Shams' Muse

spring's here and my heart is nervous at all these flowers pushing their way up into the world through winter's last hurrah.

its raining march rains in cold wet drops and i can dance on the grass and the buds on the bushes are begging to open.

so much for love poems, Shams, seems I've got a crisis on my hands, my lover, he doesn't love me anymore. if that's not a crisis, I don't know what is? like a tiny little berry in my goddess hands, unintentionally, i think i know what the end looks like because i've seen it so many times. It looks like this. and I just refuse to open my eyes and see it. wasn't i just saying how boring my life had become only yesterday?

spring is replete with people who return from distant places of my past. Some, I am so happy to see.

i dared think that i am and closed my eyes waiting for a blow that never came. i opened one eye, then the other, and you were still there, smiling at me and smiling.

he said to me many years ago, I'd be narcissus I dreamed I said if I could make love to your ego.

This month, I've decided to try and write a love poem a day. So often, I write about tragic love, painful love, love gone horribly wrong. But, some of the best poetry is about love gone right and the meeting of minds, etc. I figure for March, with a bit of inspiration, some love poems are in order.

dearest, my dearest, I only write anti-love poems, but for you, I will make an exception. I mostly fear you will read this and say it did not measure up to what you were expecting, and that I was not the writer you hoped I would be, and for this, you reject me. the greater the cracks in my cement open up to swallow the birds from the sky. There is no end to this and so no end to my loss if you decide (for i will never decide). I hope that you love me more even if the words never touch the air in a puff of winter breath, and your hand never finds mine, mitten in mitten.

i am still dreaming and my brain is oozing out of my skull at a point between my eyes, and onto the desk. he left this behind and all I can do is hold it while I sleep and breathe in the scent of detergent not my own. can a sentiment last a lifetime? i can only whisper these things to what scrap i hold in my arms. why have i been so beaten down that i am afraid to stand taller than the pines?

Shams, there is in me a terrible badness, a demon, clawing its way through my skin, and I have to fight or it will own me for a time and I will do terrible things, things that will hurt people I love because I can. This demon cares nothing for you, cares nothing for me, cares for nothing, but to rage and destroy carefully built houses, kicking down the beams, setting fire to the timbers and dancing in the smoldering remains with his violin as he dances and I cry. My demon feeds on my fears and grows strong when they increase, making great feasts and smacking the very bones with his lips as fat and blood drips off them onto his pot belly. If I could starve him from the source, choke him with my own hands and hold him down with a will and a certainty until he stops moving, perhaps then he will give me some rest.