Love is a place.
A safe space,
Where you can be you, without fear.
Without judgment or reprisal; just to be clear.
Love is online, a community that fosters your growth.
Love is a home that supports and offers a troth.
Love is that one diner
Where you and your tribe couldn’t be finer.
But love is not *every* place.
Love is a person. They ask if you’ve eaten.
That ride-or-die friend that just cannot be beaten.
They tell you to drive carefully and text when you’re home.
They add color to life when it turns monochrome.
They listen; hold space.
They offer care and grace.
But love is not *every* person.
Love is a thing. A reminder of hope.
A hug in order to cope.
Love is hot chocolate with marshmallows on top.
That teddy bear when the tears won’t stop.
But love is not *every* thing.
In fact, love is so rarely the thing by itself,
Love is the feeling you get from that thing on the shelf.
Love is a clusterfuck of emotions.
Love can be happy. Love can be sad.
Love can be angry. Love can be mad.
Love is confusion. Love is irrational.
Love is calm. Love is magical.
Love is joy. Love is pain.
Love can be all of these at the same
Love is unconditional. But love sets boundaries.
Love is love, even if the sound varies.
It is freely given, without limits.
Love is how we survive all of these minutes.
Who we were going to be was chosen for us by the choices we made.
We poured ourselves into our personas, while we delved deep into their psyches.
Over the run of time, we grew in each others’ light.
We grew, our characters grew, our friendships grew.
Time was kind to us, time was on our side, time stopped.
We laughed, we cried, we fought and nearly died.
As long as we held the stage, time could not move.
Then the clock started ticking again and time had run its course.
We took our bows and struck the set, and each tick of the secondhand brought us closer to the end.
“Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened,” we say, through tear soaked cheeks, knowing full well that crying is all we can do.
Yes, we’ll meet again and run another course.
But that time will be its own.
This experience will never happen again.
Each run is a unique adventure that can never be recaptured.
So I will smile through my tears as I slip away without saying …
The rose grows lovely and lush,
Smelling as sweet as sin.
It will bite you with its thorns.
A corpse flower, putrid and dank,
looking as lovely as a lounging lady.
The balance of beauty.
The Moon is cold, empty, and dark,
Yet glows with Solar radiance.
The Sun is life-giver and cancer-maker.
The levels of life.
Winter: dead outside, but
Snowmen and hot cocoa inside.
Spring: lush and green,
With flowers bursting at the seam.
But the bugs are back.
Swimming at the beach while sweating
and sizzling on the sand all Summer.
Autumn holds the heat at bay,
The trees turn into a bright array,
But the days are short and hide their beauty away.
Who is to choose what Life has to offer?
The light isn’t so different from the dark,
both have their ups and their downs,
they are all a part of Nature’s Contrast,
Our contract with the natural world.
Harken back to yesteryear:
The joys of childhood,
The pangs of adolescence.
Revel and frolic in your visions:
Superheroes dashing about the yard,
Climbing trees that were skyscrapers.
Relive and recoil at your nightmares:
A tender note; rejected.
Peals of laughter as schoolwork is sent scattered.
As you travel back in time,
The good gets better.
The bad gets worse.
We recraft our memories each time we recall them.
Did you never scrape your knees on those trees?
Did no one ever love you back?
Memories are malleable.
We can change them.
Though they depict the past,
They are not written in stone.
You reminded me that I’m not alone,
While believing that no one shared your pain.
You lifted my spirits,
When yours were low.
You showed me that I was loved,
But you thought you were unlovable.
You are why I am still here,
I want you to believe all the things that you made me see.
If you are:
Listening; Holding space; Protecting.
When you say:
See you soon; Get home safe; Be careful.
If you can:
Hold their hand; Hug tightly; Just *be* there.
This is Love. Love is Love. I love you.
So, I started taking poetry prompts again, in an effort to get myself to start writing again/more. If you’d like to be an inspiration for me, leave me a comment with a single word, phrase, or thought. I’ll think about it, and craft a poem from it. Then I’ll post that poem on here and release it into the Public Domain.
I’ll cop to it. I’m an actor, a poet, a photographer, a writer. If I made time to study them properly and practice I’d be a musician and an artist as well.
Yes, I use these creative outlets to explore life outside my tiny world. Yes, I use them to express myself within my abilities. Yes, these creative outlets are fulfilling in and of themselves and I will continue to explore them and be creative with or without an audience.
There is nothing quite so exuberantly thrilling as getting feedback. Like applause, when I’m acting; or likes/loves/comments on things I’ve posted online. Even a critique, telling me what I can do better.
You took the time to appreciate what I’ve created. That is a powerful thing. I appreciate every single click, whether it’s a comment, critique, or like.
To be, or not to be, that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And by opposing end them. To die—to sleep,
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to: ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub:
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause—there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of dispriz’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.