insightfully deep molli.. enjoy touching your inner thoughts through your words miss

touching… alluring…

Thank you, Najma. It’s lovely of you to stop by and take the time to comment

How did you many manage to convey so much depth with such complicated words , so easy to follow…? Excellent and beautiful! Najma x

Thank you for your comments Please don’t yell at me, but my experience of love has been quite different. I’m so used to not having someone around that I get quite befuddled in another’s presence and I get totally overwhelmed by it, constantly craving my solitude. Perhaps I have too many walls up, but remaining whole in another’s presence has always been my intent. I never want to become dependent on anyone else or think that I need someone else to make me whole. My intention is to bring an intact being to a relationship, not find myself a crutch.
Those I have loved most have been the one’s who allow me my space and who are also complete within themselves.
The euphoria mentioned in this poem was from finding someone who simply allowed me to be, while the damage I referred to was in the pain of letting someone in.
The good thing about poetry – or any sort of art – is that it’s open to interpretation and one can make of it what one will. So, you’re reading of my poem can be totally different to my own of it… and we’re both right!
(And that was another terribly wordy little exposè that should have ceased after the first sentence!)
Having said all of that, with regard to love as a drug, I have a poem here you might like called Addict which more directly depicts that take on the subject.

That is well worded, very touching, you put into words what I feel. Love is a drug, love is an addiction. People become addicted to having someone around. They can’t feel whole unless they have a partner. People act crazy, when in love. Temporary insanity is often caused by feelings of love and hurt. People stay in abusive relationships because they can’t quit. Just like drug addiction and withdrawal.

It feels grand when it is at its best, and the worse thing in the world when you lose it. But, it certainly won’t stop the people like myself that know this first hand from fighting for it.

Thank you for sharing and for your kind words on my own Grand Gesture.

You do know I’m more enamoured of your descriptions of my poems than I am of the poems themselves, don’t you?

I get hopelessly tongue tied when trying to tell someone why I like their poems. I started writing poetry in the first place because it was the only way I could find to verbalise how I was feeling. When I read other people’s poetry my response is always emotional. There lies the dilemma for me. To explain how a poem has made me feel would necessitate a poem from me to do that… and I can’t write anymore. Bit of a conundrum, huh?

“At night the moon slides under my skin,”
You have some of the best beginning lines ever…

“constellations writhing beneath flesh”
…some of the best lines ever…

“At night I take those memories from their formaldehyde filled jars
at night I take those dreams from their mothballed wraps
at night I sink my teeth into your shoulder,
sink my heart into your soul
and there I writhe”
…and the ability to offer to us bits of truth transformed to butterflies made of the play of light and shadow and whispers of sound and substance wrapped with thin ribbons of your soul.

I think you will again. No one I have ever known has gone from this kind of expression to silence for long. And now you’re much in demand!

Not for long? You don’t think two years is long? Particularly for someone who used to churn out up to 20 poems a week!!

As for being in demand, attention embarrasses me for the most part. While you’re all doing a wonderful job of making me feel as though I used to write well, I’m now feeling more and more that I simply can’t write that well again. Now there’s an expectation to live up to! Oh, the pressure!

Since these: “…to laugh, to cry, to love…” are things I’ve been avoiding for the past two years (particularly that centre one!) writing doesn’t seem a terribly good way to go about continuing in that fashion, does it?
And, yes, before you say it, I know I’m not actually alive at the moment. For me, not writing equates with not living, not breathing. In that respect, two years is a little too long for a human being, even if it’s just a momentary breeze against a mountain’s flanks.
Believe me, though, it’s just better this way.

I meant to say not writing equals not living… so I HAD to go back and insert that word, didn’t I?

Until…oh…I started writing ‘just for fun poems’ for my blog, I had written maybe three poems in two years, and barely any poems the year before that. I used to write constantly – on napkins, on placemats, I carried notebooks, scribbled on styrofoam cups, and once wrote in lipstick on my mirror. Blue lipstick. I was irrepressible, but I lost that somewhere.

I am just relearning to write. To spill words over a page and revel in what it feels like to laugh, to cry, to love…and to once again share it with the world.

As I said…I have not known anyone to go into silence for long. Two years…is not long. Not in a lifetime. Not in the grand scheme of the cosmos. Not to trees, nor to sea turtles. Certainly not to evolution. Two is only the number after one. It isn’t all that bad. And three is lucky. If you make it to four, I might believe you’ll be the first. But I am known to hope for a very long time. And to have faith for longer.

There have been times I thought so. Today, despite having been crying at least once per hour over something, I still cannot believe it. I will come to crave oblivion again, but today…today I cannot.

When oblivion lies like a blanket between me and the world, I don’t want to leave. Something has to tear it away or else coax me out, neither of which am I known to take gracefully.

I understand.

If oblivion creeps or plummets away and you need me, I’m here. I’m easy to find.

Change your post while I reply, why don’t you…?

Two years is a long time too. But not so long as to be insurmountable. Promise. Nor is four. Or four hundred.

*chuckles* Such minor details. I read it the way you meant it anyway. Probably sleep-deprivation induced telepathy.

I just read you post after mine. I hope you didn’t take that as me yelling at you. My wording may have been a little off of what I was meaning to say. I didn’t mean you were addicted to having someone. Mostly, that love itself can be an addiction. The feeling people get from it and when it leaves can be like withdrawal. I once read a really good article on it. I think there was a study quoted in the article as well. You can find lots of stuff on “love addiction” online. The line about “which is the needle and which is the drug” is what made me think that way. Anyway, great poem. I’d like to read the other poem you speak of.