i see, in the black
studio cave of creativity.....
gangling, disinterested youth.
into mecurial, liquid madness...
fluid, upon the stage,
they fly, toward the lights.
moths, to a burning moon.
of. god's humour,
in flight across
the mechanical sun's
and then the curtain falls.
and they drift back,
into their former selves,
inarticalate, but secretly
Everyday you are different
Though inherently similar
You show me something each day
That is completely new.
Whether it is as simple
As the way the light reflects
In your ever-changing eyes,
As subtle as a change
In your alluring smile,
As creative as a new thought
That bursts from your mind.
You keep me on my toes,
My pen scratching at the page,
And my adoration stronger
Than the day before
I don't remember how you fingers felt through my hair on sunday mornings
I don't remember the colour of your skin against the bloodied tiles
I don't remember the dilation of your eyes as you confessed your love for me for the first time
I don't remember the way your eyes twinkled as you laughed
I don't remember you being happy
I don't remember being happy
I don't remember us the way we were supposed to be
Dost thou love me?
Art thou in pain?
Doth the wind change shapes?
Shakespeare is dead.
And I fear all that you held
is dead too.
Magician pulls the strings,
To the puppet wings...
But for what is this chatter,
As the rain doth pitter patter,
Drawing ever closer the sea to my feet.
A breath of fresh air
Too sharp to swallow softly,
I cough and magenta butterfly's
I never learnt to sing.
Typical pulsating blood organs
Punching blue and black
Against bones made of metaphorical steel.
You stole me.
You aren’t going to see me cry.
You aren’t going to see me cry,
not because I am not crying;
But you can’t see Me cry.
Some little boy has been stuck,
timeless and drifting through the
pre-war era’s of space -
Playing with plastic toy soldiers…
Don’t think that because I am eloquent,
don’t think that because I have gumption;
that I will spare you at the expense of myself.
I won’t over time
or ever more.
I will not be an expense to any man.
I set the price of my love: and it’s giving.
I hope it’s the same for you,
along with Reciprocating.
I will not be the daughter
If you think that there are things in the dark,
then speak your truth and walk your talk.
A subscription for thoughts that you don’t want
is worst than death.
Better to ask the questions
and put your faith to the test.
I will not be a crushed lily under your thigh.
Though I may bruise, I heal myself with time.
I choose to turn towards the inventory of imagination.
I choose to wrap these arms around myself.
I choose myself in all my self-destruction,
because loving you and me is worth it.
Yes, it burns.
I will not run from my origins
even when you run away from me.
I will look at my ghost with her pockets.
I will look to see the day and it’s green hues.
I will acknowledge that sunset when it calls me…
Because I am worth loving.
You can’t take the thickness of my cry,
not because you don’t carry a handkerchief.
But because you hide behind the lies
that keep the blade in the sheath, tied.
A little girl is lying somewhere,
in her soiled sheets and I stand
besides her as she begs me to leave.
Somewhere these two children exist,
crying and playing with me.
Now we are all gown ups
and it’s easier to look away then to start
because the truth is that judgment is easier
Judgement is safe like not crossing enemy lining -
You won’t see me when I am crying.
Because you see all of the faces of the people;
who left you there dying.
While I am Rectifying.
You won’t see me, all of this raw treasure.
All you will see are;
plastic toy soldiers
and soiled bed sheets to render.
You won’t see me the other girl in the mirror,
whose world went shifting
because she couldn’t see the same missing tears.
You won’t see the youthful adolescent
who was happy to see her face drifting.
You won’t see that young girl who woke up
without a nose to breathe in the morning.
You won’t see the girl who ate dirt,
because she wanted to see if she was living.
You won’t see who begged for forgiveness.
You won’t listen to the voices she's heard on her journey…
and you will not have cried those first tears of her own self-birthing.
You will not have lived in the wilderness for months on end.
Sat still for days as you listened
nature - until your scars had mend.
You will not have watched my face in that mirror,
of a girl turning into a woman,
whose virginity was stolen
and who now defines
her own sense of defining purity = growing.
No, you won’t -
Because that’s my story.
You are in yours.
With your own actions and darkness,
I am just someone who plays a role.
I choose to be free in this moment.
I am me, and I choose to be free.
With all of my expressions of sin,
I choose to see the truth of it all,
because that is the definition of perfection.
When the little boy can live without fear,
and when the little girl can see herself
standing next to him in the mirror.
Rain drop ruins my melancholy
Rain drop brushes my border collie;
his tail wags across my shin,
breaking my ever-building reverie.
“Smash that”, says the rock to its falling neighbor,
letting it go without attempt at a rumbling tremor.
“Smash your metamorphic protolith,
sedimentary is your bona fide nature”.
The quartzite stone has no room to reject but yield,
but so behold: I catch it with my awakened shield.
Lays in my hand the metamorphic stone,
Ecstatic to be shiny and free.
Broken from my reverie is where I sometimes wish to be,
for there I meet my life’s expenditure,
my loved reality.
There the marks of my imprint awaken; there I become me.
Fall then rain! Do so duly... for I vow to be
the rightful branch of your sprouting tree.
ripple like the water
in the wind
on which they're cast
the shimmering water
of bending light
inobservably tiny legs
in a graceful fury
sliding through the world
like slow-motion lightning
or a brilliant spark
from its source
an ego that was spun. spun. sent spinning downward.
his hazel heart abandoned in the pure snow of brain.
love. is there anything else?
as flesh touches hardened images of self.
stars. eyes. mocha minded thoughts.
crazed hands beneath soft blankets.
7 am promises lost to metamorphic beauty.
not remembering music. soul. twisted limbs.