seven years sets in as the mirror shatters
my reflection no longer who he used to be;
or perhaps he's always been that way,
and my ignorance, my blind eyes
have been causing me pain, telling me lies
the temptations of having someone so alike
has left my thoughts running amok
has caused my heart itself to tuck
its veins and arteries back inside
i was open wide
but now, as i try to close
this gaping wound, my body knows
that healing is much harder a task than i could ever have thought it to be.
so i'll slam my fingers on the keys
to try to gain some sort of release
until something from my brain is freed
and devotion of this kind
i will no longer need.
the notes bite into my fingertips
deep slits left behind
as i unwind
finding that the tide has come in
as the lunar orb begins to set
i try not to fret
as my sinews are played
on the shiny white teeth
on the rotten black cavities between
the braces of my fingers, cleaned
of what might have beens and who are they nows
methamphetamine of the mind
speeds up my heart, my flesh unwinds
i scream for an end
to this running, running song
but find that all along
ive been playing this silly game;
so the shame
begins to set in as i see
i loved him on a whim
in the house where they teach us
not to sin
while he was dancing satan's steps
adultery, lust, and the rest
im bashing now, no longer holding
onto the gentle tune that began this twisting
that is my brother, my friend
my brother, my friend...
but in the end,
he was just another jester.
but in the end,
here to pester, adorned in costumes
and fancy dancing shoes
but in the end,
this wasn't a duet at all.
this wasn't a duet at all!
THIS WASN'T A DUET AT ALL!
I thought I understood it.
The way the world operated.
The safety and compassion,
The darkness, the secrets and the fears.
I thought I knew myself,
I thought I knew my body.
My bones, my shapes, my figure.
But I did not soon realise this could change.
I thought I knew our passion and devotion,
And the way we were attached when we loved.
But the sensation brought consequences,
And so did I.
I soon imaged the rhythm of the heartbeat for the first time.
I soon imagined that grasp on my forefinger.
I soon imagined the love I felt.
I soon imaged the struggles, the loss and the hate I’d face.
I soon imagined destruction,
With just two swallows it would be gone for good,
And the fight would be over.
But I never wanted to face that choice,
I wanted to hold the delicate youngster in my arms.
I wanted to protect them from the horrors of the world.
But this was not likely.
I began to question all the possibilities and outcomes,
But no other have sprung to mind.
For I thought I understood myself and the universe,
But I've been left scared and confused.
But what could be worse than living with guilt.
I thought I understood it, but I did not.
I wince at the pain that electrifies through my body,
You look down and reassuringly smile at me.
I inhale and exhale deeply,
'Keep calm' I continuously tell myself.
You tug at my body,
My chest rubbing against yours.
Our sweaty bodies are intertwining,
Uniting us as one.
Your breathing becomes heavy,
Your hands twisting through my hair.
I pull your body towards me,
And clutch onto your bare back.
'I love you'
Your warmth breath tickles against my steaming skin.
The mixture of pleasure and pain shot through,
As the sensation filled me.
Within a few moments,
Your eyes glance into mine.
'You're perfect' I barely whisper,
As your moistured lips greet mine.
There is romance to the bee, sweet honey and flowers. I am a flower. The flower head lady on bathroom stalls of bars, naked, drawn in chalk. I speak not of beauty, and I want nothing sweet. In my dreams I taste the ocean. I am a flower. I need the bee to land on me, to grace me. Because the bee completes a vital part of my life. I am human because I am afraid. Because the bee will sense my fear and it will sting me and it will die. I am a masochist because I want it to sting me. I want it to hurt. I am sorry because I know that I will take something vital away from it. It will leave a sliver of its essence inside of me, that’s just the way the world works. I am afraid of taking that thing on, it is really nothing more than a fragile cone of cells, and my skin will absorb and destroy it before it can pollinate anything as sweet as the flower. All of these things are true, true and beautiful lies. Because I am not a flower. And yes, I want to be stung. And I am not afraid of that pain, in fact I will relish in it. I am not the pretty flower nor the sweet honey. Maybe I am the stinger of the bee. A sharp pang, thorn and swollen flesh, and maybe a bruise that will ache and yellow. There will be anger that blossoms out of fear and the cold clear rush that brings life into every forgotten cell of the body; these are the things that belong to the stung. And who among us does not long to be stung?
“I don’t hear your words because my thoughts are to much and the blood rushing through my veins has come to a stop. I’m still as time moves in slow motion and people around me are causing commotion and though people are moving they are all so silent and I can’t hear anything anyone says. And in moments like these my clogged veins make my body tremble and all that’s left are the rain drops that fall from my eyes. I have created my own storm inside me that no one can see but they all have caused. So in the pause I think what is left for me? Nothing.”
I'll be honest,
I'm scaired of you,
Not of your perthetic weed of a body,
But you are mentally intimidating,
You have the ability to manipulate people against me,
You believe you are mentally superior,
And you know I rely on you.
When I no longer rely on you,
And you make me lose my rag,
How superior will you be?
When I tear you limb from limb,
And there is nothing you can do,
You are helpless and hopeless,
Only then will you relise,
that you have made my life hell.
I look at one of these machines today and it sends chills down my body..
I can remember being lost.. I just wondered off as a kid chasing butterflies and fireflies in the deep woods of Alaska..
I was gone for days.. I was parched and so hungry.. My little body could not muster enough strength to scream for help anymore..
I could see and hear animals about.. I was to young to realise that the animals wanted me to eat.. They were just waiting for me to die..
It wasn't until the night came on the 4th day.. My parents called Shineday inc and requested a (Recovery unit) ST-anthony be flown in..
I was falling asleep under some brush and trees.. Not really falling asleep more like crying to sleep.. The I saw these blue eyes glowing over me.. The robot moved the brush very gently and picked me up.. I can remember him being so warm as he held me.. His steps were very silent.. We then stopped and he gave me a small metal box with my drawings on it.. It made me smile! I opened it and there were some pop tarts and water in it.. I ate them up!!! He then took me back to the cabin where my mom ran screaming to me! Even my dad was crying! He went to the (Recovery unit) ST-anthony and thank him over and over..
I am looking at one of these machines now.. I wonder if it was the one who found me that night..
On a bitter december night of '11
I stood alone, watching the glow
of christmas fireworks
clutching my phone in my mittens.
"This time in a year, I will be with you"
your message said.
"I will be holding your hand"
"I will plant kisses on your forehead".
The year passed and so came
the even more bitter december night of '12
your hands tightly tucked into your pockets
your face turned away from mine
your body impatiently shivering
lifeless to the weight of my chin on your shoulder.
As we stood silently
I remembered what you had said
this time one year ago
and as I looked up to the sky
the fireworks lit up what I already knew
as their sunset hue reflected the vacancy in your eyes.
Emotions are nonexistent until pungency takes over with a kiss to the existence.
And with the hardness comes inevitable suicide by revelation.
Out of body and out of mind,
The passion that anger brings fuels the drive to escape them both.
It manifests itself in tears with the heat and tensions rising,
But unleashing steam is all we know how to do.
Even the most courageous never seem to utilize passion to unleash the flames in their chests-
Like being confined to yourself to never become the fugitive you so desire.
It won't leave you when you cease to exist.
You can't escape anything.
Not the paroxysm.
he wakes up
from a bad
and he'll go
in tiny gray
at the figure
in the mirror,
then he'll dress,
into a suit,
gray and sad
to his kitchen
a dull meal,
and lock his
then to his
off to his prison,
his gray job,
a thing he hates,
until the sun goes down,
followed by home
where he'll have a drink,
watch the gray news
and fall asleep,
the same thing,
day in the life
of the fool.
I don't wanna end up like the Fool and it depresses me, the thought of the same thing every day. Getting up to work at a job I hate, every day 'till I die. Terrible. A nightmare. And it hurts to see so many trapped in that process with no way out but death. You see them out sometimes, you can tell by looking at their defeated faces and posture and the way they speak, monotonous, a bore. And they'll fake a smile, maybe they have a kid with them, but you know that in their heads they wish that the kid doesn't end up like them. A father, a mother, who doesn't want their kids to think of them as heroes. It's sad really. They've got a wife, a husband, they hate each other. Or perhaps you saw them at a bar, face down on the wooden counter, an unfinished beer right in front. And those ties, like nooses around their necks, slowly choking their life force away. Maybe, at some point, in the beginning of their working lives they thought things through like me. "This won't happen. I'll notice when it does and I'll change things. I won't be a Fool." And the moment of transformation comes and they don't notice until it's been years too late and they've dug themselves to deep and it's over.
I guess that what I'm trying to say is, don't be like The Fool.