Lost Love Lust » Love.

to you, whom made me who i am.

Diana — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 06:59:48 +0000

There are those.
There are those whom make up what we are.
The ones that stared into the hopeful eyes of our childhood and made way for the path.
Whom gave us the drive to be what our hearts most desired, and along the way smiled with pride.
The ones who gave us the wisest of words, and the kindest of thoughts.
Whom welcomed our dissapointed hearts with open arms, and told us the words we needed to hear.
The ones who made us cry with laughter, and made our days as sunny as the Summer’s day.

The years travelled at the speed of light, and they watched as we blossomed.
Observing from a bitter sweet distance as their once sweet children became more than they had ever expected.
Their smiles told the tale of pride, and their hearts the tale of undying dedication.
We looked up to them as children, and hoped to one day become even the smallest glimmer of their revere.
Their every word, a guidance.
Their every hope, a goal.

There are those.
There are those whom take up a part of our soul.
The ones whom without, we would be nothing.
There are those to whom each accomplishment we dedicate.
The ones whose words pushed us forward.
There are those.

There are those to whom I will forever be grateful.
There are those.

regrets resurface.

Diana — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 06:19:39 +0000

Much like the winds of spring bringing in the new, their love soared.

It was a glimmer in time when all was calm and well.

Her laughter was genuine, his thoughts complete.

But just as the rose wilts and the winter cold sets in, their love had given its last breathe.

It was a three years full of happiness. It was a three years of sadness.

But all in all, it was love.

He had loved her like no other, and she turned her back.

Her retreat had signed her sentence, for she would run from love like prey from its predator.

He swore his love would never cease, and warned her that she would be the one to forget what had been.

Yet, oceans seperated them and she was the one who never forgot.

His heartbreak forced him to search for comfort in another, and her heartbreak into isolation.

Love was an unspoken word, a forbidden sentiment that to her brought only heart ache and despair.

They have been apart for a year and a half now.

Each on their own journey.

He has found love in another, and she has remained alone.

Because you see, life is not without a sense of irony.

We make our beds and we lay in them.

I ran, he gave in.

the love tribulations of sir Jack Dust.

Diana — Tue, 29 Dec 2009 08:37:17 +0000

There once was a particle of dust.
It floated from left to right, up and down, and quite typically; round and round.
It did not crisscross, or zigzaggy-do, but it sure did like that stew.
Next to a carrot it fell, just boiling and swell.
A family of green beans floated by and yelled to him:
“Hey Jack! Guess there’s a heat stroke up in the pot today aye!?”

He did not know what they spoke of, and supposed that they had mistaken him for someone else.
Nevertheless, he decided to be daring on that fine afternoon and take upon on him the name given.
He would be the honorable Jack Dust, not to be mistaken with sir Frank Rust, the one no one could ever trust.

At sudden shock, the carrot took a diabolic dip, frantic flip, and tremendous trip!
In front of Jack flashed all his lovely memories of floating above the living room, his frightful encounter with the dustpan, and the one time he almost enrolled at the Hairball Society.
He was impolitely interrupted by a beautiful site before him.

She laughed with such savor, a thousand and one particles did not compare.
Jack wondered what she was.
She was too big to be a particle, and too small to be a bicycle.
Her skin gave off porcelain and her lips made him not
Jack Dust, but Jack Flustered.

At sudden glance, a shooting spoon passed before his eyes.
In haste, he made his most valored wish and hoped for the best.
As he floated away from the stew, it came into view.
In her mouth he was planted as his wish so endowingly granted.
He grasped frantically to her red rose lips but the darkness engulfed him.
And as he fell deeper and deeper, the beautiful gal uttered to her mother:

“Why Mum, this stew is quite delicious!”

[ - Written at 1:35 am after playing the guitar and wiping the dust off my shelves.]

c’est belle problème.

Diana — Sun, 25 Oct 2009 11:09:40 +0000

I’ll tell you what the problem is buddy.
Oh I’ll tell you what the problem is indeed.

No longer do humans express themselves.

Sexuality is repressed.
Love is avoided.
Art is mundane.

Women have become men, men have become women.
Personality is objective, marriage subjective.
Disagreement silenced, and agreement necessary.
Regrets abundant, risks scarce.
Music inspired, not created.
Objects improved, not invented.
Beauty materialized, materialization beautified.
Discipline undermined, excess intertwined.
Show me art.
Give me inspiration.

Sex.
Love.
Art.

Has the curtain fallen on us for the last time?
Technology conquering, nature diminishing.
Falacy promoted, substance shunned upon.
Reality distorted, fantasy denied.

The human condition, strangely reformed.
Where are the loud cries of rebels?
The souls against the current?
The passionate?
The enraged?
The godamned poets!?

Love.
Sex.
Art.

Art.
Love.
Sex.

All a bunch of hog wash I tell you.
Oh, I’ll tell you the problem, I’ll tell you the problem indeed.
Substance.
Substance, I tell you.
Sub-fucking-stance I tell you.

dirty ends.

Diana — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 15:53:43 +0000

You watch the clock, the typical tick scratches the sides of the brain.

This thing. This thing called time.

A picture frame, the artists you seek to blame.

Dark martini, no fucking lime.

It is not the loves that you proclaim, but the true creations of disdain.

A telephone ring, a partner in crime, the key to the line.

Assign, Refine, Confine.

This thing. This thing.

What a fucking linguistic string.