Journey to Liberation

Someone shared a book with me not to long ago that I instantly fell in love with.

Nikki Giovanni’s poetry is lovely. She incorporates racial identity, LOVE, wit, and life experiences in her collection of poetry so eloquently. It’s as if she took a notebook around with her everyday and just wrote down her reactions to her enviroment and interactions. Since I’ve discovered this book, I had written all in my copy. Not to mention I carry it everywhere with me now. She gives me a new found love and appreciation for poetry. It’s articulation at its very best.

This is the beginning of one of my favorite love poems by her:

Can I travel you?

Can I press my lips to your chest and race your heartbeat with my tongue across the curves of your body? Can I settle to sleep in the subtle dent in your spine and wake to sip and bathe in the collection of liquid carefully enclosed by your lips…either here or there. Can I taste your skin if I promise to give up food and starve myself just to thoroughly enjoy your texture?

Can I breathe you?

Can I spend the entirety of my summer curled up against your with my nose nestled in the nape of your neck. .. pulling you in and out. . in and out of me with every hair on my body dancing to the consistency of your scent? Can you feel me…fill me? Partake in the expansion of my lungs and linger inside of me. . as still and pure as the two atoms that (in combination with gravity) are responsible for keeping me lying here next to you.

Can I learn you?

Can I paint your image across a book and fill it cover to cover with the details of your character. I will began each indentation with your name and try to describe the extent of your kindness. Can I tell the world about the way you know how to regard a woman in a way that makes her feel like nothing less than a woman? Can I memorize your smile and make a soundtrack of your laugh? Or permanently attach your lips to mine so that I never forget the way the inside of your mouth feels against my tongue

Face to face
Eyes refusing to meet mine
Body bare, decorated in ink.
Your words, dispersed by air..
lingering between us…
Falling short—-
Falling short—-
Always falling short.

Because I’ve made a prison out of my mind

To capture my thoughts

Strangle the life out of them

And lay them in corners to collect dust

Too many of them involved you

Too many of them involved you

Too many of them involved….

No median.

Only extremes exist.

Holding on so tight you think you can’t survive if one finger slips. . shifts one inch to the…

Being held so tight, you wouldn’t mind losing your breath to lose your life in the arms of someone who couldn’t possibly love you anymore than they do in that moment.

And they don’t know…

it’s all you’ve got.

Here is a writing share from me. Something I wrote with someone in particular in mind.

I don’t know exactly how it began. Maybe as an inkling, an itch, an slight shift in the universe responsible for the weariness misconceived for butterflies. It was the sound of your laugh that found me and planted itself into my brain. I still remember the first glance which seemed to be more profound than the last one. In your presence I remembered feeling exposed, like a bird plucked of its feathers before a brutal slaughter. I was shy, blushing, often seeming coy with my ambiguity, all of this because I didn’t know how to come right out and say that I wanted you in more ways than one.

-Ryan

There is an itch so far inside of me not even you can scratch it with the tips of your long wide fingers and good intent, seriously intending on satisfaction. Seriously intending on… satisfaction. Not even a fraction of you reaching inside of me, pressing inside of me, pushing hard inside of me. All I wanted was to feel something until I felt nothing but now the void had stretched, plunged, now the void has spread and I’m afraid no one will be able to reach it, scratch it, fill it.

-Me

agradschoolbreakup:

The real problem with pain is that it is

Private.

 You can empty yourself in a room full of people or

 sit behind a sealed closet door alone with your thoughts, razors,

 and tears.

It’s all the same.

No one can ever relate.