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november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind

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Chasing Meaning

I try to catch meaning again,
a Sisyphean enterprise
as my attention span
is in direct relation to
my ever increasing
level of ennui.

And I do get bored easily
these days.

She says,
Why ever? Do you not see
how much excitement
this world holds?
All the things we can do…

And I so want to
burst her bubble of
naivety with a spell of
disillusionment.
An overreaction, I admit,
but sometimes her
artless views
bring out the worst in me.

Oh, the eagerness of
a young soul.
Been there, done that.
They are all caught up
in the doing
which does not
equate to being.

Do they ever ponder
the necessity for activity
at all?

 

© november child
photo credit: Steve Jurvetson via Flickr

Collecting Tears

What did you do
with her tears?

Did you shrug them off
with the contempt
you reserve for what
you perceive as weakness?

Did they make you
uncomfortable, when
they too clearly pointed to
the issues you are
unwilling to face?

Or did you cherish them,
every tiny drop a trophy
that you collected
as a symbol of the
power you hold over her?

 

© november child
photo credit: hadia lakhras via The Awesome Daily
The article about the Topography of Tears is fascinating!

Map

I drew a map for you
of the admittedly
long, and winding road
to my heart.

I even precisely marked
all the required stops,
where, for a moment,
you could have
simply appreciated
the journey,
enjoyed the pace, and
taken inventory
of what is ahead.

Should have been easy.

 

© november child
photo credit: Olivier Meoux via Flickr

Communication

I have made a mosaic of
our conversations, frantically
inserting colourful shards of
desperation to fill in
the uncomfortable gaps.

I dive headfirst into your silences
which equally repel and attract me,
unable to sit this one out while
suffering from flashbacks to a place
where silence equalled punishment.

I choke on the pleas I will not voice,
raising my shield of nervous smiles,
and taking refuge in jokes, and sarcasm,
anything, really anything,
to cover up my fear, and confusion.

© november child
photo credit: Pat Mitchell
I happened upon this site while searching for a photo. I am not a fan of mosaics but this artist made some powerful, and beautiful works of art.

Magnet

Wishes

I wish I did not crave
tracing the tattoo on your arm.
I wish the grey at your temples
did not make me want to
run my fingers through your hair.
I wish I could unfeel the trails
your fingertips burnt onto my skin.
I wish your smile
did not reach your eyes.

I wish the willingness
to throw my life away
for this insane infatuation
was not plainly written on my face.

You were my poison,
you still are my folly.

 

© november child
photo credit: source unknown

 

Heatwave

Northern European skin,
too fair and
defenseless,
winces at the touch of
a merciless sun.

Viking genes,
with their embedded
memories of
cold North Sea water
and snow-covered land,
are offended.

 

© november child
photo credit: The Independent

Hesitation

I falter

I waver, and wait

I think, rethink, and overthink

But you,
and your cursed impatience
may not simply run over
my hesitation
like a bulldozer on steroids.

You,
and your bloody self-assurance
may not simply sweep over
my cautiousness
like an out-of-control wildfire.

I do not know
if this comes as a revelation,
but I do make decisions very fast
when pushed too far.

 

© november child
photo credit: Kate Ware via Flickr
Revelation

The War Inside

I cannot even recall how many battles
I fought, but I know there were many.

I have spent hours, days, sometimes weeks
thoroughly planning ahead, gathering data
obsessively, checking and rechecking facts
until my head was spinning, and
my strategy was meticulously laid out.

I cringe at the waste of energy
as most battles never even took place,
yet in my mind, I already had felt
the pain of injuries I was expecting,
and had treated others cruelly,
some of them very dear to me.

And in the end, the most painful thing is
that I can never be sure
if the negative energy of my thoughts
reached my unsuspecting opponents.

 

© november child
Artist: Owen via Photobucket

 

Defensive

I thought he was quite handsome,
fluttering back and forth importantly,
showing off those vibrant colours
on his tiny, fragile wings.

So endearing when he started
following me around. I wondered
if it was my perfume which
deliciously smells like summer.

He never left my side, even after
I went back inside, he just
settled in a safe distance and
stared at me in a pensive manner.

‘Look at you’ he said all of a sudden.
‘You’ve become boring. All earnest and
always busy. Where did your smile go,
and what happened to your soul?’

And I got a little defensive, not sure
if I still liked that cheeky rascal.
I really have no time for this when life
is pushing me this way and that.

After all, he is just a butterfly.
What does he know about
responsibilities?

 

© november child
photo credit: Neil Halin via Flickr

Distant

Bruised

too many marks and bruises
on alabaster skin
branded by the touch of those
that still linger on your fingertips
afraid of the next tell-tale sign
to blow up what is left of her pride
running out of patience,
and from a place in hell
where secrecy is only
a figment of your imagination

iPhone pillow talks,
instagratification,
how long does your thrill last?
until you have emptied
your bottle of Bushmills?
until whoever’s make-up is smeared?
when reality is breathing down
your neck?
or rather
when you wake up alone, again…

only five hours to Paris
whispers of the Seine
balm for her soul
you know who is waiting for her
celui qui danse
au rhytme d’un cœur fragile
she took your car by the way
was it worth it?

 

© november child
photo credit: Aparajith Bharathiyan via Flickr
Detonate

Whispers in the Willow Tree

 

She is difficult that one,
snapping at me
more than once
if I just run by without
properly admiring
her beauty, and how
prettily her radiating canopy
overlaps the bank.

She always urges me
to sit on the grass, relax,
enjoy the scent of her, and
of her lake. I can’t bring myself
to tell her the water smells
quite brackish, so
I just take shallow breaths,
and hope she will not notice.

She is quite proud
of the cracks in her bark,
(beauty marks she calls them),
and her spot by the lake
she has defended
for many years,
though I think she
hates the cold season
when she has to shed
her leaves, vain little thing.

She likes to flaunt
her graceful limbs
to emphasise her stories.
I know she fibs,
what with remembering
knights and the ring
of their horse’s shoes
on cobblestone pavement,
but who am I to judge?

 

© november child
photo credit: Roberto Verzo via Flickr
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 301
Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Writing Prompt #209 “It’s All in the Title”
Radiate

Infinity

It is human nature, this need
to understand, to know.
Knowledge being the power
that catapulted us into
world dominance.
In order to comprehend,
names are assigned,
numbers generated, and
formulae created, defining
everything, so we can wrap
our heads around it.

In the event of
utter perplexity we
theorise, hypothesise,
at times we have been known
to simply make things up,
and don’t get me started
on interpretations.

And as we proudly present
our accumulated data,
God shrugs good-naturedly,
and Infinity suppresses a giggle.

 

© november child
photo credit:  Pix to Words
in response to Pix to Words Infinity ~ Pic and a Word Challenge #88
Catapult

Clouds

I am a master at clouds,
such a nice fabric to work with.
Of course, this art is little
appreciated, an empty
blue sky widely favoured.
I am afraid, humans lack
the refinement to process
true beauty.

Just look up, look at the sky, I think I
have outdone myself once again.
Only No. 9 is a bit out of alignment.
Always the rebel, a problem child,
too often adrift, stubbornly
bending this way and that, forever
out of shape, trying to take over
the sky,  and constantly demanding
the extra effort which can be
quite exasperating.

 

© november child
photo credit: James Stutzman via Flickr

Adrift

Sunrise

I still glow in shades of rose and gold
in the aftermath of a gorgeous sunrise
that slowly but surely crept under my skin
while I watched Sol seize control of the day.

And while today I proudly wear my new
daytime skin, tonight as Sol descends
I will shed it in favour of cobalt and flashes of silver
and pay tribute to Mani on her lonely ride.

© november child
photo credit: Aristocrats-hats via Flickr

Descend

On the Edge

Remember all those cute promises
and good intentions?
And yet here we are,
standing on the edge
of a precipice once again.

Counting sleepless nights,
shed tears, and wasted efforts,
only to realise the balance
will never add up.

 

 

© november child
photo credit: Black Station via Flickr

Precipice

Breaking the Cycle

She puts herself out on a limb
every time she tries to coax some
kind of acknowledgement out of them,
but instead of ending up better,
she finds her spirit broken over again,
adding more fragments to the
Saturnian rings that make up her aura.

She has never learned to refrain
from poking around in the ashes
of the bridges she burnt, maybe
hoping against hope, that some of
the ghosts she raised would rewrite
the stories into the fairy tales she craves.

Sometimes she prides herself on
having broken the cycle of destruction,
but as long as her skin is too thin,
her goal is their approval, and
she caves in to the radiation of their
indifference, she is in a halfway state.

© november child
photo credit: original photo by Farrukh via Flickr
in response to The Sunday Whirl Wordle 298
Better

Suburbia

Wintergreen hedges
(no rotten leaves here, please),
cut precisely into square,
impenetrable walls,
fencing in narrow front yards,
doing no favour to the pricey
whitewashed houses
masquerading as the
epitome of respectability.

Double door garages, witness
to what a man is able to
provide, though red tile roofs have
lost their sheen because
money only goes that far,
multi-paneled windows
keep in the noise of
quarrels which, officially,
never took place.

Unbothered by Saturday’s
car washing and lawn mowing,
freedom beckons not too
far away, in the shape of
a night sky aglow with
the reflection of city lights,
the skyline visible
if you scramble up that hill.

© november child
photo credit: Mark Hadley via Flickr
in response to Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle #153

Holier-Than-Thou

How you savour this chip
on your shoulder,
not even the sincerest
apology will prompt you
to give it up.

And how could you,
when you run being
offended on repeat,
and those meticulously
maintained lists
of perceived wrongs
sum up your life so well?

You have comfortably
settled into your role
of a righteous saint,
conveniently forgetting
a little feature
called forgiveness.

Instead you sing the
praise of judgement
and your prayers
are laced with acid.

© november child
photo credit: Justin via Flickr
in response to The Sunday Whirl – Wordle #297

Cold Rain

Soaked-through clothes,
a clammy chill on my skin,
the same cold
my cells have memorised
on the night
I watched you
walk away.

With the cold the pain unfolds
its multiple layers of defeat,
the same ache
your heart memorises,
once you resign yourself
to the fact
that it was almost love.

 

© november child
photo credit: Susanne Nilsson via Flickr

 

Handwriting

His handwriting is recognisable
in the count of her shallow breath,
her measured,
minimalistic movements,
and the smouldering pit
that used to be her stomach.

The weight of insignificance
instiled into her,
is reflected in her
hunched shoulders,
and suits his delusions of grandeur,
and sense of entitlement.

 

© november child
photo credit: maqaron.jp

Measure

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