parspoetica

[parspoetica]

isn't it funny

how things can inspire awe

shivers of pleasure

feelings of joy

in one context, but

make your cheeks wet,

your bones freeze,

your heart tear

in another?

the classic red rose

in a pool of blood.

a drop of honey

in a glass full of vinegar.

an "I love you"

on the lips of someone

who is just turning to leave.

isn't it funny

how we say something is funny

when really

it aches,

upsets,

jabs,

and tears?

- pars poetica // and tears and tears and tears and

[parspoetica]

the only flowers of love I get

are the ones freshly cut from the guilt you grow on your back

- pars poetica // sadly, guilt isn't love, my darling

[parspoetica]

those sweet words of yours,

why do I only get to hear them

when you turn to leave?

- pars poetica // your back

[parspoetica]

It’s funny, anger and love. It feels like they ought to be opposites, with anger’s sharp teeth and roaring flames contrasting love’s warm, gentle glow. But in reality that’s not it at all. Anger’s tall flames are the warmth of love evolved. They too were a warm glow once. A warm glow disturbed by some outside wind, fanning the little embers, growing them large, and threatening. 

Love’s warm glow turned raging fire. The secret identity of anger unmasked. 

- pars poetica // anger and love

[parspoetica]

She screamed out for me to write more poetry, begged me to take up my pen.

So I grabbed it, my pen, a little hesitant, a little uneasy.

Having coffee with a friend I haven’t known in a long time.

Do we have things in common, still?

Will the conversation grind to a halt?

What if it’s a little stiff, a little awkward?

A little stiff.

Maybe it was a little stiff. A little awkward.

But, my God, how it flowed, my pen.

We talked and we laughed and we spoke and spoke and spoke.

Old friendship dyeing page upon page.

Words flowing, floating, surging.

Poems in all of my fingertips, on my tongue, in my eyes, my breath, the pages of my journal.

She is happy now.

Pleased. Warm. Content.

I ignited an old friendship,

and wrote a home for her to live in.

- pars poetica // she told me to write and, my god, I did

[parspoetica]

I met a demon this morning. She punished me for my feelings. She punished me for my love. She punished me for experiencing something holy. Now I know wickedness, for as her hands grabbed at my throat she told me “you are too much, girl – you are far too much.”

- pars poetica // I am too much 

[parspoetica]

love causing the loved to wilt

[parspoetica]

losing something precious because you love it too much. I doubt there is a more tangible evil.

[parspoetica]

You're choking me, my love

Where are you? And why won't you grab my pen for me, darling?

- pars poetica //

[parspoetica]

Poetry, poetry, poetry

She has hidden away from me

and yet I feel her in every vain, in every breath

Elusive, yet present, calm, unmoving

Where are you? What are you? How are you?

Oh let me feel your touch my darling

- pars poetica // her touch, again

[parspoetica]

the dream life, the sweet life, the happiness and energy and joy and play of bygone days

I wish . . .

- pars poetica // a whispered wish in my drafts

[parspoetica]

I'm a funny mix of a poet and a person who's uncomfortable with expressing their emotions.

But maybe that's what a poet is.

Someone who can't bear the overpowering force of raw emotion,

so they have to wrap them up in soft blankets of pretty words,

and paint scenes for them to hide in using lavish sentences.

- pars poetica // definition of a poet

[parspoetica]

Life is silly. The little things are big things - have to be, otherwise we'd just be empty shells. That's all there is to it. The small things. And either they falsely feel big or we have to pretend that they are.

- pars poetica // silly little things

[parspoetica]

I could bare my soul to a stranger but not to my own mother. Never to my own mother.

[parspoetica]

Death, that's what Life is. Over and over and over again.

[parspoetica]

my strong bonds are characterised by my wanting to break them

[parspoetica]

Everything is perfect

and yet,

if only I had

if only I had

- pars poetica // utopian phantom