Iris Ocean Writing

We build ourselves gilded cages made of shiny baubles and possessions, which substitute a warm touch. The love we wish to receive from others can be directly measured in shopping sprees and grand declarations of self love. And yet as much as we try to adorn ourselves in pretty dresses and fine jewels it is only a mark of the emptiness inside. Every penny spent shows the number of hugs and smiles we wished we got from the people we care about, sprinkled with misdirected promises of the life we wish we lived, but can only see in movies and read in books, whose characters stand for the idealised standards real humans will never measure up to. The romantics among us will spend lifetimes trying to become those dramatic heroes, who show up with flowers and boomboxes under someone's window, only to discover someone else inside that room with the object of our affection, treating them worse than we ever would. They will proceed to spend countless hours asking the bottoms of a series of cra...

What if I wanted to write you a song but didn't have the beat? What if I wanted to tell you how I feel but didn't have the words? What if I wanted  to only fall asleep if I wake up in your arms? What if I wanted a future by your side no matter where we are? Is it ok to just be happy this moment in your arms? Is it ok to say I love you if I don't know I'll hear it back?

Science requires proof. Repeated results = successful experiments. 'To try again the same things and expect different results' = the definition of madness. But what is love if not madness? Time after time looking for it searching trying caring getting broken just a little but more each round. Yet still trying. A never ending quest for the grail that won't give life but a single moment of pure happiness. While all my data details the failures faith births hope like a fly hitting the glass without giving up. Wishing for conclusion, tired of the lab that is our lives, I have no answers. Just proof. That pain is real, that hearts can break and break again and break again and every time we put them back together and say that's not enough that the capacity for breaking is infinite and all the pain is proof we still can feel.

  Life on autopilot isn't fun. It's a struggle keeping everything together but I'm afraid of the consequences if I don't. Holding the pieces of a broken vase in place, too afraid to sleep in case they fall apart, having no time for dreaming when reality starts slipping through the cracks. Moving on is the only option forcing the scenery to change. Different city, same emotions. A barely beating crystal heart trying to outrace time and reach a place when pain is gone.

I've been out smoking singing the swansong of our love. My tears have drenched the wooden floor and I've got nowhere left to go. Down the river twinkling lights drown out the stars. Sat on this bridge of love I threw away the key and the lock at the same time. I'm counting the breaths you took last night before melting away. As the smoke keeps rising up I know this river can't go back. Out of choices. Out of luck. Walking on. Moving on. Holding on. This poem was written in Paris on the Pont des Arts bridge, which is the bridge where loves used to put locks with their initials, before they were all removed for weighing down the bridge.

  Pushing the walls with all my strength, trying to break out of my head. Tight spaces help with loneliness. They seem less empty. But the room can be full of people I can never reach; from within my mental prison. Locking away the pain sealed away my heart as well. The touch I can not feel, the music turns to screams Reaching out requires strength but all my power goes to holding tight to the last hints of sanity. Keep breathing. Count to ten. And again... Till the tears are gone Till the pain fades Till the fear is just a memory of lives past and lovers lost. Till the moment silence is broken laughter is heard again and the music returns once more.

I want to talk to you tell you all the things I feel but can't express. But how can a ':' become poetry? Closing a ')' opens up countless possibilities. And if I put a '3' after a '<' my heart will be yours. Thinking about you puts a smile on my face. And I want to say so much more than a  ☺  can express. But an image is 1000 words and love can write entire books - libraries even. Can you read them in my emoji? So I type and delete again hopelessly trying to write a symphony with the beeping of my keyboard. Maybe then you can understand just how being around you makes me feel. Let's try again. :)  <3  :* That seems about right. Right? ............................. Follow me on social media: 

  ‘What’s your Zodiac sign?’ Don’t answer. That is not the point. The point is that you all know the answer. You may not believe in astrology or care to read what the future is going to bring every week in the magazine but still you know your sign. Why? Because there was some point in your life that you were made to understand that this is something you should know, one of those questions you will be asked throughout your life, so you might as well know the answer. I remember back at school when every girl would have a notebook with questions that we would exchange with each other and you had to answer all sorts of personal stuff with a pseudonym that you had to reveal at the last page anyway. Of course we all knew most of the answers already, but I think the point was to see how many BFFS, cute stickers and song lyrics we would have at the end of it all. Note to self: check what happened to those notebooks. Anyway, what I am trying to say is that the zodiac sign question was alway...