What Language Do You Want To Learn?
I want to learn the language of love,
But there’s no class I can take
That can teach me how I can say
Exactly how I feel about you.
I’ve learned that it’s more than just words
Because English, French, and Italian
Cannot begin to express what I need to say.
No Biology, Chemistry or Physics class
Can begin to explain what, how or why
I feel for you the way that I do.
I dont expect you to teach me
But I’m learning from you
A little more every day.
You can’t.
Because love isn’t something
That can be made in a shed like
Made to measure jigsaw pieces
Because love isn’t about
Making cuts and changes to make it fit.
Love is natural and organic,
Like the tree that was cut down
And stripped and made bare and
Manipulated and carved into
Something it wasn’t.
Love is something that needs to
Take root and grow
As a result of care and patience
And then let it’s arms
Reach out of their own accord.
It’s not something that should be
Forced and coerced under
Bright lights and routine and glass roofs
Because then it would be
Synthetic and false.
Love has to be authentic,
It can’t grow in a cage because
It won’t grow or blossom into what it should be.
Trying to force, construct or deconstruct it
Will only make it invalid.
It wouldn’t be true to her or you
Question from Colin M. from Facebook
Will you leave the door open
After all I’ve done?
Will you forget and forgive,
Or does a single moment
Hold more power than
A lifetime of happiness?
Will you lock the door?
Will you define me
By my indescretions?
Will you confine yourself
To our bedroom and
Leave me out in the cold?
Will you put the chain on the door
And wrap it around your heart?
Will you feel like you need to
Protect yourself from me?
Once you’re safe,
Will you let me defend myself?
Will you leave the door open
After all is said and done?
Will you leave the door open
And let me redecorate our bedroom with apologies?
Will you leave the door open?
Will you still be there?
Today’s question was overheard on the streets of Edinburgh. Thank you, stranger.
This romance happened by chance,
A brief introduction in a theatre class,
We were working on a production of
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream”,
Which was slowly turning into a nightmare
Due to the director’s tendency to be laissez-faire
And the actors didn’t seem to care
As actors tend to do.
My friend and ally,
Let’s call her Lucy because,
Well, that was her name.
She played Puck and Lysander
Spoke with virtue and candour
And she was not down with this chaos-
But that’s another story,
I might tell that one later-
But we clicked and connected,
Our personalities blended,
I was Oberon to her Puck,
Although I wish I had the luck
To be Hermia to her Lysander,
I really should have asked her-
Sorry I got distracted,
But you see, this girl impacted
My life in such a way during this
Awful, awful play,
And she introduced me to the sound
Of the Queen of the Boston underground.
(You’re welcome to complain,
But I just needed a rhyme).
My eyes were opened to beauty and truth
After awkwardly being sent “Delilah” by Bluetooth,
Then ‘A is for Accident’ and then ‘Yes Virginia’
Starting with the songs that were nearly vanilla,
Before ascending to madness with ‘Missed Me’ and ‘Backstabber’
All thanks this bodacious, genderfluid Lysander.
And though we’ve drifted apart, I still have Amanda.
She’s a constant, vibrant, talented reminder
Of the past and a force saying things will be better
Forming groups on Facebook, providing a shelter
For the outcasts and artists, the mad and fantastic
From across the Pacific, South Seas and Atlantic.
If these rhymes have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:
I’ve got this girl, Shakespeare and you to blame,
For all this support and love and I have no shame
When I commit these awful crimes of rhyme.
So darling, if you have the time,
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Amanda shall restore amends.
Question from Delaney A.
We thought it was a mutual agreement
When we were taking our hearts back.
Words fell like knives,
Sharp, precise, and exact,
Cutting the weights away from our souls.
Why waste our time letting love go to waste?
Your tears turned your eyes
Into stained-glass windows,
Tinted, tainted and crystalline
Never letting us see each other.
Or the truth.
I never broke your heart,
It was always kept safe,
Cushioned with silk and cottonbuds
And locked away in a box.
I was too afraid to break it,
So I never looked at it.
When you gave back my heart,
It was used and half empty.
Cracked and fractured,
Love leaking like
Tears too scared to fall.
Too afraid to be lost forever.
You always said
You could get drunk from me.
And though that may have been the case,
You didn’t like the taste.
I was the worst thing for you.
But you were my addict
And I didn’t want to be alone.
So we saw the world through rose-tinted glasses
Not knowing love and codependency
Were the same colour.
We never poured ourselves out to one another,
Maybe if we had, things would have been better.
Experience and taste each other,
Getting a flavour of sweet reality and real emotion,
Taking the time to find out what love is supposed to be.
Or maybe it would only make things worse.
Trapped in a vicious circle of reliance,
Wasting each other, taking us for granted.
Drinking to make ourselves feel better
Until we were both empty.
Until we were two glass hearts,
Afraid to beat because
Trying to love each other
Would only make us break.
When love is gone, it goes to waste.
But love wasn’t there.
We just wasted away instead.
Question from Katja P. from Facebook, and Arcade Fire.
Locked in an embrace,
Minutes, hours, days. Far too long.
Self love. Straightjacket.
Question from Michael Clark from Facebook
A colour that looks like the smell of coffee,
Moving from dull to bright with increased exposure,
Still but swirling, dark but milky,
A bittersweet shade for the morning.
A colour that looks like the taste of water,
Clear and unimposing, clean and dull,
Something cold but refreshing,
Nothing with a hint of something.
A colour that looks like the sound of night,
Brooding stillness and streetlight buzz,
Faintly hinting of distant brightness,
Indistinct and iridescent as your eylids close.
A colour that looks like the touch of a lover,
Sometimes warm, sometimes cold,
Violent and vibrant, or sometimes mellow,
Inconsistent, like a rainbow of skin.
Question from Michael Clark from Facebook
I love you a number that’s incalculable.
It may sound unfathomable,
Bordering on inconceivable,
But a number is not believable.
Because love is immeasurable,
But if this answer isn’t pleasurable,
Placing a value is not applicable
Trying would only be despicable.
Sweetie, you are adorable
Even when you’re inconsolable
But I can’t say something numerical
Because that would be heretical.
Darling, please be flexible.
It really isn’t personal.
Please don’t hold me responsible
For this answer diabolical.
I’m sorry it isn’t palatable,
This doesn’t make us incompatible.
But I don’t have an example
Of a value that is ample.
I’m not acting feeble,
You’re being unbelievable,
This situation’s laughable,
Here’s an answer that is passable:
I love you a number that’s incalculable
It may sound unfathomable,
Bordering on inconceivable,
But one hundred sounds believable.
Question from Kirsty E. from Facebook.
Text, call,
Pick up the phone,
Be there however you can.
Make sure they’re safe
Ask a question,
Take a breath.
Move the pills,
Move the drink,
Move the knives.
Keep 999 on speed dial
Distract,
React,
Be appropriate,
Cool them down,
Keep them warm.
Let them be human,
Let them breathe,
Let them cry,
Remember this isn’t about you.
Hold them close, give them space,
Give them what they need that makes them feel safe.
Remind them someone is always there.
If you can’t be present, be a presence.
Let them know they’re never alone.
Question from Megan C.
Because they have an image of you
Based on statue from ancient times.
When women were a delicate flower,
They needed protected or saved.
When they were rescued, they were enslaved
And treated like a trophy or property.
Because people want you to:
Be skinny, be curvy,
Be representative of male ideology
Succumb to atypical sexist idolatry
“Because that’s how you’re supposed to be”
But girl, you are not set in stone.
You are flesh and blood,
You were born naked,
So make your skin your tapestry,
And let your body be your home.
Build it and break it and
Paint it and decorate it however you want,
Because it’s yours and no one else’s.
Let no one else tell you
How to run your body.
Love is free so be free
Take the time to love yourself
And anyone else you damn well please
In any way you damn well please.
Be what you want to be,
Drop out of school or take the degree,
Be free, be the next Joan of Arc or Marie Curie,
Because without brilliant women, where would we be?
Without computers, without Kevlar, without basic telecommunication,
We’d still be Victorian, so be victorious
In arts, finance, technology or science.
Be the next Amanda Palmer or Lise Meitner,
The next Ellen MacArthur or Otep Shamaya,
Musician or physicist,
Athlete or writer,
And do not let anything get in your way
But if anything tries, just know you are stronger.
You do not have to
Make his sandwiches, his home or his baby.
You don’t not have to
Be a nurse, be quiet or be a secretary.
You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.
Because nonconformity does not affect femininity.
This is not feminist propaganda,
This is an affirmation of humanity.
No one can tell you how to be a girl,
But if they try, just remember:
They’re the one with the problem,
Not you.
Question from Jaymie B. from Facebook
Mxcellany - Poetry, Music, Art 