If This Heart Can Plead

A long ode of imaginary banter from heart to stubborn self. I warned you …

h

Make space for me, my love

My curves, my smiles and fury

I started off with strings from every angle;

Through the years, a few notes have been played,

Broken, strung and slayed

Make space for me, my love

My punches are strong

Yet kisses are sweet

I’ve taught your lips

And tongue the moves of intimate hips

Make space for me, my love

My sides have been scratched

I won’t deny, I heal through seasons;

Last few Winters have been windy, Summer and Spring had some sun

But Fall is when I am one

Make space for me, my love

My pulses know the words before you speak

When feelings become emotions, you crumble in a million questions

I know your pain, sighs and vulnerabilities

Trust that I know your capabilities

Make space for me, my love

My apologies, as I’ve always been alone in you

I swear I can more than manage,

I’ll send you pulses for signals to warn and seek

Love, be courageous yet meek

Make space for me, my love

My! Before your bright eyes to see or

Curious hands to touch, a pulse…a beat

Dug-doog. Dug-doog

You sent your first message even before those text messages!

Make space for me, my love

My guards are high up until down below

And there I thought you’re not a fan of ironman

Bring the walls down, breathe, let go and let be

Don’t let yourself wander too far till eternity

Make space for me, my love

My feelings are immense, I know

I get too excited when you’re in Kung Fu panda mode

I’ll sit with you through the swords, silence and sensuality

I promise one day, it will be more than just a dramedy

Make space for me, my love

My words have become so cheesy

I’ve aged like dairy

Let me in, please

So I can finally serve you some hot curry

Make space for me, my love

My jokes have not changed, they’re still corny

Sprinkled with bits of truth

I know you’ve already done your list

My love, you gotta let me in …

Head and face

Arms and hands

Legs and feet

Butt and womb

Spine and stomach

I’m beating myself in frenzy

With your crazy inventory

Make space for me, my love

Through seasons to seconds

From salsa to slow dances

Question marks to commas

Zodiacs to Hail Marys

Love letters to playlists

Sheep running back to your shepherd

From genre to genre

Appetizers to take outs

Make space for me, my love

I’ve lost all my strings

And walk around with my underpants in the morning

I promise you a cuppa

I promise you it can happen again

And again

But my love, please open the door

There’s always room for more.

 

Advertisements

Burning Alive

I would like to say I’ve changed – but I haven’t. Not close, probably even to worse rather than what everyone else would like to hear. In highschool, my tongue was known to be as blunt as a bat; I battled everyone with my words with out even stretching my arm to hurt because I made sure I mangled their spirit in more ways than one.

I look at myself at age 23 and life is alright, not something I can or should complain about. In fact, the only thing I should think of mangling is myself. At this age, we all try to find ourselves, a lot of us aren’t even close to it. We’ve lost ourselves in this gap of successes – graduation to a perfect job and awesome life (with or without being married). As I shuffle my feet in typing this blog, I wonder how many other poor souls have worn the same shoes I’m in and worn it out till their feet bled in continuation of a life unlived.

I was speaking to a good friend of mine, we are in two different time zones but always seem to be in the same zone in life some way or another. We talk about our heartbreaks and this time around, it’s not a boy. It’s the missing direction, the uncontrollable passion in us that we don’t know what to do with, the run that we’re still running but no finish line. It’s got to the point that we’ve burned out – guys, we are just in our twenties and can you believe it?! We are burned out.

Amidst are emotional rants and the imaginative parades, she says, “well, we need to fall apart.” That hit me, I haven’t heard that kinda phrase since I was 16 and was figuring out how to pray to a God. Perhaps she was right; we fight our fights now whether it be a stupid exam or a job you’re still unsure of or even a song you used to love fell out of touch – we will always fight our fights. That will never change, the victory dear friends is not at the end but rather in these very battles we’re in.

I wish my tongue was as blunt in its words when my heart and soul prays to the God I’ve always known. I wish when I pray, my hands don’t punch or clench but rather holds the hand of someone I love and tell them “everything will be okay”. We cannot change circumstance because it will always be there and its there to change us, melt our very spirits every single time and make sure we come back stronger.

Tonight and every night, let’s fall apart and run with hearts on fire.

Garden Monsters

There is this monster in my garden, the kind that eats my newly sowed seeds. I hide and hide away from it, not knowing where it will next feed.

There is a monster in my garden, it has one eye and tiny feet. It’s furry face has no disgrace and a nose that can smell from miles away the little girls in the schoolyard.

There is a monster in my garden, it scratches its belly while it walks around in squares. It speaks in barely syllables and slurps away its dribbling snot.

There is a monster in my garden, it roars its way to sleep. It pulls out my baby daffodils and throws it in the corner fence. It picks up all the torn petals and makes it into a bed.

I look at the monster in my garden, it has this little scar. The one not like Harry Potter but definitely the one that causes sparks.

I feel for the monster in my garden, He dreams in silent melodies. And always has His arms arched in mid air while he sleeps.

I asked the monster in my garden, “what happened to Her?” His single eye hidden in the furry face slowly opened behind all disguise, a small tiny tear dropped in the world’s surprise.

My monster in the garden, is this classic case of wine; He gave His heart to a passing Her but unfortunately went on passing by.

All day he walks around this garden, hiding behind the fence; always waiting for that moment to repeat as he persistently denies His defeat.

One day I will find that monster who will pass by this garden, I shall grab Her psycho hair. I’ll twist it into mental braids and threaten to cook her like meat.