Malcolm James Furst
Words, words, wordsArchive for hope
Hope?
In the space between the hardened-heart ache after the death of my father
and the loneliness of an old, empty house on a rainy day,
there is a little hope,
or something like it,
a voice that tells me it will be all right,
everything will be all right.
Even if my heart doesn’t know it,
and my face doesn’t show it,
there’s a sliver of hope here somewhere.
Someone shine a light please.
This Kiss
This kiss
my lips
your tongue
our noses
your neck
my ears
your shoulders
your hips
hope
and
above
all else,
this kiss.
Your Picture
After all these years,
I found your picture on a friend’s Facebook page,
and when I look at you,
a small part of me (a very small part)
thinks that wanting you,
having you,
would steal the wonder of you away from a deserving world.
But mostly,
when I see you, and your eyes,
(those eyes!)
full of hope and joy, I just want you.
I want you all to myself.
I want you completely.
And I want to give myself to you holding nothing back.
But you’re a continent away,
and you have undoubtedly forgotten
the pull between us,
the tension,
the lust,
the powerful urges.
And you have undoubtedly forgotten
the push between us,
the pain,
the anger,
the heartache;
Otherwise,
your eyes wouldn’t be so
full of hope
and joy.
Rage
The rage of 1000 demons beats within my brow as I reach beyond self into self-awareness.
The demons express themselves not in outward appearance, but in the demolition of inner mindscape.
My soul is my only refuge
though it shelters me not always.
I oft seek solace in mayhem
find madness in solitude
yet, seeking neither, makes discovering either unexpected and painful
I shear these fears from the top of my psyche
slough them to the side
and pray that they lay where they are forever and a day.
Which gives me one day’s head start toward hope and happiness.
Is this living?
Or the slant put on everyday by my internal spin doctors?
That answer lies within my journey toward self-awareness.
Were I not on the path, the question would never have been asked.
Is the question, itself the answer?
Is the answer itself the question?
A Longing
A longing,
not anticipation,
but an ache holds me here
long after I should have retreated
to the safety of a metro ride
and a short walk home.
I know you won’t walk by,
but I wait for you
thinking that just this once
the universe will turn upside down
and what is reasonable will fall away
and be replaced by what is needed.
