The Pen and The Wind

While passing by the mirror,
I saw an eyelash on my cheek,
And before I placed another hopeful wish upon it,
I remembered how many had come before it,
How many hopes of mine had been carried by wishes,
And how all of them had died without a chance,
I flushed that eyelash down the sink,
For energy is wasted on hopeless endeavors,
So no more wishes will die from my hand.

The delicate dance of the relationship,
In any form, to any goal,
Is a battle, a bloody one at that,
And your chosen weapon,
And subsequent skill with that weapon,
Will determine your outcome as victor.

The duel that is seduction,
Is fought with rapiers of wit,
Broadswords of brutish stature,
And iron-clad defenses of virtue and protection,
And only a perfect pierce,
Or that strike of the strong-arm,
Can really assure victory.

But I’m taking a new weapon to the fights,
A bludgeon of bluntness if you will,
To hammer with the voice of pure intention,
And not a sharpened story or scheme,
Use pure force to make my way,
To that sweetest victory.

And even if my blunt bludgeon,
Shall be turned against me,
I’ll still walk away with a smile,
Because half the fun is the battle,
Not just the victory.

I took a shovel once again,
Splinters of sadness piercing through my hand,
And with heavy sigh escape my head,
I began to bury my best laid plans.

I hated being by your damned charm,
That I dulled senses with every available tool,
But desires pierced through smoke filled mind,
And I went and made myself a fool.

But plans themselves are not foolish work,
The idiocy was in believing in you,
For I’ve filled a graveyard with hopes and plans,
Every headstone marked with your name and rue.

And I can’t help but think you’re a bit cruel,
For dragging me along on this ride,
Every plan that I have to bury,
Makes me die a little on the inside.

I took a shovel once again,
Splinters of sadness piercing through my hand,
This work won’t end until I’m dead,
Buried in the corpses of best laid plans.

The positive result on the test,
Was unexpected and unwelcome,
And the inevitable discussion arose,
On whether to go through with it or not,
And the two of you decided,
Against your better judgement,
To create life.

The months passed,
And you felt your moods wildly change,
As hormones raged through your head,
Not knowing those things necessary to sustain a new life,
Are poison to an existing one,
As they warp the mind,
Changing things that may not be necessary,
To that state called motherhood,
And vital aspects to who you are,
Can soon not turn up.

And as your child is born,
So too is a new maternal you,
While that person that you once were,
Can now find themselves dead,
Death by birth.

Blissful breezes bound about,
On oh so a blustery day,
Though my windy mind should feel at home,
It is far more torrential  and far away,
For the gales that comprise me strayed too far,
And ran into something so sadly familiar.

The wind whispered back to me,
A tale of one I once lost,
How she still remembered me,
But still had no want of me,
Though zephyrs of us may mingle,
Nothing else will ever ever happen.

I could call it the closest thing I have to love,
That girl who is as windswept as I,
That one so fascinated with living and life,
That gales carry her about,
And a soul so beautiful and infinite,
It swallowed me whole like the night sky.

But through many hopeless efforts I have failed,
To win her her heart like she did mine,
But even If I could manage to wring out,
The most miniscule amount of affection for me,
It still would be in vain,
For we would soon again be cast so far apart,
That any hope at all should be lost,
And it seems like such a hopeless pipe dream,
That the girl who walks on the wind could love,
The poet who writes on it.

And as zephyrs beget gales,
And gales beget storms,
That smallest attachment will never die,
And my my windswept soul wilts,
Knowing it won’t know the love it has.

You are just like,
Smoke in my lungs,
You satiate some urge within me,
And you satisfy so many cravings,
You take away the pain of life,
And fill my mind with a pleasurable haze.

In the back of my my mind I know,
Despite the pleasure you bring me,
You are terrible for my health,
And you could very well be the death of me,
And yet I can’t give you up,
Because you’re addicting,
And I genuinely love the sensation of you.

Why put on airs for myself?
Why lie about what we want to ourselves?
Isn’t all that we seek,
Someone who understands us?
Must we lie about those little things in life,
To distract us from that feeling,
That we are like Ulysses,
In that so few understand us,
And we feel a million miles away,
From those lot that do,
We gather dust and wait,
For that reader to come our way,
And some get so impatient,
That they obsess over their own word choice,
Until they get so wrapped up in their distraction,
They loose sight of what they wanted?

So why put on airs for yourself?
It’s a dangerous lie to get wrapped up in.