This will no longer be depressing...
My early New Year's resolution is to no longer make this journal, which I guess comes from my life, depressing. From now on I will also wirte about good things that happen to me. I wrote a poem and am happy about it. My poems are my children. They're all I need. Here it is:
An Affair with a Muse
I saw her in a painting,
graceful and translucent,
a mist-like ghost
breezing through the canvas
with fading angel wings.
I wanted her to be solid,
colored with life,
cheeks brushed with roses,
soft legs pulsing with sensuality,
vibrant and tactile.
I heard her in a jazz solo,
radiating flaming energy;
contained blazes of electric,
whiskey-drenched seduction
wrapped with cashmere subtlety.
I met her on a surreal mountain
and we danced like fireflies
through the star-scattered night.
We swam in a crystal lake
that reflected the moon’s smile elegantly.
We laughed through the city,
lost ourselves in a golden dream of ale,
in the sweet-scented smoke of opium,
and the luminous vacuum of ecstasy,
where our love was funneled like rapids.
It was consummated beneath flowing sheets,
in azure waves of warm, sugary satin,
flowing through sticky chocolate dreams of sin
into a volcanic thrust of fiery blindness,
eyes closed into an exhaled epiphany.
Music exploded from my unbridled soul
as it chaotically screamed orange light.
My substance spread thin and faded
into her fleeting arms,
and I slept myself into fantasy.
She left me in the night like a feather
floating in a light breeze;
my smile seeped out like a shadow,
pulled away with whirlpool force
as I sank into an ocean of lead-footed loneliness.
Poetry poured out of me like blood
seeping from a razor wound.
I wrote the boredom into concrete stanzas,
sterile and spent like inkless pens
sitting on a desk in an office cubicle.
Now I look for her constantly,
wandering passionless streets
and climbing hazy mountains,
hoping to catch even a glimpse of her
in the sprawling view of dark trees.
An Affair with a Muse
I saw her in a painting,
graceful and translucent,
a mist-like ghost
breezing through the canvas
with fading angel wings.
I wanted her to be solid,
colored with life,
cheeks brushed with roses,
soft legs pulsing with sensuality,
vibrant and tactile.
I heard her in a jazz solo,
radiating flaming energy;
contained blazes of electric,
whiskey-drenched seduction
wrapped with cashmere subtlety.
I met her on a surreal mountain
and we danced like fireflies
through the star-scattered night.
We swam in a crystal lake
that reflected the moon’s smile elegantly.
We laughed through the city,
lost ourselves in a golden dream of ale,
in the sweet-scented smoke of opium,
and the luminous vacuum of ecstasy,
where our love was funneled like rapids.
It was consummated beneath flowing sheets,
in azure waves of warm, sugary satin,
flowing through sticky chocolate dreams of sin
into a volcanic thrust of fiery blindness,
eyes closed into an exhaled epiphany.
Music exploded from my unbridled soul
as it chaotically screamed orange light.
My substance spread thin and faded
into her fleeting arms,
and I slept myself into fantasy.
She left me in the night like a feather
floating in a light breeze;
my smile seeped out like a shadow,
pulled away with whirlpool force
as I sank into an ocean of lead-footed loneliness.
Poetry poured out of me like blood
seeping from a razor wound.
I wrote the boredom into concrete stanzas,
sterile and spent like inkless pens
sitting on a desk in an office cubicle.
Now I look for her constantly,
wandering passionless streets
and climbing hazy mountains,
hoping to catch even a glimpse of her
in the sprawling view of dark trees.