Talking to Girls
Writing
Electrical impulses transmit,
An abstract idea slowly forms,
As emotions process it,
Slowly it takes upon a more concrete form,
And words are assigned to it,
Substitutions and reductions,
Expansions and revisions,
The idea becomes more real,
Neurons fire madly,
Swimming in a current of webbed nerve endings,
Synapses ignite, bridging gaps between,
Signal traveling through the spine,
Down a neural network maze,
A well travelled sinuous road,
Arriving at their destination,
Fingertips acting upon a pen,
Manipulating black encapsulated ink,
Air forcing it down towards rolling ball,
Leaving a trail as it acts upon paper,
Elegant script detailing words,
Then just as quickly,
Pen violates the last line,
Striking out a nascent phrase,
Before continuing on to rephrase,
Then striking through again,
Phrase begets strike begets phrase,
A vicious cycle of writer’s block,
My words could never do you justice,
My words could never touch the beauty that is you,
Could never capture your essence,
Words could never accurately describe those blissful moments,
Could never describe the feeling of your arm touching mine,
Could never describe the laughter we both let out in those intimate moments of mirth,
Your voice too beautiful to trap and reduce to words,
Describing the sweet amorous tone of your voice on the phone,
Or share the euphoric rush of hope felt in those moments,
No, my words pale in comparison to the things I long to express,
My diction, allusion, and metaphors could never stand up to your poetic expressions,
My words will never suffice to win you over like I hoped that they would,
Will never move or sway others the way I desire,
Will never leave the lasting impression of me I wish as my legacy,
Will never fully represent the broad spectrum of my emotions,
But I can do naught more than attempt ceaselessly in my labors,
With my pen I paint an imperfect portrait of a vision so divine,
I create a reality that fails to mirror your designs,
But I must continue to write the next line.
Longing
Sometimes I want you.
Watching you,
Crouching by that box of books,
The way your back arches oh so gracefully,
The way your fingers index the page,
Admiring the delicate curve of your neck as you brush your hair aside,
Sometimes I want you.
The sound of your voice,
So silky, sweet, soothing, suggestive,
The way it arouses desire,
And takes me to places far far distant,
Sometimes I want you.
I admire the graceful curve of your spine,
I long to hold those ample hips,
To drink my fill from your lips,
To lovingly, gently caress those delicate orbs,
To feel the way we fit together when I hold you against me,
To kiss your flesh, to make you mine,
Sometimes I want you.
Desire is a chaotic beast,
It can destroy worlds,
Just as easily as it could create them,
Could disturb this harmony between us,
Or could strengthen our bond,
Sometimes I want you.
Locking gazes with you,
Meekly averting our eyes,
Observing your ever shifting facial expressions,
Desiring to touch and feel,
To caress and to hold,
Sometimes I want you.
Johari Window
It is so easy to lie,
I could be anyone,
I could be rich,
You could be my wish,
But as I type this alone,
In this darkened, solitary room,
I feel as if I am typing to another,
In a similarly dark room alone on the other end,
We can reveal a part of our personalities,
Lay our souls bare in this complicit anonymity,
There are all manners of truth,
There is the truth we reveal,
And there is the truth we choose not to reveal,
When we are online the two reverse roles,
Revealing the truth normally kept obscured,
And we obscure the truth others can normally see,
We manipulate this Johari Window to our advantage,
Removing and rearranging the panes,
But in spite of this knowledge,
I full heartedly believe.
Love Song of J. Manuel Sandoval-Serrano
We live sheltered, cloistered in our own little shells we have built for ourselves. Every man, woman, and child can be and is an island, though a fragile and constantly moving one.
We create our own worlds that we cannot, will not, allow others to disturb, unless we trust them significantly enough to do so, but there are always events that will disturb them.
Looking all around, I am drowning in a sea of people. Even as I am surrounded, I have never felt more isolated, and I drown in this sea of anonymity.
Every person we meet can change our world, whether by consent, or force, possibly disturbing the shells we have created for ourselves.
Therefore, every person we allow in offers a different possible future.
This anonymous sea of people is a sea of possibilities, washing over me, tempting me to choose, or make some type of move, to define myself and choose a future.
Yet I cannot bring myself to do so. I cannot bring myself to intrude into another’s life and disturb their world they have so painstakingly created for themselves.
Or at least, that is the excuse I give myself.
Though there are also my own insecurities coming into play here, it is more than a mere excuse, it is a reality.
I do not know what life others may lead, what friendships they keep, and what love interests they have, and I hesitate to violate the sanctity of their microcosm.
Whether it be the comely brunette exchanging a smile in the grocery aisle, the raven haired barista making small talk in the coffee shop, or the striking blonde perusing books in the book store, I cannot help but look away, knowing they could never welcome me into their world, and thus it pains me to be in public.
Fool to Love
Sifting through memories and archives, I realize what a fool I’ve been, and most likely still am.
I was a fool for and to love, and wore my heart on my sleeve when it was still not ready to withstand such rough handling.
I was overly sentimental, and willing to do anything for her. I was tactless, and too much of a creep.
Not that that could have changed anything if I had done it differently.
As I comb through my repository, I realize what a maudlin idiot I was.
The worst part of it is realizing that I still am, as I re-experience the emotions I felt.
But that was in the past, and now I have nothing left but memories and archives, with the false hope I was harboring gone.
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