Late Night Drafts - 10/11/14

You know I'm a writer, right?
Well, let me be creative...
Pen a story of passion,
Written by tongue.
From deliberate to frivolous,
Strokes of the utensil
Create words that manifest.
The majority are vulgar,
But that's simply your translation.
I'm encouraged by your exhortations,
Even if they are profane exclamations.
Your nerve system is a blank tablet;
I'm only filling it with sensation,
Stimulating synapses with each stanza.
Your body writhes as pages turn;
Anticipation builds for the climax.
A tale of desire draws near completion;
Words become mere sounds,
Onomatopoeias abound.
Now authoring in cursive,
The pen swirls passionately around.
Pages turning,
Muscles tightening and hips churning,
And then...
I drown.

-A. Lewis

4:19 AM - 10/10/14

Your image swims in pools of words I'll never say to you...
In lakes of possibilities I'll never explore,
In oceans of feelings I'll never share.
It's not that I don't want you to know,
Nor am I afraid of hearing you say no.
I just fear the places we could go.
You'd have the keys to me
Long before learning how I like to be handled,
Before knowing where I want to be,
Before acknowledging how I want to get there,
Before appreciating how I got to where I am.
That is a recipe for certain disaster.
A rapt mind and a pleased body will belie the soul.
Even if you stimulate my mind
And satisfy my flesh,
Will you be willing to explore the labyrinths within me?
Will you desire to help scabs become scars?
Will you insist on uplifting me
When my thoughts become most cumbersome?
I'm not trying to be let down.
I don't expect the world of you,
But I see you have the potential to give that much.
If I hold you to that and you don't deliver,
Whose disappointment is it?
Yours for not being who you could be?
Or mine for believing in who I thought you should be?
That's a quandary that too many young people get lost in.
So, your image swims in a pool of words I'll never say to you,
In lakes of possibilities I'll never explore,
In oceans of feelings I'll never share.

-A. Lewis

6:45 AM - 9/26/14

The Sun approaches,
Rising with each passing minute.
Dew accumulates on still grass;
Quietude blankets all.
I sit here with time on my hands,
Words on my heart,
And you on my mind...
A story I've told a thousand times.
Never close enough to acquire,
Never too far away to desire,
Yet always more than wonderful enough to be admired.
The tale can be hopeful,
Filled with optimism and such;
Or it can be morose and melancholy,
When my feelings become too much.
Either way it goes,
Before Ra ascends to morning glory,
"The Ongoing Saga of Missing You"
Is my bedtime story.
Funny thing is,
The story has yet to end.
Maybe one day you'll piece my heart back together,
Or Father Time will be pressed into slowly making it mend.
As for now,
My thoughts have worn me out and tucked me in.
Good night, and good morning.

-A. Lewis

6 AM - 8/5/14

When our thoughts are quietest,
We hear echoes of the past.
Some are pleasant
Others are like broken glass.

This space between late and early
It is the playground of emotions.
Silent reflection on good times
Memories of pain that cause commotions.

The world seems to be at a standstill
While our heads spin away.
Dreaming in real-time
As night fades into day.

One must set,
As the other is to rise.
Hurt lingers like waning darkness;
Happiness filters in like sunlight in dim skies.

Hands align on clocks
Six is now the time.
When the morning is born
The night echoes in the mind.


-A. Lewis

Inclement - 7/26/14

Time heals all wounds,
So the heartbroken simply have to stay strong and wait...
But what of the heartbreakers?
What is our fate?
Regret sets like the Sun.
Sadness rises like the Moon.
Alternating like night and day,
Leaving only the hope that peace will arrive soon.
Thoughts are much more like big, dark clouds.
Storms of contemplation rule.
Every "I wonder" rumbles like thunder,
While "maybes" and "what-ifs" pour vehemently.
Concern strikes like lightning,
Quick and intense.
It all happened despite decisions made with good intents.
What's right?
What's best?
Questions with no clear-cut answers.
...answers I surely won't find in this weather.
There aren't enough sandbags in the world,
Not enough levies in life,
To repel, or even restrain, a flood of doubts.
As water levels rise,
I can't help but be reminded of half-full eyes,
Welling with emotions swept around by the forces of nature.
Father Time will be responsible for your recuperation.
Karma will be responsible for my remuneration.
I'd give my last bit of sanity to give you the first sign of peace,
To put all of the pieces back together.
Instead, I'll watch you do it all,
Through the melancholy rainfall
Of this weather.

The Unsaid - 7/24/14

Do the words we leave unspoken
Scream in our minds?
Do they
Whisper in our hearts?
Or do they
Echo in our souls?
Where do they go?
Perhaps they fall in fields filled with memories?
Maybe that is a fortuitous fate.
When the past is recalled,
They show up, not a moment too late,
Accompanying images with intimate words
That once held appropriate weight,
But are now so heavy that they feel slurred.
Do we shackle these thoughts?
Trap them in our dark places
Because of the light that they once brought?
Hold them down...
Do anything to slow them down...
Because they remind us of what we once sought?
Ah, we drown them, right?
Night after night,
Dark liquor or white.
Intoxicate these ideas so they never seem stable enough to trust?
Or do we submerge them just to save them,
Playing hero to see how much they mean to us?
If we knew where they went,
What would it really mean?
Remnants of sentiments...
Would it be like visiting a crime scene?
Or maybe more like a morgue?
A collection of once warm and meaningful statements,
Now cold, lifeless, and stored...
Do the words we leave unspoken
Scream in our minds?
Do they
Whisper in our hearts?
Or do they
Echo in our souls?
Where do they go?
...do we really want to know?
Or are we asking just for show?

-A. Lewis

Ghosts - 7/21/14

What is it that speaks to you...
That sneaks to you,
In the middle of the night?
Who's visiting you?
What remnants are reanimated?
Does your recollection rile you up?
Or do you wish to relinquish it all?
We all have ghosts.
Emotions that never truly fade.
Feelings that leave, only to return...
Seeking to plague the places they once stayed.
Lit only by the moon,
They glow dimly;
Memorable relics of forgotten times.
Never haunting,
They simply stop by to remind us
That the past is never that far behind us.

-A. Lewis