Tags: passion_is

(no subject)

passion is.
black-eyed sunflowers
tipped with violet red and orange,
petals curled toward sunlight
despite heavy winter snow;

fingers strumming keys and chords
on each separate side of town,
knowing only the weight of sadness
pressing strings and harmony;

sticky candies passed between
sun-kissed fingertips
while distance is a narrow stretch
of an empty path toward an empty heart;

Sunday morning telephones
ringing just to say hello,
made full of pancakes, eggs,
and toast--a place to call a home;

passion is.
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    death cab for cutie - all is full of love.
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(no subject)

Passion is confusion. Your hands on my ribcage. and then on my shoulders. and then on my hips. and then and then and then...

If I was a hallway, you'd wander around aimlessly. There are only so many possibilities in a hallway. You can walk or run. You can stop or start. You can only enter the door at the end. There is nowhere else to go. Pretend that I am a hallway.

You're inside of me, meandering around, bouncing between my walls. If I had paintings, you would admire the skill therein contained. But I have no paintings, and so there is nothing for you to look at except bare paint. If my walls were still wet, you would have put your hand to them, pulling back to watch the way the paint strings and creates a bridge between my walls and your palm. But my walls don't have any paint. If I had doors, you'd open them, tentatively, as though it was forbidden. You'd look around inside, and upon finding nothing of interest, you would close them behind your exiting frame and continue your journey through me. But I have no doors.

I have nothing. I am bare walls and closed-off openings. I am four walls containing nothing of value or worth. Sometimes I wonder why it is that you chose to come here, or how it is that you even gained entrance. I wonder what the purpose of your stay is going to be, and how my interior will be affected by your presence. You can read so much into a very short sentence; I have written for you three paragraphs on the way things are and how they will become.

But it is here, in this confusion and inherent desperation for closeness that you have come to me. We are not metaphors, wood or canonfire. We are bones and skin and tissue and throbbing veins. We are you and me, pressed so close that air is no longer a wall between us. We have broken it, and all other barriers, down in attempts at finding a place of respite inside of each other. I have found my own, between your laugh and our sarcasm and the delicacy of your fingers on my spine. For the first time, I have reached the point where a soft affection and yearning has fed upon itself to reach the height of our need.

We are scrambling hands and broken promises, forced words through tattered lips. You are the fluid in my veins, torrid and thick, pushing the boundaries of my modesty to the point of breaking, to the point where my skin expands with held-in heat and unspoken words. This expanding element turns over itself, sending waves of gravity to my leaden tongue and heart. I drop to the floor, where the pressure will overload all common sense, and send me reeling, imploding, into your open and waiting hands. You have seen this coming, in a clairvoyant spasm or greedy hope. I slip through your fingers, and come to rest in the crevice between your hips and your thighs. Tomorrow, we will think of these things with the minds of a more subdued person.

Passion is confusion. Passion has become confusion. Confusion has become delerium. This is the process of falling in love.
crush me baby, 9

I know the borders of being cliched, thankyouverymuch.

Passion is you walking in through the side door of the church, in a blue suit, and a tie. It was too much of a scene not to laugh, and as people saw you, they couldn't hold it in. Mrs. M***o asked you if your piano concert went well, and you said it was half-and-half. The duets were awful, but everything else was fine. You had come in late, and it was almost expected that you would come in differently.
    I remember how you looked as I was leaning down for water, or putting something back in my purse. You leaned down, and looked at me while Nicole was our barricade. You smiled, and it was one of the most ineffable sensations. I realized that no matter how long I'd been with something much prettier, she would've never smiled at me the way you did then. Now I see that when July rolls around, I will miss you more than I had expected.

(no subject)

Passion is the flower she no longer has pinned over her heart. It's bloom had wilted and died, so she merely tossed it into the pile of lost emotions without a thought.

Passion is the essence of weakness. It's a whisper in the darkness that quivers, so overcome with feeling. It's the shiver that traces down one's back in the moment of desire.

She's better without it. Passion is a blockade that keeps one from running free. It is a fool's tool.

Indifferently, she stepped upon her dead passion and watched the petals turn to dust under her foot.

Why try to overcome passion when it will only overcome you?

Apathy is the dark flower she now flaunts upon her breast.

My first.

Passion is the tool of the gods. (The indefinite article is too bland for Passion's grandeur.) Passion is the universal inspiration. It can evoke such a divine sense of purpose to Man. One glimmer of passionate thought, one swiftness of empassioned action, one muse of Passion's potency, may change the reality we think we know eternally. Passion is the one distinguishable force of Man.
Passion is what removes Man from Nature's other beings. Passion is a star fallen from the Heaven's, caressed by the hands of Man, which means we think we are superior and elegant demigods. Perhaps this is why it is unfortunate passion is at all.
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    Immortal Technique - Dance with the Devil
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  • dove95

What Drives You?

Passion is is being excited about something that you can't help telling other people about what ever that passion is. You tell them on and on, even if they have no clue what you're talking about, but the more you talk, the more excited they get about your passion as well. It sucks them in.

Passion is what I live for. It's what drives me. If I had nothing to be excited or passionate about, then what's the point of living, really?

Passion is persistence. If you didn't have passion for something or for someone, you'd give up. I have passion for sex, so I always want to make love to the SO. Even if I'm not particularly "in the mood." It's my passion. Most people are like me and even have an obsessed passion with sex and will fuck about anyone that moves.

On the other side, you wonder how the chaste monks, saints, and priests are able to do it. After all, not all of them molest. :p In any case, you know what their passion is? Their passion is for God. You almost have to envy them for that. I love God and all, but I believe God created sex so that I could experience passion personally and that act itself is almost getting me closer to God.

By now you all probably thinking I'm a sexaholic, but it's far from the truth.

In fact, what's more passionate for me than sex? Live music, especially coming from good musicians. You can go to concerts and hear a duplication of the studio album, but where's the passion in that? If an artist can interact with the audience while still drawing you into the music the same way you can be in listening to the song alone in your room or with other people, then that's passion. I've gone to a handful of concerts where the artist brought nothing for the audience and just stood there to perform the songs for the money. That's not passion and I'd argue that that's not even music. Real music is created from the heart and soul, not to sound cliched, but every cliche has some sort of truth.

Passion is why your heart beats or why you have a soul. If you don't know or have an answer to that, then perhaps it's time for you to start contemplating that.

x-posted in dove95
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(no subject)

Passion is the feeling that I'm not getting. This emotion within lines, and angel wings. You're no drug, you're no lover, you're nothing great overall. Passion isn't here right now, the woman's taken a rain check for about ten years. Oh well, I'll settle for less than the best and pray for the worst to be done with it. Wash my hands of your heartblood, and your pretty eyes (honestly, I still don't know what color they are, but I'm sure they're heart-stopping.)
    Our love is at a redlight, and your apathy is feeding me. Winona Pkwy is beautiful, you just have to look harder. You just have to see past your astigmatism, and feel the way the road curves downward. I swear, this isn't ever it. No, this beauty is eluding me. I've come to a conclusion that we probably have the same problem, but it took different ways to get to us. I've come to the conclusion that I'm dead in the water, but I'm most likely crazy about you. Unfortunately: mon cherrie, j'adore.
    If you ever end up being manic depressive, or wanting to kill yourself, I'll never speak to you again. Got it?