I love writing and love this piece. Best Christmas present I received by far.
Stella and Jameson
Bathroom at El Camino in San Diego
Sisterly LOVE
Cheers..Stella in a can..my favorite
Crusin North Park ..San Diego
“Love,death,travel,revolt,chaos”- Jim Morrison
Diggin’ them right now…
Some new writing…
As if I was searching for permanence within quicksand,
or trying to strike a flame with a broken match,
I’m cashing out so here’s my claim ticket
for the frenzied collection of addictions out of style.
Ill stop reaching for the poisoned fruit
hung up on the tree of truth.
If you’ll just meet me on the burning sea my friend,
And we’ll set sail skipping stones across the pond
with a map drawn out by dreams;
Following our hearts when our truth becomes their lies.
———————————————-
On the elusive stage of my own design
I stand beautifully empty.
Your stacks of words burn like Pompei.
as my stance remains unfailing
though inside I burn with passion.
A facade of golden brick and mortar,
I called your name and it felt like war.
Happy endings are dependent on the
poet’s final verse.
A manuscript of love and a limerick of lust.
We are closer to the truth than the kettle to the stove
yet drink from the cup of destruction.
Lethargic with our words and
the moment I noticed,
I didn’t want to know.
Discovering that the light at the end of the tunnel
May only be a mirrored reflection of our searchlight.
————————————————
From the smallest seed
stems unguarded possibilities.
Reaching and waiting for the moment to break through.
The first taste of the sun consumes and leaves an
undeniable yearning for more.
At times hope deems dim
as the bud remains closed,
locked within the coldness of what was once
thought to be a dormant winter.
Still that small seed of hope carries on.
Waiting patiently for her turn to bloom.
Spring will return and the sun will shine once again,
Green with envy she will wait
until it is her turn to become the Rose.
————————————————
There are words at the bottom of this glass tonight
but I don’t think you’ll ever stick around to hear them.
The fire pulsates in the darkness
as my pen strikes the paper.
Piano notes dance into the night
as this deceptive glass refills itself
with cunning persuasiveness.
The luring words I once heard, so profound,
now fall on deaf ears.
I’ve learned to turn towards the south
When the sun turns north.
——————————————
Looking through a kaleidoscope,
searching for the stars
never realizing that the images projected are immersed
with deceit.
The pretense of what could be,
beauty laced with fabrication or sweet truth.
Tiny bits of rose colored glass
Consume the hopeless romantic.
——————————————
The wind blows and I feel your touch
The sun hits my skin and I feel you embrace
You’re everywhere
Just without a face
I feel your calmness wash over me
As my feet hit the sand
I touch the water as if I’m reaching for your hand
I take a deep breathe and release to you
All my worries and fears
Knowing you’ll take them away from me
I feel you kiss my forehead
And whisper “everything will be okay sweetie”
Just like you always did
Tears run from my sad eyes
And you catch them without hesitation
The wind blows and I feel you
“ The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than the living size then they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.” — Stephen King ”
Poetry
It is the blood, sweat, hopes and dreams of the poet. It’s exactly how that person is feeling at that exact moment. The fear, anger, disappointment and anguish one keeps locked away pour out onto the paper. The ink becomes the soul. You cannot justify it nor attempt to understand the thoughts racing through one’s mind at that very moment when the pen hits the paper. It’s pointless to try. It’s in the unrestrained and un-premeditated moments that one can truly release emotion. It’s laughing and weeping all together molded as one. Imaginary walls collapse and the soul is free; if only for a brief moment.
It’s the broken-ness in one’s soul that draws the greatness to the words. I believe broken-ness is beauty. Those who live life with perfect, scarless porcelain skin don’t truly live. The scars prove that you have lived and have taken risks. Dont be ashamed of the scars and band-aids on your heart; they are proof that you exist and that you were…
untitled
Point break
What a disappointment
Watch it all fall
But I will never fail.
Aim and shoot,
Its cocked and loaded
With no chance to miss.
Like travelers of the sky,
The clouds dance above me
And the wind calms my stance.
Turning heads glance my way,
Its time to go,
On your mark, get set,
Never look back.
Letting go of the past
Turn the page.
Take two.
this is how much i miss football, im writing about it
The bright lights of the stadium emulated the sun that had been shining only 30 minutes before. The noise rising from the crowd reminded him of waves crashing effortlessly onto the sandy beach of the San Diego shoreline. He looked up at the clock. 00:13 left in the 4
th quarter. His eyes then shifted to the score. Down by 6. One touchdown, one touchdown and they would clinch the division title. His fellow teammates had begun walking towards him and into a huddle. This was it, the moment of truth. Calling out the play that they had perfected so many times before in practice, he looked into each one of his teammates eyes. These were warriors. Warriors who needed him to pull through just as much as he needed them. Breaking the huddle they all took their places on the field, ready to go. He looked up into the twilight sky and said a quick prayer to whomever it may be that holds their fate. The play clock began to count down. 8 seconds left. The ball was snapped and into his steady hands. The roar of the crowd ceased to exist for a split moment. He focused solely on number 24, his intended receiver and seeing a window of opportunity, threw the ball. Holding his breath as the football soared silently through the crisp night’s air until it landed perfectly into number 24’s hands in the inn zone. TOUCHDOWN
