23 year old's guide into the pants of a 29 year old momma

getting into my pants is far less exciting than getting into my mind
and staying there
so even our point of departure is rather flawed
but i will indulge him:

there really is no one highway
you could try getting into my head
because i'm past that stage
while he was a surly teenager
with no care in the world
i was a young mother
having to deal with way more shit
than he'll ever smell in his whole life
harsh but real
so i can see right through all that bull
he doesn't need to trick himself or even me into believing that
he's in love or he needs to make me feel that way in order to get "some"
cos i just won't be falling for that nonsense any time soon..
but there is something sweet, real almost about the way that
such situations get one thinking.

so i will not buy into any smooth talking about how big or grand you think you may be
frankly i'll decide when i see it
depending on how keen my mood is, really
save it till then.

when i do eventually let your muddy fingers touch me
i know my body very well
so shut up and listen
and you, pretty friend, might just enjoy the ride

i probably haven't helped much in the way of a guide
but you'll figure out as you get to know me

passing through

this morning
for a brief moment, i could've sworn
it was the sound of your laughter i heard.
it's funny how we always assume that we will meet again.
and then years pass by.
next thing i hear, you are gone.
we will never see each other again.
not in this lifetime, at least.
part of me is glad that my only memories of you,
are all of you happy and healthy.
they say we are all passing through this lifetime,
only difference is when.
sad as it may be, but with every death
i am reminded to live more, bigger and better
as i don't know when my pass in this phase of my life will expire.
am constantly wondering whether there will come a time when my heart will get used to the thought of loss, of death... whether this jolt of the heartstrings will fade...
we will forget and continue living, till the next time...

together again

came across this poem in a book i was reading recently...

together again
here in this place,
of angled streets and northern light,
under this particular moon,
with all quiet and sleeping behind and around us;
of what may I speak but friendship,
and our human wish for love - not just for me
but for friends too,
and those who are not my friends;
so if you ask me, now, at this moment
what is my wish: it is for love all over,
like tears of rain - that is enough - Angus Lordie

this in turn got me inspired and immediately after i read this poem (still a work in progress), this is what was happening in my mind:

pause
while thoughts of days gone by linger
in my head, like the after taste of a favourite meal.
i let my mind take the wonder of it all.
pause
something catches my attention.
fleeting past the corner of my eye.
pause
flip back to thoughts of painful joy,
freedom has come at a price.
i had to let it go to get here.
pause
while thoughts of love, of longing
consume me and manifest into this.
this state of wondering.

lies = fiction

the story of you's been walking around the world with me for so long, that i'm now afraid to let it go on paper.
you've been growing in my head all this time that i can hardly separate truth from lie from fiction.

i'm not me. i'm not you.

what about all the lies? were they part of the narrative of you? a way of escaping the unbearable reality called my life

multiple personalities... there must be, how else do you explain the intricate lives your character is juggling?
paranoia.. afraid that someone will figure it all out. the fiction.
anxiety... well...
fear... hardly surprising considering the fictional living
all make for an interesting state of mind...

do the lies we tell, the small untruths add up to the fiction of you?
if they do, then we are all born storytellers...

remotemothering

i hate being away from home during school term
cos that means even if i start work at 10 am,
i will still get up at 6am, to make sure that whoever's looking after the kid is up
make sure the kid actually has breakfast and is on her merry way.
6.15am, i'm stuck with 3 hours of nothing!
chances are the kid has been doing everything with half her eyes open
including being fed breakfast
and still gets to sleep in the car on the way to school
while i'm stuck CLIMBING the walls
trying to make sure i don't pass out and miss my appointments.
what excuse would i have for doing that?
because my sole purpose for the trip would be to make sure i get to the appointments on time.
imagine having to explain to the powers-that-be...
'ummm, why did you not manage to make all your appointments?'
no wait... cos i wouldn't voluntarily share that information
imagine they, the people i was supposed to meet, sharing this information with those in authority...
now then, imagine how much effort it would take for me to explain
that i needed to wake up early to ensure that my daughter made it to school on time and i kind of overslept!
that would sound made up, unreal almost, especially to people who don't have children...
and that's only the morning session..
i still need to make sure that around supper time, i call home again
bath time
supper time
story reading time
sleep time
then i can relax...
of course i'll need a couple of hours that i can label 'mine'...
then prepare for work the next day
this then means that i make it to bed after midnight only to be waking up at 6am once again the next morning
and so it goes again from the top..
by the end of that week i'm as tired as a freaking dog
on my way to real-time-mothering back home

words

what is it about writing?
what is it about sharing your view of the world,
your view of you?
some kind of self-righteous navel gazing
that rubs the ego?
is it?
who cares?
who reads?
i often wonder why i do
in fact, someone recently asked me why i do it
for a moment i hesitated to answer
because it's become such a part of who i am
what i do
everyday - fortunately enough
i do have a job that requires me to write
as my actual job description
so why do i do it?
where did it all start?
my love for the written word
has nothing to do with the fact that i write now
or maybe i should rather say
my love for reading gave birth to the me that writes
i simply cannot remember a time when i couldn't read
words move me in a way that nothing else can
they touch a part of my being in ways that i cannot even begin to describe
words fuel my imagination
far more than any picture can
words allow your mind to wonder
build up your fantasies
to worlds only you can access
(depending on how vast your vocabulary is, i suppose)
so why do i do this?
it pacifies the part of me that often finds itself yearning
for this things way beyond my grasp
it affords me the space to forget
to reflect
without feeling judged
because i can hide behind that writer badge
it fulfils my spirit
grows my soul
i could go on with the cliches
it allows me to be me

lookforme

look for me in between the lines.

go on, search.

this familiar song will always feel like home.
wherever you may find yourself.

look for it in all the melodies you hear.
while you go on your search.

don't look back.
you never know, it might just be waiting around the corner.

go on your search
see what lies ahead for you.

i'll be damned if your path doesn't end up where you started.
right here where you left me standing.

and that, my dear heart, is the honest truth.