Chasing Calm
Random lessons in life, love, and transition. — From Los Angeles, California to Stuttgart, Germany — March 2010

L.O.V.E. – Inspiration vs. Expiration

love-or-hate-red

The other night I was looking over some poems I had written in the last few years and I was somewhat taken aback at the tone of some of my pieces. As usual I touched on the various seasons of love whether it was covered in honey or salt, but I tried to go back in time and revisit my mindset of how love inspired me where at times I was so inspired by its beauty, yet other times completely agitated that love perhaps did not exist or had seemed to have expired. Here are two contrasting pieces:

The Intention of Love and Tears

Love woke me up from a dream
And told me all the beautiful things I wanted to hear.
About how I should never fear the weight of my burdens.
About how She would forever be there to comfort me
Like the soft cotton blankets of my youth.

Love wrapped her wings around me
And sang a sweet melody in my ear.
About a place of peace and tranquility,
Where running blue waters ran clear,
Where white calla lilies grew and butterflies flew near

Love gently touched me on my lips,
And promised me She would soon return.

I believed Her like I always did on nights like this,
I believed Her because I always trusted Her kiss,
I believed Her because She was my angel of promise,
I believed Her because Love is faithful and true,
Very simply I just believed Her wouldn’t you?

But Love never came back, how mysterious could that be?
Or is it me who makes Her a mystery?

A man is not supposed to cry
But how much loneliness can one man survive?
How much heartbreak until I die?
Because no matter how much I slept, no matter how much I wept,
Love would never return.

But a man is not supposed to cry.

© 2008 M.L. Burwell

* * *

Certainty

My hands smooth mixtures
Of foreign oils with hints
Of exotic scents of passion
Across your torso with the earth’s clay
My hands create indentations
And subtle curves that define your textures
Yet, I hesitate to call myself an artist

In my wild imagination
I search for words
Words that are suited just for you
Beautiful words that rain life
And seep into your pours…rejuvenating
I search for words that dance and gyrate
In erotic darkness caressing you late into the night
Yet, I hesitate to call myself a poet

I feel you
I feel you breathing inside my skin
When we make love, in love
Our love is thick and intense
Our passion pours slow and rich
Like southern molasses
The gamut of our love
Is endless with infinite possibilities and outcomes
Yet, I hesitate to call myself a lover

So clear from the very beginning
Realizing we could be the decision was made
Like a mystical spell
Like a divine enlightenment
And so when I fell into your welcoming arms
I could tell we would define everlasting
When I fell in love with you then
But I did not hesitate then
I did not hesitate
I did not hesitate

(c) 2003, 2008 M.L. Burwell

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