Slow burn

They say that love is humble. There is no more humbling experience than loving a man incapable of truly loving anyone other than himself. I want to disintegrate into a world in which I never met him, the biggest mistake of my life until this point. Sadly, I'll be left with a lasting memory of you. I will wear it like an open sore in the depths of my being and it will burn with animosity to remind me of him.

Because there is no hate without love I refuse to honor him with such an idea. I refuse to be reminded that I once burned with desire for him. He no more deserves my hatred than he deserves my love or desire, and so I abhor his existence. Though I would not wish it to end, for neither does he deserve my wishes.

In this, I am not a better person. I am vindictive and vengeful. I am fury and anger. But he is no more deserving of my time or emotion. So for now, he is a painful memory, a slow burning in the darkest pits of my history. He is poison I shall put away and not drink anymore.

Love is coming

Love is coming, I smell him over my left shoulder.
It's the odor of man enough to handle my crazy, my weakness, my broken, my strong, my stubborn.
He has been waiting for me to be ready,
but patience was not a virtue he was endowed with.
Like me, he has spent too much time with all the wrong people.
It is time.
Love it coming.

Radio

I just fell in love with myself again. This is something old I haven't posted.. not sure why because I love it! Hope you love it too!! =D

Radio

I want to cry. Not because I’m hurt. Not because of some physical pain that my incredibly clutzy self has managed to inflict and definitely not because some asshole ripped my heart out and proceeded to dance ‘la cucaracha’ on my heart, still palpitating on the floor. Although, that is how I want to feel. I want salt water gushing form my tear ducts. I should be wondering “why did you go?” and “how could you do this to me?” Even though I don’t know who “you” are because I didn’t write the damn song.

I want to hurt so bad that words can’t describe. Every emotion in your mind, body and soul should emanate from your lips to my ears and I should have to choke back the lump as it crescendos from my throat to my eyes. Every syllable or note you utter better make me feel -- something, because I’m tired of this “fuck bitches and hoes go get you money son” bull shit that they play on the radio. Trying to tell me how to dance when all you do is sway or lean back.

Besides that, I don’t want to dance like my leg is broken, because if it was broken I probably wouldn’t dance like that anyway. Matter of fact I’d sit this one out. You know you would too. And since when was it okay to be a jerk? I mean I realize the moves are kind of rad, old school type moves with new school twist, but I swear you’re using the wrong adjective to describe that dance. A ‘jerk’ is a quick sudden movement, or spasmodic, usually involuntary muscular movement; or a contemptibly naïve, fatuous inconsequential person and if you’re the latter you need to change because nobody likes you.

So I listen to oldies, because I want to feel that flutter in my heart from the butterflies in my stomach caused by the fact that I am so in love. But I’m single, still, and I haven’t met anyone that makes me feel that way in a while, a long while.

I turn my ipod on and listen to Boyz 2 Men making love to me through my earphones, Jagged Edge saying goodbye because it’s better for the both of us and 112 explaining how cupid doesn’t lie and yes I’d totally give it a try except that you’re probably taken and I doubt that the quirky dork of a woman that I am is your type.

I blast Celine Dion in my car because that woman can sing. I sing along to musicals, Disney songs and country. Yes, I listen to country, because Rascal Flatts moves me every time I hear how Sara Beth is scared to death because she is a high school senior with cancer. I love that Steve Wariner reminds me that there’s holes in the floor of heaven and I pray that when I get married it rains. Then I’d know that my daddy is watching over me and I would run outside to let his tears embrace me. I know they’d be filled with happiness that I finally found the right man mixed with sadness and regret that he couldn’t physically be here to walk me down the aisle himself.

I listen to Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra, Billie Holiday, Aretha Franklin and yes, Andrea Bocelli because their music, their voice, their essence lifts my soul and: At last my love has come along and I see trees of green, red roses too I see them bloom for me and you and I think to myself mama may have, papa may have, but God bless the child that’s got his own, That’s got his own.

So I don’t listen to the radio. Matter of fact I’m holding a strike against the radio until artist go back to the feel good music that made us laugh and smile. Go back to music that had a message back to lyrics that made me feel -- anything other than pissed off because I am not okay with my 5 year old nephew singing about how he makes the good girls go bad or how he wants birthday sex. Are you?