When I don’t write, it hurts¬†

It’s interesting, life. The expectations that are placed upon us, by us, by them, by we. These internal hang ups we create based on our own perceptions of what the outside want to see. Like you looking at me, thinking about what I’m thinking, looking at you, thinking about what you’re thinking looking at me. And really we are so caught in the thinking part, that we forget to look. Look at soft lines of face, awkward smile, a little distant of eye, slant of nose, rose of lips. Do you look and see the sum, or break each part down. Drawn in close to freckle or eyelash length or lopsided left mouth corner. Or well proportioned, symmetry. 
I go through periods of time where I forget to appreciate that looking. Where I become so wound up in a ball spun of my own binding that I keep tripping up on the bullshit. The too scared to tell a leader at work that I disagree, for fear of being trod on; too concerned by what I think a lover thinks of me, to see what he sees; too quick to want to cry the tears of others stories, not contain the space for them to cry the tears themselves; too frighten to try all the things that excite me, for failure that belongs to the inanimate. 
And there are times where I hold a quality of staunch, of passion, of power, where I unwind this constriction that chokes tight my heart, and accept that my vulnerability is my greatest strength. And if those who are looking at me, looking at them, looking at me, don’t like it, then that’s their loss. Because my heart is my most valuable asset. And I like to share it. 

But life, it’s real interesting, and it’s real. It throws cycles of lessons at our feet. And sometimes it takes time to undo the binding. 

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Favourite opportunity 

I’ve learnt that one of my favourite opportunities in life,
Is picking up the pieces of my broken and shattered heart,
And putting it back together, 

Just giving myself the time. 
Using tears and late nights,

To weave gold around the sharp edges,

And rose petal pink glue to stick each piece in its place.
I don’t get it perfect, 

but with each time I’m getting better, 

I’m moulding it, expanding it, adding to it.
I’m learning which fault lines need reinforcing. 
I’m learning the parts I need to massage and soften. 
I’m pulling out thorns left there long ago.
And don’t get me wrong, it’s tedious and can hurt a whole lot.
Moments where I want to give up and just hurl the pieces into the ocean or off the edge of a huge cliff, wishing I’ll never see it again. 
Moments I don’t like what I’ve created and want to break it all over again so I can try to get it right.
But it feels so good when it’s done and you look at your creation, when you can test it out for the first time. 
And that’s another favourite opportunity. 

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Hold me

Hold me,
Let me sink,
Into your existence,
Let my bones melt,
My skin soften,
My mouth moisten.

Let me cry torrents,
Saturate your being,
In tears and mucous.

Hold me and let me sink.

Hold me.

Hold me against your chest,
Let me soften,
Form crevices,
Where your hips rest against the small off my back.

Let me fall into your rib cage,
My breath silent,
In the shadow of your heart beat.

No need for flourished affection,
Just hold me.

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river breath

A little lost in love loops,
drown me in your river,
don’t let me hit rock bottom,
but don’t let me up for air.

Hold me under,
until my breath proceeds me,
exceeds my growth,
until it out lives my yearning.

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Ulpulpe – Spring

It is days like these that have me yearning for a connection, beyond that link between moments.

A connection of heart and homelands,

Where song lines web our shared histories strength.

Yearning for that Ulpulpe (spring time),

Time of change.

And after the rains when the paper flowers flood the ochre plains.

Emerging out of the hard times, cracks and crevices.

Allowing memories to spill out past introspection,

Move beyond an intermediate connection.

Where old ladies weave mulla mulla (flowers) into young women’s hair, singing the youngbal (young men) closer.

That warm wind blows,

And those seven sisters can be seen on the eastern sky.

Teaching, always learning.

That time when we sing of colour and light, love and desire.

Pay homage for irrernte arenyela.

A time of hope and renewal,

Seasonal change and a chance to reflect.

******
And those paper flowers,

Those yellow and pink and purple hues,

fixated against dusty reds and blues.

They inundate every apmere (place), for as far you can see,

Awenge mape, young women,

Let the golden sun warm our hearts,

Send whispers to that woomee, Perrurle, my promise one,

Meet me there,

On the other side,

Let us talk and wander,

Kiss behind that apurte (rock).

It’s days like these that have me home sick,

Have me missing my apmere Ltyente Apurte,

Missing my families,

Missing that some thing that feels like sunshine wind,

Wraps around smiling faces of loving affection.

I’ll continue to seek it out here,

In meeting humanity with smiles and an attempt of understanding.

Through learning of language and it’s intimacies,

Merging song lines with love lines,

Building kinship that extends well beyond that of blood lines.

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Cycle continues

And the cycle continues,
a windowless fear,
diving deeper to a place she feels has to be near.

The checkered moon rises,
the light opaque,
those moments continue as he eats his cake.

Never feeling the give and take.

Lessons.

Learning.

Moments of fright.

And poised apples,
that take her at night.

At night when she is running,
days of sun gazing.

Chasing tails of the unwanted,
looming closer than home.

And silver hair prophets,
speak of love as a gift.

Gears rolling forward,
forward towards a shift.

She knows what she wants
but fears her failure.

Too true to acknowledge,
changed behaviour.

Lyrically inept and defiantly detrimental.

Don’t make it worse through the clutter,
the mind games.

Don’t delve too far deep,
and expect an immediate change.

Rearrange those feelings,
fight moments of terror.

Let bygones be gone,
and bullies be beggars.

Chest may heave and hollow,
but there is always tomorrow,
to allow wounds to settle,
and the rest will follow.

In disrespect, throw flames to the wind.

Remember there is a time,
to allow kindness to win.

And writing comes swiftly,
but meanings remain,
in brain games of dysfunction,
and turmoil of sin.

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What do you see?

What do you see reflected when you look into my eyes.

Do you see reflected too far past your disguise?

Past all your self inflicted lies?

Or allowing too deep the healing?

Bringing up boiling the deep seated feelings?

Moments of peripheral meaning?

Steal too much of your keening?

My wide eyes beaming, straight to your soul?

An acknowledgement of mercy, that neither of us have any control?

Or do we?

Past that you and me, he and she.

Those intimacies of vulnerability.

And a fear rising.

Tears falling.

Smile peaking.

A love too intense.

What is it that you see when you look into my eyes?

Relentless compromise?

Of suffering and longing?

An assumption of too strong?

What is it, what do you see?

A sense of my need to be free?

My need to be free?

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