From The Heart
By Kelly B Jones
You can call me Heart, please meet me in your hand
For that is where I yearn to be and where I’ll always stand.
Be hasty as its urgent, the thing I need to utter
A tip-off to your leniency as you chance to cut her.
Oblivious to our rendezvous, she speaks of you each day
In ways that are magnificent, your weaknesses at bay.
In truth, she says you have none, that you are elite
Your love surges through her blood, that which I gladly beat.
I hope I don’t speak out of term, if I revealed some more
For I feel that you should fully grasp the extent that she adores
She dotes on your need to nurture and your passion to be free
Your eagerness to listen and your sensitivity
Forgive me now I steal away, my poorly power cries
For I tire from pulsing apace as she gazes in your eyes
Rest assured and worry not as resentment holds no existence
I am merely privileged to be of your love’s assistance.
xox
Friday, May 27, 2011
Thursday, May 26, 2011
An Ode to an Unforgettable
Started writing it a while ago... Finally been able to finish it.
EVEN ANYTHING
by Kelly B Jones
Even the syringe-strewn alley way
Even the softie-filled kiss
Even the stuttered words you say
All these things, I inescapably miss
Even my pixilated pupils dilate
Even your name is uttered in blunder
You winked at me as you shook hands with fate
It’s no wonder, Its no wonder
I’ll sing it, I’ll dance it, but who am I acting for?
I won’t let it go even though I closed that door
Over the seas, my autonomy expires through my pores.
What’s left – a sleeping tragedy, that knew love no more.
Even the cosmic waves and whales between our noses
Even the continents of garbage and loss
I still see you, I’ll still inhale your crispy roses.
Through everything, you’ve still been crossed.
The guilty pleads forgiveness
And permission to once again, fall
To love you, even from a distance
Even anything at all
EVEN ANYTHING
by Kelly B Jones
Even the syringe-strewn alley way
Even the softie-filled kiss
Even the stuttered words you say
All these things, I inescapably miss
Even my pixilated pupils dilate
Even your name is uttered in blunder
You winked at me as you shook hands with fate
It’s no wonder, Its no wonder
I’ll sing it, I’ll dance it, but who am I acting for?
I won’t let it go even though I closed that door
Over the seas, my autonomy expires through my pores.
What’s left – a sleeping tragedy, that knew love no more.
Even the cosmic waves and whales between our noses
Even the continents of garbage and loss
I still see you, I’ll still inhale your crispy roses.
Through everything, you’ve still been crossed.
The guilty pleads forgiveness
And permission to once again, fall
To love you, even from a distance
Even anything at all
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Channeling this Creative Kick
It is May 2011, I am 24, turning 25 in four months,I am restless and feel like time is running out.
I'm anxious to create something big, something amazing, something epic and I still don't know what it is.
I'm sure a lot of people can relate to this: that feeling deep inside your gut that resembles butterflies but has nothing to do with the excitement of a lover, it is completely internal, completely your own and it is busting at the seams of your pores to get out and expose it's glory to the world. It's madness!
My ears, eyes, lips and fingers tingle at the very thought of what I could create.
Let me summarize...
So far, I have spent this year acting in a British play, as a small role in a Hollywood film, as lead roles in two indie short films (one of which I produced) as well as the bogus hosting/modelling job here and there to make the evil necessities ($).
And I am NOWHERE NEAR satisfied. How could I be? None of those things were really my own.
Why haven't I started yet? Because I feel the motivation is definitely there, but the inspiration is a little lacking. I just need some kind of oomph to get started. But I just wanted the world to know and feel my excitement because it, whatever it is, be it a play, a musical, a film, a song or a script, is going to be EPIC.
And I end this entry with a very special poem my dad left with me before passing... it is so perfectly relevant:
If by Rudyard Kipling
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
I'm anxious to create something big, something amazing, something epic and I still don't know what it is.
I'm sure a lot of people can relate to this: that feeling deep inside your gut that resembles butterflies but has nothing to do with the excitement of a lover, it is completely internal, completely your own and it is busting at the seams of your pores to get out and expose it's glory to the world. It's madness!
My ears, eyes, lips and fingers tingle at the very thought of what I could create.
Let me summarize...
So far, I have spent this year acting in a British play, as a small role in a Hollywood film, as lead roles in two indie short films (one of which I produced) as well as the bogus hosting/modelling job here and there to make the evil necessities ($).
And I am NOWHERE NEAR satisfied. How could I be? None of those things were really my own.
Why haven't I started yet? Because I feel the motivation is definitely there, but the inspiration is a little lacking. I just need some kind of oomph to get started. But I just wanted the world to know and feel my excitement because it, whatever it is, be it a play, a musical, a film, a song or a script, is going to be EPIC.
And I end this entry with a very special poem my dad left with me before passing... it is so perfectly relevant:
If by Rudyard Kipling
IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
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