A note to the few of you who bother to read this on a regular basis;
I didn't start this only to amuse you with my razor wit.
I needed a soapbox in a safe zone, where I can occasionally rant and rave without being arrested or
being put upon by an angry mob or having someone set their dog on me.
Someplace where I can spill my guts or practice my particular brand of self pity,
without having to deal with face to face confrontations, which are not really my forte.
I can be real here, I can say what I can't say in other places, to other people.
You have to take the bad with the good, so if you're comfortable with getting to know
that side of me, fine, read on.
If you don't want to know me that well, that's ok, too.
Just don't read any further.

I've kept diaries most of my life. I will occasionally post excerpts from them here.
Some of what I've written is out of dispair.
Some of what I've written is all warm and fuzzy and funny.
What follows is not warm and fuzzy.
I don't expect any comment. I don't want any comment.
It's hard enough to put this out there for all the world to read.

I have always had a hard time with love. It has been an elusive, yet addictive quarry.
I have chased it.
I've run from it.
I've built walls to hold it in
and to keep it out.
It has bouyed me.
It has failed me.
It has caused me more grief then you could ever imagine,
yet, I have made it the center of my life.
It is the basis for what and who I am, without guilt or, sadly, reason at times.

The few excerpts that follow are not dated. When they were written really doesn't matter.
I share them for reasons that you don't need to know.

“She didn’t break my heart.
She folded it seven times
and threw it over her shoulder.”

“I would probably make
a good junkie.
I’m sure I could
boil up love and
mainline it.
Oh, dark alley of the heart,
just a push away
from the warm and
Will you be my gimme?”

Love and unloved.

1 .

I have held you in the dark.
You let me play your body
like some yet uninvented
instrument of glass and
fine strings.

You have let me
hold you close to me,
my hands locked together
against the small of your back,
my face buried in your hair.

I have caressed
the curve of your side
as you lay next to me.

You once let me kiss
every inch of your body.


You have made me
dig out rocks
with my bare fingers.

You make me
question who and
what I am.

You have hurt my soul.

Our love is like
the last piece of wood
left to put on a fire.
The prospect of heat
is outweighed by the
spectre of dying embers
and old ashes.
When do we start
burning the furniture?


Blogger ShangriLa said...

very nice!

10:56 AM  

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