u r the kind of boy whose ideal girl would be all buttoned up when she's with u
when u both r on your way to meet the world
but her perfect breasts r tucked behind black lace and expensive lingerie
bought with the money u worked hard to earn
with the money that separates both of u for a few weeks
but that is ok because
missing is done so that
now
(reserved for only now)
u may enjoy her behind closed doors
soft hearts
that beat
well they get hard most of the time
but when they are soft
they r very beautiful
to the skin, to touch, to feel.
u may touch me now
but i want you to know that sometimes
you make me feel like cutting my breasts off
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
The First Woman
Your boy will hear you when you cry, she said,
And abandon his sick jokes and
friends who expose their Freudian slips on purpose
to be there for you
Your boy will never let you lose to any woman, she said,
Nothing - not her breasts, her legs or the tears behind her eyes
Because all that makes him happy and makes him cum is that
There are none behind yours
I was a policewoman
He told me I looked sexy in my uniform
And as this boy became a man
I started to wonder was it me or the fetish he married
But she was a woman
And she was a friend
So when I look at your hands,
They are always reaching for something
Other than me
More commodities
Lesser me
Then lesser commodities
More me
Don't forget my hands
I told my boy
Don't forget I've always loved you quietly from afar
I don't know if he got it,
But I was here first.
--
2.37 PM
And abandon his sick jokes and
friends who expose their Freudian slips on purpose
to be there for you
Your boy will never let you lose to any woman, she said,
Nothing - not her breasts, her legs or the tears behind her eyes
Because all that makes him happy and makes him cum is that
There are none behind yours
I was a policewoman
He told me I looked sexy in my uniform
And as this boy became a man
I started to wonder was it me or the fetish he married
But she was a woman
And she was a friend
So when I look at your hands,
They are always reaching for something
Other than me
More commodities
Lesser me
Then lesser commodities
More me
Don't forget my hands
I told my boy
Don't forget I've always loved you quietly from afar
I don't know if he got it,
But I was here first.
--
2.37 PM
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
The Loveliest Rose in the World by Hans Christian Andersen
Today I am struck with a fever.
But there is always something more than my circumstance, something more worthy to observe, to be quiet about and to be astounded by.
This evening I sat by the foot of the front door of this house and looked at the tree just outside the gate, the flowers and the plants my Mum has in her garden and they all looked so peaceful in their many forms. I do things like that when I am sick, like lying down on the marble floor next to the dining table or rolling about in my room. I chose to sit up this time round. A swallow flitted past and greeted me with a swoop, as if thanking me for noticing her.
Which made me think about the swallow and how fast she flew away, and wonder what difference it would make if I had missed her.
I think God is like this.
I think when we sit and listen, God greets us there.
I think when we want to see a glimpse of Him, He will show us His glory through anything.
And so He did.
After awhile, I decided I would pick up a big book of fairytales titled "The Complete Illustrated Stories of Hans Christian Andersen" that had been tucked away on my shelf for the longest time.
It's probably about 20 or even 30 years old.
I flipped to the Contents page and there was such a long list of story titles, so I decided on one and flipped to read "The Loveliest Rose in The World".
And all the while I was wondering if it was absurd of me to be reading fairytales at the age of eighteen going onto nineteen, but this story proved me wrong.
Because to me, it turned out to be neither fiction nor a fairytale.
This is the story:
HERE lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the world. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the halls. They were of every fragrance and color.
I just sat there with tears in my eyes, biting my shirt, because this story made me realise that Hans Christian Andersen had planned that the words "Greater love there is not" to be read out by a child deliberately because of a child's fresh faith.
And this really stripped my mind off the consciousness that I was actually holding this book as an 18-year-old.
I'm grateful that many people understand that Science doesn't entirely make this world go round.
Even so, Einstein used science and logic to prove that there is a God.
Also, I was awestruck because in the midst of reading this fairytale, I wanted so much to know what and where the loveliest rose came from, wondering if this author could actually live up to his name or be disappointing by presenting something lame to anyone who had laid eyes on this story - so much so that I had actually forgotten there really is none other than Christ's blood and love.
Which humbles readers and myself so, so much because even the author himself could not and did not bring himself to write about something else or cook something 'fictional' up.
This story blessed me so much this evening, and I hope it blesses every other believer out there.
Even with this fever, these words have made me well.
Hope you've had a great week in school/anywhere you are so far :)
Cheerio!
But there is always something more than my circumstance, something more worthy to observe, to be quiet about and to be astounded by.
This evening I sat by the foot of the front door of this house and looked at the tree just outside the gate, the flowers and the plants my Mum has in her garden and they all looked so peaceful in their many forms. I do things like that when I am sick, like lying down on the marble floor next to the dining table or rolling about in my room. I chose to sit up this time round. A swallow flitted past and greeted me with a swoop, as if thanking me for noticing her.
Which made me think about the swallow and how fast she flew away, and wonder what difference it would make if I had missed her.
I think God is like this.
I think when we sit and listen, God greets us there.
I think when we want to see a glimpse of Him, He will show us His glory through anything.
And so He did.
After awhile, I decided I would pick up a big book of fairytales titled "The Complete Illustrated Stories of Hans Christian Andersen" that had been tucked away on my shelf for the longest time.
It's probably about 20 or even 30 years old.
I flipped to the Contents page and there was such a long list of story titles, so I decided on one and flipped to read "The Loveliest Rose in The World".
And all the while I was wondering if it was absurd of me to be reading fairytales at the age of eighteen going onto nineteen, but this story proved me wrong.
Because to me, it turned out to be neither fiction nor a fairytale.
This is the story:
The Loveliest Rose in the World
by
Hans Christian Andersen
(1852)
HERE lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the world. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the halls. They were of every fragrance and color.
But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. “There is still one thing that could save her,” said one of the wisest among them. “Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before her eyes close, she will not die.”
Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in the world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and condition.
“No one has yet named the flower,” said the wise man. “No one has pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is not a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not one of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of Winkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies for his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be redder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the magic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes many an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a lonely chamber.”
“I know where it blooms,” said a happy mother, who came with her lovely child to the bedside of the queen. “I know where the loveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of my sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy; when refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with childlike affection.”
“This is a lovely rose,” said the wise man; “but there is one still more lovely.”
“Yes, one far more lovely,” said one of the women. “I have seen it, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white, like the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown, and through the long, dreary night, she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept over it, kissed it, and prayed for it as only a mother can pray in that hour of her anguish.”
“Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief, but it is not the one we seek.”
“No; the loveliest rose in the world I saw at the Lord’s table,” said the good old bishop. “I saw it shine as if an angel’s face had appeared. A young maiden knelt at the altar, and renewed the vows made at her baptism; and there were white roses and red roses on the blushing cheeks of that young girl. She looked up to heaven with all the purity and love of her young spirit, in all the expression of the highest and purest love.”
“May she be blessed!” said the wise man: “but no one has yet named the loveliest rose in the world.”
Then there came into the room a child—the queen’s little son. Tears stood in his eyes, and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a great book and the binding was of velvet, with silver clasps. “Mother,” cried the little boy; “only hear what I have read.” And the child seated himself by the bedside, and read from the book of Him who suffered death on the cross to save all men, even who are yet unborn. He read, “Greater love hath no man than this,” (Greater love there is not --) and as he read a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes became so enlightened and clear, that she saw from the leaves of the book a lovely rose spring forth, a type of Him who shed His blood on the cross.
“I see it,” she said. “He who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth, shall never die.”
-
I just sat there with tears in my eyes, biting my shirt, because this story made me realise that Hans Christian Andersen had planned that the words "Greater love there is not" to be read out by a child deliberately because of a child's fresh faith.
And this really stripped my mind off the consciousness that I was actually holding this book as an 18-year-old.
I'm grateful that many people understand that Science doesn't entirely make this world go round.
Even so, Einstein used science and logic to prove that there is a God.
Also, I was awestruck because in the midst of reading this fairytale, I wanted so much to know what and where the loveliest rose came from, wondering if this author could actually live up to his name or be disappointing by presenting something lame to anyone who had laid eyes on this story - so much so that I had actually forgotten there really is none other than Christ's blood and love.
Which humbles readers and myself so, so much because even the author himself could not and did not bring himself to write about something else or cook something 'fictional' up.
This story blessed me so much this evening, and I hope it blesses every other believer out there.
Even with this fever, these words have made me well.
Hope you've had a great week in school/anywhere you are so far :)
Cheerio!
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
/It's the hard part but the true love way
I Love You So Much
The words "I love you so much"
Are filled with so much wanting it hurts to speak them out loud
An intentional let-go so you may be happy
When we finally outgrow each other
I want to let you know I love you so much
But for now I'll still want you,
Want you when you're in another woman's bed
Bestowing her the same touch that set my body on fire
Want you when you're out there in the adult world
Never again will you be embarrassed of being short of anything
That just-right-sized, white and black house in woods not like ours here
Want you when you want some space to be away,
Away from earthly troubles and painful cuffs
Away from emotion and
me
The words "I love you so much"
Are filled with so much wanting it hurts to speak them out loud
An intentional let-go so you may be happy
When we finally outgrow each other
I want to let you know I love you so much
But for now I'll still want you,
Want you when you're in another woman's bed
Bestowing her the same touch that set my body on fire
Want you when you're out there in the adult world
Never again will you be embarrassed of being short of anything
That just-right-sized, white and black house in woods not like ours here
Want you when you want some space to be away,
Away from earthly troubles and painful cuffs
Away from emotion and
me
Forgive me
Because I've looked too much for the sadness
In the both of us
And arranged questions in my head
Which answers would make you make me cry
Just to try to prove to us both
That you don't want me the way I want you
Yet all I've ever wanted was you to want me, that is all
Please look past the stupid games I play
And the blind pride I strive to feed;
The deeper I delve into you,
The more I don't know
Can't figure out the measure of my love
Can't make out the depth of yours
Yet I know how much you love me,
Somehow.
And all this I meant to say to you
When I told you,
"I love you so much."
--
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