out.

So.
This is a congratulations to all the couples.
A warning to all the future ex's.
And a "get well" card for all the heartbroken.

I love you all.

Masks

It makes me sad when you wear your mask.
You're coughing behind it, trying not to get anyone sick,
but it's painted all kinds of fake happy colors, that make me sick.
How am I supposed to knock on your door,
when there are holes where your eyes should be?
A smile should be from the heart,
not from China.
I like your face just fine anyway.

Painting a Picture

I've never painted a picture.
I hope to someday.
Isn't that a sad phrase?
"I hope to someday"?
Why not today?
It's hypocritical of me to say a phrase and then disagree with that phrase on the next line,
isn't it?
Practice what you preach?
Do what I say not what I do?
Do what I say.
Paint a picture.
Pick up that brush.
No.
Don't pick up that brush.
Get messy.
Sink your hand into the paint.
...
What color of paint did you imagine..?
Let that color ooze over your fingers.
It's not paint anymore to you, it's color.
With that color, you have the power to create.
I hate it when people say "make something the world has never seen before".
What crap.
Do you remember everything you've seen?
So don't be afraid to create something the world has seen before.
Just refresh the world.
Create something the world has seen before, but forgot.
Make it you.
Put a little piece of yourself out there.
Rip it from your chest,
and expose that trapped part of you to the world.
Give it an umbrella.
Maybe a coat, and some cute warm mittens.
Then, let it go into the paint.
Don't be afraid to let someone else take that helpless shivering part of you and give it shelter in their hearts.
Sometimes that piece of you will inspire someone else to shed a part of them into the paint.
Then the paint has just one more color for someone else to create with.
That color you used to release a part of you, belongs to you.
Nobody else can see it, unless you show it.
But don't be selfish.
The world needs more color.

Your Doors

Eyes are the window to the soul,
or so I've been told.
But not yours.
Yours are more like doors.
Deep dark brown like the richest chocolate.
Or are they a shimmering sapphire blue?
I guess I don't know what room number you're in,
but when I finally knock,
will you let me in?
It's not like I need to come inside.
I like the rain.
Just leave me here to my thoughts,
no I'll be fine, don't worry.
Stay inside your shell.
Don't let anyone in.
You're safe from the storm.
These bitter words taste poisonous as I say them,
but I pretend that they help you.
I'll leave them at your door,
hoping you'll get them,
but praying you don't.
I'll lift my clenched fist to your door.
But what now?
It's a small decision.
Will you open up?
Will the tears creep through the cracks?
So many "maybe's",
to one simple action.
But it doesn't matter.
I'm not at your door.
I drove past,
and parked down the street.
I took a walk,
and told no one.
Why not?
You're not home anyway.


"I don't know whether to knock down your door,
or on it."