Don’t Be Afraid to Love Me

Don’t Be Afraid to Love Me

ImageDon’t be afraid to love me, I am not so weak and fragile,
There is no need for pity, or to feel you are using me.
I’m not the weak, the poor, or the broken in need of your protection,
Despite the words scribes use in books, your love cannot exploit me.


Others were afraid to truly love, they merely played the game,
Pieces of me fell to the floor, kicked briskly by their pride.
The pain I felt they blamed on me, but really it was just a veil,
Made of their fragility, and woven in their jail.
Just because I have a name for what at birth I am,
They cannot stand among the blameless for choices they have made.

Don’t be afraid to love me, to break yourself free of wonting,
Run from your pretend little universe, your propagated image of me.
Inside us all are meandering songs, we crafted in our youth,
The days before accepted customs, subdued our imaginary friends.

The world unbridled invades our hearts, painting their decrees on walls,
Do not let them fool you for they are vandals masked as scholars;
Mocking dreams you once cherished, like pictures sold with frames.
Exchanging your wonder for specters, for them it’s just a game.

Punch out the mirrors reflecting the norm, listen harder to my silence,
The loudest words I’ll ever sing, are hiding underneath.
Start to dance unchained from the ordinary, and I will meet you there,
And maybe for the very first time, you’ll awake to ecstasy.

Don’t be afraid to love me.

Farewell Catarina, Farewell to Love

As I am a creature of patterns, though there is a vast difference between patterns and repetitious outcomes that slap me in the face. Despite my prodigious optimism, to see past persistant repetitious outcomes, I am mourning the reality that one particular area of my life may be settled into a pattern opposite of what I desire. The area of romantic love.

Despite my best efforts, it occurs to me that the universe has somehow thrust into me a desire to fall in love, but had been too busy to put me in love’s reach. The passion in me feels effervescent, pushing through to the surface, and translated into tender movements that none desire of me, at least not for any reason past their own selfish sensations. It’s as if I am a flower that some desire to watch bloom, but do not wish to wallow in the scent.

I am doused with confusion. Why is the world from which I hear such sweet melodies, filled with such paltry moments? When it comes to love, are people purposefully disguised as mirages?

I fear that my writings of my youth are all too insightful. Perhaps it was insight, not naivety, that led my pen to create Catarina, a girl who thought that her love for music was so great, she would never feel the arms of romantic love.

As I write this, I realize I have no clever quotes to give, or stories to tell. The pain is just to great. So, tonight I play the sounds of love’s departure from me. I suppose I was not built to share romantic love, I was built only to bottle it in song. Should you ever see a melody from me called Farewell Catarina, you will know it is my farewell to love.

I Heard This in the Shadows

It has been a tough couple of weeks.  Love seems outside my grasp, no matter how brave I am or how deep into the darkness I reach.  So, the shadows grew louder, and louder, and louder, to the point that the melody made my nerve endings pulse – like when you have spent 4 hours at a heavy metal concert and you can still feel each beat in your lips and finger tips.On a rare occasion, the shadows carry a few words with the tune.  Haunting in nature, the words come in small, angry mobs, directing themselves toward the one I feel is responsible for my pain.  This time, the words were abstract and vague.  I am angry at no one.  I blame no one.  It just the pain of keeping to myself, and the throbbing of a void.I heard this in the shadows:

Lies can’t protect you, all they do is kick you out
There are no words, gifts were already exchanged
Six inches from you is where I stood,
But the forest has no trees
Passion burned them down
Cause you didn’t put out the rage

I can’t fight or I’ll die
I can’t drown or I’ll live
I can’t be everything you don’t want me to be
But when I’m left to just be, 
I’m visible to only me.

The tune is whispered by voice, and carried by guitar.  Its simple, its sad and stranded on a isle in my mind.  Maybe some day I will be brave enough to share it.  Right now, though, I will keep it close for it is my only companion.  The only painful reality that I must sling over my shoulders like a dead albatross is that I am a walking song; I’m only loved until the tune is faded by the sounds of a different one.

No more can I dance with two hands

Too many roads
to lonely
paths unravel
neither of them mine.
How can I walk
if I am confined?
Don’t bottle me
aged, like fine wine.I cannot feel
these feet are used
garage un-sale special
in a box beneath the stairs.
How can I walk
an inch or a mile?
No more can I dance
I’ve only two hands.Deaf ears drawn
to desire
burns so bright
retinas to black.
How can I breathe
in the stench of sacrifice?
Silence so brutal
disguises me with waves.

No heart is
good for luggage
better off lost
on the wrong flight.
How can I breathe
an inch or a mile?
No more can I dance,
inside my box.

Love me with all
or hate me with everything
love can’t be served
luke warm and bandaged.
Love me with all
or hate me with everything
just count me off
or write me in
but please, please,
don’t keep me familiar.

-Laura Nadine

Am I Capable of Love?

Am I capable of love? The biblical definition of love says love in not selfish and does not seek itself.  Yet the people who ask me that question claim to have it – love, a great love, a deeper understanding of love and the open-mind necessary to comprehend love.
Am I capable of love?  What if I were to give you a gift right now? No matter who you are or what you have done, a gift with no expectations from you. Listen to my music, listen to me play my violin.  Do you hear it? I am giving you the gift of music.  My gift is not wrapped in a pretty wrapper or something you can display on a shelf – but it is a gift born of a labor of love.  It is the most I can give because it is the sum of all my parts.  Most say they cannot deny that I love music because they see it in me when I play.  They see love, that is.  So what makes one think I cannot see that in myself?  Is it a mistake? Do I know know what I do?  There are many things born of innocence, but intent is not one of them.  It is by my intent that I share love through music, not my innocence.
Am I capable of love?  When love has left me I have cried.  I cried with my violin, I cried with my soul and sometimes, I even cry with my eyes.  When love left, the pieces of me were so sopping wet with sadness that everything inside me was drained into shapeless, colorless, odorless pools from which the savages of depression did drink.  Yet no one questions if I am capable of pain or sadness or hurt.
Am I capable of love?  I hear a song in everything I see.  The songs of shadows sing to me in ways that people have sometimes forgotten,  Shadows do not wear social masks and are visible in even the lowest light.  And though the edges may sometime be blurry, the hope with which love is coupled still whispers its tune.  I hear love everywhere I hear music.
Am I capable of love?  Are you?
Laura Nadine