My Breasts

My breasts.
My knockers, my funbags,
my titties, my ta-tas,
My love lumps, my love muffins,
My hooters, my jugs,
My boobies, my girls,
My melons, my chi-chis,
My bosoms, my sweater puppets,

My breasts.
See, my mammaries have been displeased
With all these pen names they’ve been forced to work under.
My chest is distressed from this mess of misnomers it’s been cloaked in.
These euphemisms created by my male counterparts, such an art, guys, really,
but I think you’re missing my meaning.
See, I’m no angry feminist hating on men, but you guys need some pointers,
so please take this in.
Boys...my breasts aren’t your play toys but I invite you to enjoy them
if you promise to adore them and not try to hoard them as your own and please don’t pinch them, or rub them so hard they feel like they’ll fall off!
They’re attached, you know!
Don’t go back and forth and back and forth, no woman wants that course of action,
get some sense!
Don’t suck and suck like your mother’s teat,
you’ve been weaned too long to be holding on to some Freudian notion of juvenile pleasure.
Don’t yell at me from across the street, “Nice rack!”
Did I ask for your approval? I’m very aware of the...qualities I possess.
And if you think that your crudeness is cool to your cronies please reconsider that your words are just bitter perversions of desire,
cause you KNOW you can’t have ME.
Don’t think I don’t notice you staring me down in the grocery line and pretending to reach for a magazine so you can lean in to see in my cleavage.
Don’t think I won’t pop you one right in the kisser, cause mister this sister has HAD it with men who think my self-esteem is pieced together with poor pick-up lines and honks from your dodge neon, PLEASE!
I used to think that my breasts gave me power over men,
I could tower over men in my five foot three frame because I became the master,
But I was all wrong, see, 'cause I won’t be a woman who uses her body as a weapon against the male species,
I want to use my body for running, for dancing, for hugging, for lov-ing.
My breasts aren’t ME.
They’re a part of me that happens to be made fabulously.
But that doesn’t give you free reign to ogle and fondle,
and openly express your judgment on how I must be eas-y 'cause all you see’s a great pair of
breasts.

Don't go

Baby don’t go.

If you go from this place
the pain I will face will disgrace
this beautiful, sensual, sexually charged
bit of wonder we’re under, this thunder that roars
as we soar through the doors of the clouds
of this love so loud, and we’re proud
that we shroud none of these vows that we’ve made
in such haste, but this taste, this taste!
This taste of embrace,
such a waste to discard this part of ourselves
that we’ve melded from you and
from me and from blue and from heat
And we meet with a sweet, such a sweet sense of longing,
belonging that comes only through calming
with embalming of a love so deep
That it cheapens the very word...love, love

Love, that mystical, magical, actually difficult place to live
where faith is responsibility, where you’re
given so easily, breezily a gift that moves mountains!
I’m shouting! I’m shouting!
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.

This rhythm of livin’ you’ve given my heart
can’t be taken away, say you’ll stay!
don’t betray all the things you’ve been feeling inside,
let it ride, my love, let it ride through the night, it’s so right,
feel my hips sway along to your syrupy song
hold my head in your palm, let my neck meet your lips
and we’ll kiss and we’ll kiss,
let no feeling like this be dismissed,
pure bliss that exists in electricity
between you and me, we’re freed by this sea
of emotions that’s anecdotal to the notion of you leaving me be,
only to dream of the days we shared under sheets
when the beat of our brains mattered not,
just the thump of our hearts and the start of our selves,
united in throws of rose-colored prose,
Don’t go my baby, don’t go.

Why I write

I don't know why I write.
I don't write for renown or recognition,
for people to marvel at my words (marvel indeed).
I scarcely write for myself.

Maybe I write because I've lost my voice.
It's been drowned in the tumultuous caverns of my soul,
I've forgotten its pitch and timbre as if it were never in my possession.
It remains unrecognizable and foreign to my being,
but I must salvage what is left
because I have so much yet to share!
Too many loves to be loved and purple skies to be seen,
too many beauties to be adored to be
without a pen to chronicle them!

I don't know why I write,

maybe I've found my voice.

On love

I will not love you for your smile,
I will love your smile because it is yours.

I will not love you for your eyes,
I will love your eyes because they are yours.

I will not love you for your hands,
or their sweet touch upon my skin,
I will love your hands because they are your own,
and their touch is the warmest gift.

I will not love you for your voice,
or your scent,
or your laughter,
or even your talents or good fortune,
I will love you because I know no better way,
because your smile is my smile,
and your eyes, my eyes,
because your heart is melded in mine,
and my air arrives at your breath.

Observation on Life

I don't long to know everything,
or anything for that matter,
knowledge will come in time, I think, gradually,
like most good things do

I am content to live now, in the present moment,
without hope for some future attainment,
some grand, but fleeting event,
NO,
I want to experience THIS life
for what it is,
not for what it could be,
for what I make it, not what others hope for,
because hope is a hopeless matter,
disallowing enjoyment of the here and now,
how impossibly futile hoping is!

It makes perfect sense to me,
not to say I have a firm grasp on anything,
certainly not,
but I think I'm headed in the right direction

If I can live every day, and I mean LIVE
as if it may be my last, then I will be living,
but I must not fear my last day because
that would contradict my goal,
I must only look to today for joy, for happiness,
for love

And love is what I will embody,
what people will see when they speak to me,
what I will make my goal everyday,
to love as much as possible,
because that is all I can really do,
all I will allow myself to do

My Love (part II)

My love is the tallest mountain,
it is the brightest flower
and the starriest night,
I give it freely because the world is in need,
in need of something real
and peaceful

My love is the loudest sound,
it is the quietest whisper
and the sweetest fruit,
it inspires me to feel,
to feel hopeful, and optimistic, even when life
shows no signs of slowing

My love is the loveliest song,
it is the darkest chocolate
and the bluest sky,
it melts in my hands,
it may melt in yours if you wish,
it can ease your turmoil and soften your words

My love is the deepest canyon,
it is the longest river
and the most precocious child,
it has no barriers
and boundless energy,
it wakes me with a deep longing,
a desire to shout, to dance, and hear the sounds
of the most silent morning
becoming the most beautiful day