Lyrical Musings an emotional journey via train of thought

It comes

allatonce

Or none

a t a l l

there is no in between

and nothing we can do

feast or famine.

Personally, I prefer a feast,

that is, until I have gorged,

reached such gluttony

that I feel sick — to my stomach and of the sight

of the plate or, in this case,

the words

that I have eaten or writ or swallowed (like my pride).

NO MORE,

I would scream if it weren’t so damned impolite

Instead, I push away

the plate or the screen.

I excuse myself from the venue

and swear off the glut.

Until next time.

Next time, when I cannot control myself,

or is it that I will not?

Perhaps I’d rather regret indulgence

than experience nothing at all.

Once wasn’t enough, I see that now

I had to have you a second time, then

athirdafourthafifth and more

Once is never enough because

you don’t know if the first time was

mediocre and awkward

because you didn’t know my rhythm

and I couldn’t find my voice

Nor can we know if it was a fluke

that cannot be repeated,

no matter how hard

or how many times

we try

So I had to have you again,

and I have — some of you

Some of you elude me

I wanted you more,

and you gave me less.

And the less you gave,

the more I wanted of you

A vicious cycle to be sure

Sometimes, just sometimes

once is enough

more often than not,

once is too much

it threatens to pull me

every which way

and I cannot

Ironic, I suppose,

that I’ve felt this

compulsion for more,

knowing that once will never be enough,

more than once.

Toomuch.

The only time when

once would be

enough.

I know I’m not in love with you

And do you know how I can tell?

Because I haven’t written you into a poem, used words to craft your homage

I’m not doing that now, in case anyone asks

and if they ask, I could not tell them why

why I am not in love with you

by this time, I normally am

if this were my first or second or, hell, seventh, heartbreak

I’d be sure of how I feel and what I want

I’m always so sure

ironic, then, how it never works out

maybe the difference is doubt

and I will proceed with caution

and just a bit of trepidation

maybe it will not be incendiary, and that’s okay

or maybe you’re just another not-the-one

that’s the most likely scenario

whether I cannot stop my heart from escaping my chest

or the tsunami of thoughts from overwhelming me

is not the measure of success

just another trip down lover’s lane

a fall that’s all too easy for me

so if I am not in love with you, maybe

maybe I am finally learning not to take

the easy way out

I do not write year-end letters. Yes, I receive them. I read them and smile. I send off a quick email to let the sender know that I’ve seen and appreciated their words. But I am never the sender.

If I were to write a year-end letter, I suppose I would have a lot to say about this year. I might comment on all the big plans that were brewing in my mind and how it took me months to finally bite the bullet and act on them. I would start with a mention of my trip to California, which included my first American train ride (and three more to boot), a journey across the country and days spent connecting with family members and touring a state I had never before visited.

But I do not write year-end letters.

Still, I cannot help but think that if I did, if I did, I would mention the many smaller trips within the state and without. The overnights to see concerts and movies, share laughter with friends and family and visit museums, cemeteries, and zoos. I might comment on lamentations over dessert and on walks with friends and family members who shared my same frustration at the current political climate.

Remember, I am not the type of person to write a year-end letter.

Though were I to consider such a feat, I would be remiss to mention another trip: one to view the full eclipse, a trip for which I was so excited but woefully unprepared. Yet, somehow, it still happened, and while I spent my time with viewing the solar eclipse with different company than I imagined, I was still fraught with excitement and managed to shed a tear.

You will recall that I will never write a year-end letter, of course.

Perhaps, had I such an inclination to write a letter, I might mention the joy that I experienced walking many miles, playing various games, listening to multiple podcasts, researching myriad topics, and reading more books than in any single of the previous 31 years of my life. I could recount the countless meals partaken or discuss new friends made, memories shared, and weddings participated in.

This is not a year-end letter, you will notice, but those are the types of things I would write in one.

If I sat down to type a year-end letter to mail to my loved ones, I would undoubtedly find myself struggling not to mention the difficulties that the year had lobbed in my direction, namely the passing of a dear friend and an injury that plagued me for much of the year in an attempt to further keep me down. Both succeeded, for a short while. I might pontificate on the ensuing struggles, you know, if I was doing that sort of thing.

A year-end letter from me would also have to include mention of the story that I had published at the Radvocate as I ramped up efforts to write more and publish. I might also have mentioned how I toiled (okay, perhaps not toiled) on my novel, wrote other stories (one of which took me most of a year to title), brainstormed a graphic novel, and began to plan a more serious future as a writer.

The type of writer who doesn’t pen end-of-year letters, you see.

This isn’t a year-end letter, no matter what you might think. I don’t know what the hell it is. But it’s certainly not the type of letter you write at the end of the year to recap the previous twelve months.

I wouldn’t do that.

Originally posted on Her Realm.