Wrote this poem (half for a guy, half simply for the love I wish to have) while I was at my house in PA, hopefully there will be an opportunity to make a writing hut/cottage there on the land that will be mine. *crosses fingers* Here’s the poem. I’m sorry if its terrible.
You are the quiet winter moon
Bathed in blue twilight
The woods seemed bathed in day light
A strange sort of day light
The light is muted and cold
and the shadows reign
Darkness is no longer strange
But seems to be a warm companion
For me, the snow and trees
Me, the little animals
making impressions in the snow
Like your smile leaves letters
Quiet secrets in the bottle that is my heart
I can feel your love in the woods
In the shadows embracing the trees that dot the ground.
Cold shadows embrace the lighted trees and sigh in desperate ecstasy
The ground blanketed with snow
that twinkles in the twilight
more precious than fine diamond jewels
woven into an ancient tapestry
whispering enchanting secrets I have yet to know.
I am the crystalline snow
Awed by the light shed by you the moon
I am radiant and glowing
Envious that I cannot be one of the billions of stars
Laughing in the sky beside your glorious beauty
You make the nighttime shine and sparkle
More beauteous than the day
Quiet passion resonated in the silence
All is quiet except for the sky
Reflected in the sparkling snowbanks of my soul
I’m in search of a writing locale. Somewhere that is a whole in the wall, a unique place, a proper cafe, somewhere you see in movies, or delight at reading about in books and wonder: “Where is this place and where can I find one in my area?” I long for a place that will come to my table and serve me — minimal interaction and only when necessary, but somewhere I can write undisturbed for hours, write, read, doodle, anything that I would like to do and feel that I’m not going to be taking up space or that I will be talked about by the people behind the counter for dallying — believe me that’s happened before. Somewhere that sells the right kind of tea (not tazo or lipton or celestial — unless its sleepytime — but Twinings, Earl Grey preferably) and not just terribly burnt or over roasted coffee. The last thing I need is the caffeine, it doesn’t help you focus. I need a place like this if not for the writing space, then to just get out and be free from the noise and confusion of my house, of my life, if only for a couple hours. I desire to be solitary or to have company there, it should be a place that has some people talking but enough quiet spaces and comfy chairs. I’m not looking for a Starbucks or a Barnes & Noble, I’m looking for a wholly unique place, someplace I would be proud to have my picture in that would forever be the place I wrote in. This is certainly a grandiose idea of myself, but I believe that all great people had grandiose notions of themselves, and they were hardly ever wrong, I may say this now, but there is always this niggling curling weedy tendril of self-doubt that worms its way around my ambition, my independent spirit, my strong will. And now I’m rambling… It seems that late at night the world turns off and these little thought creatures come out and run rampant through my mind, I have no choice to but to follow where ever they guide me. But really, I’m looking for a place to inhabit during the day light hours, if I ever do rise for them, where I can be seen and unseen. If anyone knows of such a place in New York, or around the Rutherford, NJ area, be sure to let me know. As of right now that area is my residence and I’m in desperate need of a place that won’t be weirded out if I dumb my bag — completely full of notebooks, pens, pencils, and paper scraps of ideas — out onto a table, and lets me spread out to write away the day. Usually a Sunday, I don’t know why but Sundays lead to dallying thoughts and hours of free time.