A three act play in four parts written; I guide your eyes

[mousey1]

octagonal thinking
getting in tune with me
playing the subtle chords
touching the tender bruising
seeing with eyes not so blinded by
reference points of past experience
everyone just cruising through life
so completely undone
exposed to torment you find a way to hide
the wide-eyed child grew morbid
faced with choices never made
simply fallen into
tumbling out of control you can't hold
to nothing whisps
you contemplate the clumsy freefall
spin and twist
resigned to this
that takes you
Mona Lisa smiles on every face
we know the difference between
joy and the good grace to receive it
when clamorings cease
the artist captures, seizes the delicate repose
the studied calm
of purposeful deceivers
who know the need
yet hold their tongues
refuse to speak it

[mousey1]

it is on these pages
this canvas of time
that we lay naked
while the rasping tongues
of all those wise know betters
lick our tenderness raw
grow weary
anticipate the next low blow
we take it
gut wrenching pride remembers
who we are
to rise above
a gentle hand is needed
caressing all misfortunes into dust
a gentle hand misguided
loves you best
and finds the way to all
your secret places
past moans and squirming distrust
unheeded press on
make your way
find find find
upon these pages written
find the key
or just stop looking

[mousey1]

in her face I saw a memory
one moment in time
she loved best
her eyes aglow
her delicate breath
lingering summer wine fresh
kissed and left wondering
beautiful hue on cheeks flushed
with remembering
if disappointment had a name
you would not know it
pleasure seen
a hint of it
on lips curved
they form a smile a whispering
her arm drapes the ragged chair
fingers curl entwine the air
his hand she holds
there's no one there
just memory

[mousey1]

Beneath the Stone

beneath the stone
the last to know
face framed regret
in silent repose

[mousey1]

It's not really a play you know
it never the fuck is
it's a serious thing

I do not play
well not today
I'm serious

I hide me away
that drop in the bucket
that last gloopy dried bit of ink
stuck to the side lip inkwell
dip your nib
you won't get a drop
not enough to write your name with
Savvy?
No?
of course not
me either neither nor or ore

the beauty of writing is
losing yourself in the words
and then looking back
seeing the door
opening it and
je t'adore
there you are
all glistening wet newborn you
ready to start again

the beauty of writing is
discovery
the sense of learning something new
about something old
the sense of grasping onto things
you thought you'd let go
the beauty of writing
the beauty of writing
seems to be the only pleasure
that I can sink my teeth into
anymore

I make love in my poems
caress my eyes
and fuck my senses dry

oh boy oh boy
the joy of writing
the tricky bit
the oh so tricky bit
is not to write when you're feeling a bore
because sure as shit
you'll be an eyesore of unhealing
remorse and regret

someone please take my pen from me
hide my keyboard
shove me outside
myself
for I'm feeling a little
lost in here

the beauty of writing is
you can take it anywhere
grasp its hand
and follow it
lead it
lead me
understand
understand?
of course not

the beauty of writing is
to grasp the eye
and keep them guessing
to the very end
well unfortunately
I haven't yet
got the hang of it

heart on a sleeve
dripping wet
it teeters there
and you can bet
it's gonna fall
and it's always so
obvious

If you're going to write good
you've got to learn
to be a tease
an eye tease
a mind tease
a cock and ball tease
a vagina tease
a teaser
a brain pleaser
word candy for
the soul

If you're going to write
write to me
for here are
welcoming eyes
and a mind
that so wants to
see
really see
you

If you're going to write
just do
just do
you might find
you might just discover
some surprises yet
some hints
some hidden treasures
deep inside of you

mind it

[mousey1]

I swear because I am anger
anger at the boil
my point is bitter

and seizing on the open wound
you squeeze
for all endeavors
all the wrath is aimed
your hidden pleasure
found in words of pain

oh squeeze
this softness here is
far off never
and the want of it
you cannot touch

the centers of the universe
are found in you
they're many
all converge
at this my hidden lust
not measured

could any one
foretell
foretold I spell it well
my lover

and guessing at the
wishing
well I made my toss
and coin?
of course it landed
off the mark
and wasted there
it ends as all of life
in heaping ash and
sad alone displeasure

[stilltrucking]

it beats me mousey
i think
i got opinions
everything so clear
but then I remember
the beauty of writting
is being silent
long enough

Beautiful writting mousey1
thanks


reading and writting
a marriage made in...
she wanted to know?

[mousey1]

Thanks for reading stillt

I like this...

the beauty of writting
is being silent
long enough

the best words bob to the surface during periods of silence
there is silence of the pleasant kind
there is silence of the ominous kind
there is comfortable silence, restful silence, both my favorite kinds
I am okay with this silence because I know it still exudes love...and a mere waiting.