Old instincts are calling me,
dragging haunting fingertips
across fragile memories
along the fringes of my mind.
They whisper inside,
“Don’t you remember?”
and allow the same old ache to enter
through the tender rifts I try to hide.
This is the time of year
when these shadows draw near
and leer from the corners of my eyes.
Emanating a wave of unsettling vibes
I believed I had survived and beaten
just the year before.
Yet they groan here at the foot of me,
once again, calling temptingly.
I was a fool to believe them to be
entombed within the ground,
because they somehow lived,
though they made not a sound
as they concealed themselves
comfortably among the dirt,
deep within the frozen earth.
Like a curse that will not die,
they reappear intensified
when they realize
I have lost my awareness.
I am a woman prone to dreams,
prone to living as if behind the scenes.
Present to absolutely everything
except at times presence,
because what I feel is too immense.
I have recollections that don’t make sense
and they play out inside my heart, my bones,
vividly behind my eyes --
scenes that don’t belong to this life.
I try so hard to merge the divide,
to be truly alive right here and now,
but I desperately ache for another time
and I know not how and I know not why.
These memories, these ghosts --
they do not empathize.
They only ask that I remember.
Oxygen rushing in and out through one's mouth or nose,
Lungs expanding and contracting with every breath,
Footprints on the wet sand identified by the toes,
Weight shifting forward and body walking during sunset,
The eye opens and closes,
As flashing images create a movie in our heads!
My old habits of coming back to you:
Waking up in cold mornings only to find
warmth in your long gone arms
Tracing the stars in the night sky only to
notice similarities with your moles and scars
Reading through my favorite lines only to
remember that your words were poetry spoken to me out loud
Embracing silence within my room only to
remind me that this is how we end
that this is where you left
this is where I always try to find you
-in the air of silence
there are songs
she skips purposely,
and there are songs
she plays on loop,
but she thinks of him in every goddamn
one, like a reminder
that she hasn’t
washed her hair in days
but she’s brushed her teeth
too many times today it starts
at her chapped lips
I’m back in my same chair again
and still I study the leaves
and meditate what they mean.
If everyone says the same, doesn't it mean it’s true?
What if the planet is telling me this one thing
and each and every star is echoing the same thing,
so it must be true and then it must be fact.
That means something.
I felt every second and every minute of each hour,
and you can’t even imagine the boredom at the bottom of my stomach;
patch me up and fill me up with something worthy.
Ain’t that somethin’ real?
If everyone says so and it’s worthy of my time,
ain’t it real?
But isn’t that something true to me?
The view, the raw feeling it gives me inside.
The itch I can’t reach and the gnawing inside my stomach,
And the fact that I can’t grasp what I need and it kills me;
And now I’m disturbed and I’m sick and I can’t figure out.
What is this bothering me? Is this something for me?
Tailored, sewn, and pressed for me?
I end my night on my roof,
the stars at my fingertips and the moon as my pillow;
the moon soaking me with a cleansing glow;
the shower up here felt so amazing.
There’s nothing like this type of view.
I will open my chest wide to You
the doors must swing
and every gross and delicate thing
let the cleansing air come rushing in
the blazing light reach its fingers
and penitrate each moldy corner
I will remove these old and broken bones
long lain limp upon the floor
and write Your name on every wall
The way our bodies are so intricate,
doesn’t this amaze you? I’m looking now at each and every line on my palm
and somehow I want to cut open each one.
There is something so special about the blood that fills our hand
and there’s something precious about the capillary refill that takes place with
each touch. I’m searching for a real thing to cherish within our bodies.
Will I find it?
A ripped nail, a broken nose,
skin slippage, severed head,
entrails taken out, brash as fuck.
I end my day with the anatomy textbook,
and picture cutting my pocket knife (or maybe something bigger)
into my patient’s throat and hear the gurgling sounds.
I had too much free time as a child.
So many white lies humans tell and so many
white lines humans draw, yet who crosses these lines and tells these lies?
I’m searching for these answers
and it might lay within the anatomy of some type of mammal;
an expensive mammal.
A mammal more precious than any that has ever existed
and I don’t think they all understand
and can convey why life is so cherishable.
And why it’s something that I want to take
to see for myself how they’re taken and
where they go. I used to think that I could get a jar and hold it forever.
Xany gnawing, silver spooned, and Caddy driving lives in a jar.
It’d sparkle and it’d illuminate my dark room,
and maybe it could warm me up a little.
I’m searching for something real to love.
Time isn’t slowing
and I’m genuinely disturbed.
The leaves are changing color
as they plummet to their death.
Watching the seasons change
helps me track the days and nights.
Murders happen mostly at night;
I’ve only let a couple of casualties
slip into my sights and some carnage
pass my eyes; there’s nothing like that type of view.
At first, I felt depressed watching their lives get taken away,
and I promised myself I would never fully watch it.
Yet, my eyes peeked between my fingers
and the intensity of the climax floated away,
deafening my ears and sharpening my vision.
Something in each and every death made me tingle less
and twitch more.
Some don’t end the way they should, but
we ignore it because what can we do?
Doesn’t it fascinate you? The way the process happens?
Loose ends, clogged orifices, shredded cloth,
wine-stained skin, broken bones; it’s all manmade and natural.
Imagine, someone dancing on the rooftop,
they twirl and spin, living on cloud nine.
They twirl and spin in the wrong direction
and suddenly they slide far down.
Their sleeve gets caught on a hook,
(I bet the air up there felt so amazing),
cloudy minds and foggy visions,
the cloth tears inch by inch.
But now, the air gets thick and imminent danger comes;
they then look down and the people who could do something
continue to record and take photos.
The sleeve rips off and a silence fills their minds.
Everyone looks away, if they didn’t see it then it never happened.
And what I’ve noticed is the help didn’t stop,
they all just stared so no one must’ve cared.
My brain will recognize these patterns and
registers it’s the outside phenomenon which will hurt my body.
A lot of the time no one realizes that someone close has died,
but weeks of watching will show I know the whole story.
For a while, I couldn’t recognize death audibly.
Because of this, I’d sometimes only listen to the noises and not look at the screen.
My brain then noticed another pattern and I could almost sense death.
Even now, I’m tempted to look away and to grimace, but why should I?
Is death being in my field of view a sin?
My eyes scanned over another video quickly.
The pit bulls seemed to have a nice meal.
Note to self: avoid dogs in Africa.
WARNING: I have no idea how people will take this poem. I put NSFW because this COULD be a sensitive topic for anyone. I wouldn't classify it as gorey or graphic but someone else could. So, since I think I am sort of talking about sensitive material... it'd be better to put NSFW in the tag, too. It is "confessional" yet not of my personal life. This is more of a confessional poem from the view of a human who is being desensitized to mortality due to a friend introducing them to this taboo world of watching people die. It's sort of an experience of someone I know. I thought it was interesting. And I wanted to write about it from their point of view. Then again, if I keep saying to you guys and myself that it's not my confessions of watching it, am I lying to myself? LOL, please don't take this the wrong way.