Welcome to my magic show
Where only the brave dare to go;
Beyond the depths of reality
Hidden under lock and key.
There's not rabbit in a hat, no graceful dove,
Just an angel with broken wings, fallen from above.
There's no illusion, no trick of scorn;
Only a lonely girl, tattered and torn
Welcome to the freakshow, look through the glass.
She cowers in fear, gazing at the points and laughs.
They mock, they tease,
They bring her to her knees.
With a desperate plea she lifts her eyes
And everyone sees she's a devil in disguise.
The confusion is evident on every face
This girl has a side that caused her to fall from grace.
Assumptions are made, a decision reached
Everyone with an opinion they morbidly preached
The girl lifts her hands in absolute fear
And in a flash of smoke she disappeared.
I hope you enjoyed the show
Where she went, you may never know.
I am afraid.
I am afraid because I am here
And I want to walk away
But instead I am right here.
I sit here.
Do I sit here?
I think I'm doing it
Just to see how long I can.
It's like holding your fingers over a burning candle
To see how long you can stand the heat
Before your skin blisters
And you pull away, defeated.
I sit still.
I always sit still when it hurts.
I think stillness
Started a few years ago.
When I first hit the ground
I was afraid to breathe.
It was like I had been dropped from a high bridge onto a concrete sidewalk
And I knew
Knew beyond any doubt
That things were broken.
Things inside were very very broken.
Things were splintered and punctured,
And if I moved, even to draw a breath,
I would bleed out right there.
I think that's when the stillness started.
And now whenever I am hurt
Whenever something hits me
I go still as stone
Except for shaking hands
That flutter, fragile and white, until I clasp them tight together.
The world moves around me
But I stay still as death
Not even daring to breathe
As if I will be found
As if I will tear apart into a million shreds of wasted paper
And drift to the floor.
I stay so still my muscles ache.
I never cry.
I can't cry.
I just sit there and feel how peculiar the sense of damage is.
How odd it is to be full of explosions and debris whipping around inside
An utterly motionless body.
And part of me, even as I feel
With how much I know I'd die if my body betrayed my anguish in real injury
Part of me looks on from above,
With a detached analysis
Of this and that
Of just where I feel this blow
And this stabbing pain,
Of just how each moment changes me.
I freeze like ice outside
And burn like hell inside.
It is the most curious sensation in the world
And I hate it so much I would die to escape it.
And yet when it comes upon me
I do nothing
Nothing at all.
I say nothing.
I turn to stone, part by part,
Like I'm being submerged in drying cement
And finally my lungs
The top of my head
Until all that is left
Are my eyes
I am paralyzed
And I look out on a world in motion
Moments before I was a part of the rhythm like a heartbeat
But that was moments ago,
And we all know how much can change in just a moment.
When I am stone
You can come at me with a chisel
And I will say nothing.
Bang bang bang
And little chunks come off
A shard of my cheek
A finger at the joint
The swell of my collarbone,
They crumble when struck
But I can't move an inch.
I sit still.
I always sit still.
My stillness is the waiting.
It is the wish
It is the craving
Hot and metallic
To do something
To slice away how much I hate my own helplessness.
It is knowing that there is a relief
Besides just being saved.
There is a way to save myself
From this chaos inside
A way to feel better
My stillness is the resistance
The longing and the "No, I can't."
The firm denial
Cold as ice
Hard as granite.
Is it strong to let the world dismantle you by the inch
When you know you could get there first?
Is it strong to sit and take take take
And do nothing whatsoever?
Is a statue strong
Or is it just
Underdog sitting in a Main Street bar
Fading star on his arm
But no cause for alarm
He's made his bed
Left his head on some old dirty couch
In the end if he wins
He'll let us know what it's all about.
Changing moons are bittersweet
He sits there
Can't even eat
But the brew
Goes down good
And the brew tells him he should:
Count his teeth cause some are missing,
Sing some songs cause no ones listening
Run the streets and see the city.
So he does.
Underdog's doing what an underdog does.
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken breasts may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
How does the competent optimist endure the positives opposite?
The prerogative to remain positive is the only option for an optimist.
Every day is a happy belated celebration of its creation.
Exposing pearly white incisors to express a bipolar condition.
A giant grin with lips spread open.
A face with a giggle in the face of sin to face demons.
The monster with in becomes, a polite bestial delight, a young baby boy eating joy, the excitement emitting the submission to a feeling of complete air under the soles of feet.
The feat of sky walking never lukewarm, a feeling newborn.
Yesterday was the best day ever you could have sworn.
However, today will be so much better the endeavor to find pleasure in everything and whatever.
There is water in half of my jar and it’s warmer than I would like it to be.
There is a toothbrush on the floor.
There was once a time when I was confident
in the things that didn’t matter as much.
There is a crazy person on the loose, somewhere, and he has no idea.
People will cower behind bookcases
or television stands when they catch wind of the news:
There wasn’t anything wrong with the way we were.
There isn’t anything I can do about the texture of my personality
so I will just sit here and ponder whereabouts.
Accepting the overall consumption of garbage has come to irk me
but being a nice person, I will have some garbage too, please.
i love to read
because I can wrap myself
in the security of
someone else's story
i can envelop myself in the warmth
of the characters who become
and when the book ends
a nostalgic longing to be near again
that is distant,
that has been loved and then
"The love that remains"
and that is the best fit definition
i could find
because that feeling feels so
but characters become so real
they become friends
and you can't help but feel
after the story is over
and then the process repeats.