Iris Ocean Writing

I was rereading Othello the other day while watching comedy roasts on youtube. This seemed like a good idea at the time. I hope the great bard forgives me. This is what Desdemona should say to all the men in this play...  Look at all you fools your scheming and your tools of mass destruction all talk but little action except against each other Do you tell your own mother your thoughts about women? You disgrace the name of 'men'! Iago, you complain about your life think they all slept with your wife. Maybe everyone but you because this one thing is true: your mind's all inside my bed and my husband in your head! Othello, how the mighty now have fallen your honour and your reputation stolen! If you believe that I was cheating only madness you'll be meeting. Your jealousy becomes a flood of your delusions wanting blood! Cassio, Misogynistic sexist pig your actions your own grave dig. Nobody forced you to get drunk or fight and act out like a skunk. As long as Shakespeare t...

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.

  Spending my time to not be afraid of this glass house the fragile floors that can plunge you to the dark basement. How can the light not penetrate it? The first step takes months, to check for the cracks, to make sure I won't cave in, to stop being afraid. Is bravery not doing the things that scare you? All the while I haven't noticed you have one foot out the door. The glass floor scares you too. How do you know what is worth fighting for? I could run away, like you, but I'm tired. Tired of glass houses. Tired of their doors. Tired of their heartbroken basements. Tired of running. Isn't every choice a leap of faith? I have the scars to prove that glass houses cut deep. And the memories to show the beauty of the sun shining through surrounding you in its warmth. Do the rewards not outweigh the risks? The choice is always the same. Take the risk. Or go. Go and find another risk to take. Every time the same. Just another glass house. Does the cycle ever end?