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Forwarded by the mischievous RS

The Twitchin' J-U-N-K-I-E Confessions

Addiction.

Now that is such an interesting word, eh? It reeks of decadent debauchery, drama, and yes, eventual decline and downfall. At least it appears that way if you keep up to date with the Jon Gosselin escapades (as told through the eyes of TMZ.com or Perez Hilton).

Applied to me, however, the word addiction becomes…well, boring. And weird. Definitely Enter the Twilight Zone and The Outer Limits kind of weird. Like Busta Rhymes hanging out with Martha Stewart weird (which DID happen!).

Anyhoo…

I am addicted to books. Mangoes, Moleskine artist journals, fountain pens, shoes, Red Velvet cupcakes, and Earl Grey tea, too…but mostly books.  Books. Literature. Seems innocuous enough, eh?

Ha! Not according to my bank account.

So I (finally) gathered all my receipts, bank statements, and balanced my checkbook from the last  2 years, and as it turns out, I spent roughly  the same amount of money for 'reading for pleasure' books as I did for 3 semesters of required textbooks! 

It could be worse.  I mean, I could be hooked on drugs (and twitch like a ferret and have runny nose and bloodshot eyes) or the bottle (and therefore smell like the love child of St. Paddy’s Day and Red Sox/Pats/Celtics/Bruins Dynastynation after winning The Championship).Or I could be addicted to Botox and Restylane, then have plungers for lips and a face that is as immovable as a 600 lb. sumotori. So my little addiction is harmless, right?  

I say nay, for book addiction can be equally disconcerting. Granted, my arms may not bear the sign of track marks, and my liver may be fresh instead of ashy, BUT I do occasionally hear these voices in my head screaming BUY! BUY! BUY! each and every time I set foot at the Coop, Borders, B & N, Waldenbooks, Harvard Book Store, Schoenhopf’s…And I swear that those tomes on the shelf have puppy dog eyes that just beckon to be bought and taken home. And the scent! Goodness me! Be they fresh-from-the-printers-and-newly-arranged-on-the-bookstore-bookshelves books, or dusty and hidden little buggers on the farthest stacks inside the uni library…they all have this scent that enraptures my senses. Beguiled doesn’t even cover my state of being in the presence of the written word. 

My name is Dorky McBook, and I am an addict. It has been ten minutes since I last read a book.

Conversations Over Coffee

 

I discreetly steal a glance as he absent-mindedly runs a hand 
through his wind-tousled hair. Over steaming cups of cappuccino we talk

Discuss the irrationality of a war spurned by 16 misleading words. He speaks
of democracy, of freedom, and of life, and yet in his eyes I see lifelessness. Ideas, thoughts,
and opinions we have exchanged and exhausted hours ago, and now
we are at a point wherein words have run out, ensconced in silence.
He is here, but his nomadic minds wanders, seemingly like a Bedouin in search
of something he strove to have, but ultimately could not find.

Perhaps he already knows the truth buried inside my heart, for they, too
are embedded in his. Perhaps my silence says it all to clear,
and my eyes betray my rehearsed smile,
and he understands now more than he ever has,
that my heart now belongs to someone else. 

We hide behind background noise, and we hide behind the silence,
constantly trying to shroud the truth with a flimsy cloth
made in hopes of clinging to a past that never really was.
He is holding on, and I am holding on
Solely because we fear venturing into territories unknown,
fearing that the waves of destiny would take us far, far away
Into the neverending depths of unfamiliarity.
We cling to each other like ivy on an antiquated, abandoned stone castle,
wanting desperately to flourish
and yet unable to accept the fact
that growing stronger sometimes entails
drifting apart. 

From Post Secret

Her fear is my reality.

Confession:

When he saw me getting dressed up for my first date, my da jokingly said he already had a song picked out for our Father-Daughter dance when I get married: Butterfly Kisses by Bob Carlisle. 

It hurts to think that if I get married, Dance with My Father by Luther Vandross will be played instead. It's been seven years, but I still miss him so much. 

Fulfillment

Sultry, I hear, the rhythm of hitched breath:  
Marked eternity in this, love's sashayed percussion.
Golden skin--tremulous with your alabaster touch. 

There stands you--mighty, gentle, broken, and whole--  
All for me to hold
To love
To get lost in.
Haunted orbs of blue,
Depths of cerulean sea.

You are my obsidian diadem, Obelisk laying claim to this, my quivering heart. 
Mine spine, oh how they shiver at your honeyed breath.

I awake to dreams of heightened sensations,
Of futures awash in fireworks' kaleidoscope.
Hushed conversations illuminated by hearth's embers,

Moonlit dances and rain upon velvet cheeks, 
And fingertips tracing
Stubborn jaw framed by moon-dappled freckles.
Heart to heart,
Hand in hand,
Eyes locked,
Breathing as one.

The Price of Glory

Ambition seeks where glory lies, forever in a state of discontent
Until a blind euphoric pedestal has been sought,
Bound and gagged, tied and strung.

One more trophy, one more medal to win,    
For all that glitters are diamond and gold.
Whatever the cost, although much too high
In the end, would be worth it even for one moment of glory?

(Is it?)

S.H.M.I.L.Y.

You: Shy guy in the corner,
Hands shoved in denim pockets,
Cerulean eyes, furrowed brows,
Shoulders squared, quiet strength.
In self-built walls ensconced.

Me: Brazen girl across the room,
Seemingly without a care,
Mischievous smile, loud laugh,
Hand touching an errant mane,
Trapped in an image of an ideal life.

"Is that a freckle on your lip, or is it drawn on?"
And with those words, two different worlds
Were exposed to be one and the same.
Yes, I did see.
I saw how much you loved me.


I loved your gap-toothed smile, your crinkly-cornered eyes,
How the top of my head should've reached your shoulders, but not quite.
I loved hearing you hum, sometimes in tune and sometimes, out.
I loved your laughter, the genuine one, that started from your toes
and ended in your throat.
I loved your block handwriting, and your disregard for spelling rules.
I loved how your green sweater smelled like you..Acqua di Gio.
I loved you, even if you weren't the guy from my dreams, or Hector, or
C.S. Lewis.
Take them all away, I'd have loved you still.
Beyond the attributes, you're still you,
And can't you see?
See how much I loved you?

You let me be who I really am
Behind this mask, beneath this shield:
Quiet girl, playing dress-up in theatre'sborrowedbravado.
I was a lead actress, playing a coveted role: outgoing, carefree, and friendly.
Yet each time the curtain fell, it was silence I feared.
But there you always stood, behind the stage, neck craned down to meet my gaze.
In your arms, you made it okay for me to step back and be the
understudy I longed to be.

What would've it been like to have met life's deadlines?
Picket fence, house on a cliff,
Bear your name, raise your child,
Hand-in-hand, side-by-side in rocking chairs,
Watching the wings of dawn
Stretch across the horizon.
Would I still have needed to ask if you could see,
See how much I loved you?

I'll never have that happily ever with you,
Or ride off into the sunset (maybe with another man, only time will tell).
Still, given the chance to go back in time,
Each moment would remain unaltered and each tear would remain cried in my hands.
Yes, I am slowly moving on past yesterday
But wherever you may be
I want you to always see

See how much I loved you.

I Wonder

Momma and I traveled each day


Past the waters of Pearl Harbour


Past the greens of Kane'ohe


And into the cliffs of Nu’uanu

Solely to see you      


And yet I wonder,


Did you know we would’ve walked


To the ends of Earth and back


Just for one more day?










The doctors and the nurses, they walked in and out


Dressed in scrubs, their stethoscopes jangled


Mechanically, stoically

They said that the end was drawing near


And this was a battle you have lost


And yet I wonder,


Were they God?


No, they were not,


So what gave them the power to hand out life or death?










I sang for you, that haunting aria


Which ironically spoke of love and loss


My voice soared and hung into the empty room


Slowly  your glazed eyes focused on me 

Whilst the corner of your mouth lifted up in a smile 


And yet I wonder,


Did you hear?


They say that hearing’s the last to fade away,


But I wonder if you understood I tried to sing life into you










Your breaths came out in ragged gasps, uneven and loud


And I ran, ran as far as my wobbly legs could take me


Tears blurred my vision as realisation dawned


That you weren’t ours to keep

And yet I wonder,


Did you look into my heart and see


That I had to walk away


Because I didn’t want to watch you slip away?

Ode to My Shadowgroom

Cerulean--you--I have loved before time
With all its temperate, indifferent instability wrought uncertainty
To certainty beguiled.

'Twas you--eyes of beryl seas--gazed upon me 
Refulgent, wrapped with manacled pulchritude
Aforetime driftless fate awashed you in clouded doubts.

Indigo, you, I have loved vanward dolorous airs
Wrought barriers impermeable--
Salves to wounds unseen.


Infinity sets free--images fade, tinged with yellowed age.
Yesterdays filled with you, distinct.
Turquoise, I close my eyes---

The eternal blaze of a never-setting sun. 

16 Misleading Words

Enraptured, on our knees we fall, into Hades' lair.  
Ominous prognostication leading us into Pyrrhonism's pit piously,
Labyrinthine savagery obscured.
Predicating ourselves redemption unbound,
Upon lands ravaged with boorishness seen yet invisible.
Hauteure'd lilt of nouveau peonage.

Tribal Phoenix

The only thing that would make this tattoo better is if it were outlined in crimson ;o)

Why'd U Have 2 B So Hott?!?!?!

You look like Viggo Mortensen's long-lost son,
But so what?
I'd have the real thing, anyway
Never cared much for imitations in the first place 

So your eyes are unbelievably, uniquely silvery blue
But then again, so what?
Now that I think about it
They make you look like some kind of an alien
And the "Roswell" Czechoslovakians are my faves 

Your hair may be a mass of buttery, sunshiney curls
That tumble down on your oh-so-broad, bronzed back
But hey, the Goldilocks 'do is so played out
And they remind me of that Tess chick from "Roswell"
Who makes Cruella DeVille look positively saintly 

And so what if your cologne takes my breath away?
Without Giorgio Armani's Acqua di Gio, who knows? 

Your crooked, lopsided smile sweeps me off my feet
But hey, Aqua White and Invisalign can do wonders 

So you look like the Greek god Apollo with your 6'4" stature,
But now that I think about it,
At barely 5'2", aren't I the perfect armpit height?
Lucky me, I get to sniff first hand whether or not
Degree does work under pressure 

I guess what I'm trying to say
Is that I'm slowly falling for you
I'm trying to look at you as chopped liver,
But it sure ain't working
'Cause in my stubborn eyes,
You're a chateubriand made out of Kobe beef




***Written ages ago***

***The guy for whom this poem was written became my on-off boyfriend for about eight years ;o)***

Rat Race

Twist and turn, ensconced within the sheets beneath
Grab hold of that soft pashmina, hide behind familiarity
Twist and turn and hide til for a split second comfort it'll bequeath
Savour that lie; as daylight breaks, head on shall you face reality
Tie your shoes, hold your breath and don't let the tears flow
You'll run the race, but you won't see the finish line
Just run and hide, try to escape, don't let your weakness show
They say past is past, but sometimes darkness clings like a vine 

Shadowdancers

Shadows dance beneath the moonlight as we
prance around in the secluded forests of youth,
seemingly unaware of the things we've yet to see
in the world of artificial glow that we call the truth. 

Our faces shine with ethereal beauty, seductively enhanced by
the sultry mask of pretense. Hand to hand, face to face, we gaze
at each other pensively, failing to see as the world passes us by,
bequeathing this pretend-world for us to forevermore wander in a daze.

Listen to the erratic drumbeats, feel the wind upon your hair; close your eyes
so you could finally see the haunting images I have seen for far too long.
There is another world out there, a world that is yet to be explored; a world without lies
to chain us under the guise of innocence and happiness. We are alone in this forest where our dreams don't belong. 

Yo Soy una Sirena

Calmly do the waves sway back and forth, as the sirens sing  their song
that speaks of love. Sultry voices hath beckoned you and me to stray for far too long,
as we bid adieu to the confines of the sacred ground we once had tread.
Together we float in a daze, half submerged in water, half in a fog, safety is now what we dread.

We have reached a moment in time when the naive idolatry of flying has been trashed,
replaced now by the need to forevermore wander with the fluidity of waters we cannot hold. Unabashed,
we strip down to enhance the essence of humanity, showing the voyeuristic sailors a glimpse
of the people they wish to be, deceiving them with images far too removed from their war-torn lives predicting apocalypse.  

I would sooner lose the breath upon my chest and the beat of my heart
than to feel the tips of my toes touch the sand.
Let us stay where we are, listening to the sirens singing a song of life, not ones speaking of a bloodied hand.
Right here, in the mystic sea of never, forevermore can one live
without the fear of having breath to give. 

Abre Tus Ojos

Faint echoes of tentative footsteps resonate
throughout this long and winding hallway
as we slowly walk towards a realm that is sadly
completely beyond all that we know.

Perhaps everything's just a giant propaganda
when they say that we are young and we are free.
Society paralyzes us, billboard and magazine images
enslave us with false hope and blind ambition.

Surreptitiously and inconspicuously our lives stagnate
as we mournfully analyze all the things that might've gone awry.
We look backwards and forward, until suddenly
our present becomes our past, and we have nothing to show.

Neither young nor free, our generation's top-notch agenda
should be to defy definition, to hear, to listen, to feel, and see
potential as it courses through our veins, speaking to us in langauges
only we can understand,
should knowledge be our new addiction. 

Route 3

The soft pitter patter of the rain
slowly fogs up the view of the foliage
as we drive past Route 3.
Reality undermined gives way
to distorted images of what's to be
and will become.

In the darkness,
I see clearly now
more than I ever have.    

The Person I Have Become

There's so much to say, and words alone won't suffice
to capture the essence of all that I feel.
I think of the way I once was, eyes as cold and steely as gneiss.
Emotions kept at bay, I strove for stoicism, neglecting all that was real.

Perhaps it was naivete, or misguided notions of invincibility that lead
me to believe destiny was within my reach. Adolescent years were spent
trying to rationalize wayward ways. I thought I lived my life one step ahead,
but looking back I see wasted moments buried beneath the guise of much-needed rebellion unbent.

I was a child for far too long, and became an adult all too fast, left to stand here alone
to determine where this fork in the middle of the road would lead. I hear your voice
telling me to do what I think is right, to follow my heart even to the realms of the unknown.
I hear you clearly now more than I ever have, and I wonder if it is finally by choice? 

For Our Muslim Sisters and Brothers

As-Salāmu `Alaykum,
Your Catholic Sister in Peace