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agaetis___byrjun
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Name: Monike
Metro: Waco
Birthday: 10/8/1986
Interests: music, poetry, paint, canvas, charcoal, brushes, mechanical pencils, fine point pens, recycled paper, late nights, long car rides.
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  ane sans lumiere
Member Since:
11/7/2005
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| For Clara.
today I told you that I loved you,
but I didn't mean it.
you withdrew her,
you stole her from the sunlight.
you concealed her under your cloak.
she was barely.
she was barely breathing,
she reached for you with small hands.
and you seized her face,
and you contemplated her fading eyes,
and you whispered in her ear.
did you forget about her future?
did I forget her smile already?
did she forget you were coming?
you nuzzled her soul,
she sanctioned her liberation,
and I suppose I should accept that.
today I told you that I loved you,
and I don't know how to lie.
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| how mysterious,
as we grow
we lose ourselves
but instead gain height;
monsters of factories,
strong women of offices,
bosses of tender souls.
what happened to that young man,
that boy who loved lazy afternoons?
where have you hidden him?
what about that girl who smiled at the breeze,
that child of consistency and compassion?
why did you steal her away?
wisdom, that term of knowledge,
causes you to tuck away hope.
love cannot rescue,
education cannot enlighten,
change of location cannot remove the distinction of home.
find her for me,
that girl I've lost,
let her know I miss her.
I miss the silence of mud covered bodies,
I miss the roar of the wind
as it whips the white crepe myrtle flowers around;
it was magic to feel alone and together.
lift your hands,
pick her,
pick me,
put him back where he belongs.
come home. | | |
| yes, I am still alive.
I've been doing more painting than writing.
you can see the summer's work here
and know that I am working on a big piece. Hopefully it will be done by Christmas. | | |
| young girl, I remember you,
sweet pretty thing,
little in spirit and in heart.
she thought love was a happy ending,
not a reason for a difficult beginning.
christmas was delightful because of presents,
and the blameless man that was beaten bloody and died
was reduced to a golden cross hung above the fireplace.
there was his spot.
she grew,
and playground woes led her to determine that
fuck was a dirty word,
but she was oblivious of the nice thing it really alluded to.
she didn't know about tomorrow.
the days sped past,
and she prayed for the future.
girls reach the age where their bodies swell up,
and they are filled with the love of their mothers
but have no place to put it.
that which was innocent learns of that which is not,
and the world starts to turn off of its axis;
muddled lies become less pink,
and laughter less hazy.
I keep you wrapped tight in my head,
sweet little thing,
like a gift you already know the contents of.
do I still have to act surprised when I open it,
or will the mother goose rhymes speak for themselves? | | |
| 6.23.06
2AM
do bright colors bloom
in a dark and muted room,
like streetlamps tucked away
in remote and private alleyways?
does a babe born without sight secretly despise
all of those around him who have use of their eyes,
or is he pleased with the simple breeze
and the sun as it warms his face?
and does the moon, drunk on wine,
lay in bed and intertwine
with the bright stars around him,
only to dim their shine?
for all these puzzles I cannot solve
I wish for nothing more than to be absolved
but I would not dare be lonesome in my quest,
I only hope that you will help me put them to rest. | | |
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