I saw a building I hadn’t seen before, though I had walked by it at least a few times a month. I stood on the corner for three lights, while we caught up on lost time.
I heard five people’s voices rise in pitch as they walked by me, saying “puppy!” I looked down at Ruby and thanked her.
I bought a man some food so he could eat, using money a friend loaned me so I could.
And I looked into the eyes of everyone I could, hoping to feel a new friend, or love. Hoping my soul might see her and kind of say “Oh, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
And it would feel like two people finally meeting each other
after a lifetime of not meeting each other.
Lifetimes ago, I called to you, called, and finally
you looked, noticed how my wings glistened with light
and reached to take hold of my hand.
You were blind to how these wings were scarred, wounded, broken,
or you just didn’t care. You saw something that you thought you could fix.
You reached down, down far – and almost fell
almost fell – for me. Some things I just won’t let happen. See where the scars come from, see why I use what I do for paste now, and don’t judge.
Out of bourbon and fire, fire and ashes, ashes and dust, dust like thousands of words and the tears of joy and sorrow that created them, out of these things I make my paste. I make my paste out of the same wind that carries them away. I make my paste out of the strength of the blood of my heart, of mine, not yours. You want me to be my best, my best for you. I want to be my best for me and only that because that is what stays. I know me better, I know what I want I know who I am and who I will be and that is not your creation. Even in your love, it can only be made by mine of myself. Only I can make me, again, and again, and again – and I do. You haven’t known me long enough to realize this. Let me be and love me and let me always become. Try to mold me and I crumble in your hands. Love me and let me be if you’re strong enough.
If you’re strong enough, I will be stronger for both of us.
I just secured the amazing Chuck Revell’s photography as some of the awesome multi-tier rewards for the Early-Bird & official Kickstarter campaigns for #MyBook!
Out of the kindness of his heart & to support this project, he will be donating some beautiful fine-art images, and *EVEN* for a few *very* fortunate contributors, a personal photo-shoot!
Check out what his extraordinary eye catches through the lens at RevellRay Photography:
Of course there will be many more fantastic rewards for those who support the creation and publishing of my book, but I really wanted to be able to offer some extra rewards that are less common in a publishing campaign, and supporters should have as much beauty to choose from as they deserve.
The “official” Kickstarter campaign is involving tons of work and lots of waiting for others (mostly for the video).
Needless to say, I (and others who have been on my ass to write the book since I first spoke of it) am far too excited about getting the thrilling but arduous process of #MyStory in gear to wait for everyone else, so I’m creating something very special.
In order to get this book rolling ASAP, there will be an Early Bird Campaign launched very soon (this Mon. or Tues.)
It will be independent of the Kickstarter, but hold true to and even above the same promise and pledge to its supporters.
The really cool thing about it is that it will offer *very* special, limited edition, and one-of-a-kind rewards that will NOT be available on the official Kickstarter campaign, as a special show of appreciation from me to you! One they’re gone however – they’re gone, never to be seen or offered again.
And please – feel free to share this *everywhere*. I’ve got a HUGE & beautiful project in front of me, and it will need as much support as possible.
Love love love,
It’s neat enough
clean enough, this precision at which I can remove myself
and make me not want
what I cannot have.
It is what I have been taught to do from my first breaths in this life.
The tragedy lies
where there might still be a possibility
where there might still be hope
but, as trained
my heart has already gone dark
and there is no more light to show you
the beauty it holds
and in my lie
I long for you
in silence and
for what could have been
it cannot be said that
I did not try
with all of my patience, understanding
and all of my heart
but as much as I could only see the present
and dream the possibilities in our future
you could not trust or
learn to see that
I was not your past…
so now that is all that I am.
seconds ago she asks…
“what have I done to deserve you?”
I do not have an answer for her…
only the same thought in return…
A word more powerful than nearly any other. A word more overused and tainted, heartfelt, believed… and unknown.
A feeling that reaches beyond the body, beyond the soul, beyond anything tangible. That can only come close to being described in poetry, yet even the greatest of poets could not truly define it regardless of the heights they attempted to make it fly in its glory nor the unfathomable depths of the anguish it has caused so that another could grasp the way it held their heart.
When I look in her eyes I feel what I think it is – is this all it needs to be honestly said? Is it that simple? No. The word itself is little but a reassurance, something that we think we need to hear to minimize our insecurities or those of another. It has been soiled, misused, and the honesty and weight it once carried been chipped away by all the sharp tongues that have spoken it, made inaudible by all the desperate ears that have pried it out of voices without hearts.
I feel that it should be said, but only at times when it cannot be held back. When it is not thought about nor spoken only to echo, but when it bursts from the heart in a way that cannot be contained.
It should be shown, displayed, made solid through the way life is lived, how suddenly each thought is never again solely about you. Inhaled and exhaled in every breath, each act created with the intention to bring happiness in the other, just to see the sparkle in their smile.
I don’t like the word “love”. Not the word. Not as used when I say it to her.
It is far too insignificant. Speaking it cannot come near comparison to what I want to do for her.
When I tell her of my love, it will not be empty. It will be saturated, dripping, with all the beauty and honesty and power of the poetry that I or anyone else has – or ever will feel – inside.