the poet

sometimes her fingers sang the music of stars.  sometimes they shone with the light of the sun. but most often they slurred and stumbled in the blackness of night. then she would fall across the keys and dash tears away with the hands that caused her so much pain. and she could only hope that tomorrow the sun and stars would shine again.

sometimes this love can feel a bit too much like loneliness.

if you will love me, love -  do not love as the sun will,  with bold light that drives away gentleness;  that fills every inch of me, pushing away my darkness. for i have darkness. but i don’t mind it, sometimes. love me as the moon will love -   lighting up the dark, but not driving it away. just revealing what is hidden, yet beautifully there. reveal my stars, love

there is something just beneath her skin.  a tingling, a sort of humming in her veins.  it vibrates her bones, pulsates in her throat.  it’s always there in the back of her mind, always close enough to reach out and grasp.  she makes a point of ignoring it.  but it’s getting louder, and she's not sure how long she can keep it away. it whispers secrets in her ear, things she can’t forget: “let me get lost” “let me wander” “let me find home” it resides deep in her soul and she’s fears that one day she will be forced to listen.

she longed to be caught up with the wind -  to wander with the rushing waves and ramble along grassy banks. she longed for crowded cities and silent alleys -  for stars to be tangled in her hair and a song to surge from her lips. she was a gypsy soul with a itch in her heart for the unknown

have you ever heard the earth breath? how it whispers your name in the breeze? pulses with laughter in the ocean’s roll? echoes with loneliness in the mountains? screams with fire in the open air? it’s that sound that is ringing in my ears right now, calling me to come away.  to come home.

i really like the idea of having a book laid out like a tent. On my bed, my desk, the floor—wherever it fits. It makes me happy that if I need to, I can go, pick it up, and get lost in its pages. I like the certainty of having a book to read—no need to go through the challenge of picking one out and beginning. It’s like my books create a sort of fortress  —a fort into which I can disappear. The tent-shaped books scattered around my room remind me of that haven.