I feel it when I wake
I feel it when I sleep
I feel it when I'm all alone
I feel it through the week
I feel it when I'm surrounded
I feel it when your here
But most of all I feel it when I know I'm scared
I feel it when you hold me
I feel it when it's dark
Sadness always makes me run
Into the devils arms

The Minutes pass by
disregarding my wails.
They don't bother helping;
With only sixty seconds to exist,
I wouldn't expect them to stop for me.

The Hours' fists crash into my skull
creating a constant clangor resonating through my brain
exciting my ego,
electrifying regrets.

The Days...
Oh those god-damned Days.
They see me confused and so seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
And now begins their fun.

The Months form gangs called 'Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled,  and creaking,  
I languish in fantasies of what's supposed to be.

Time makes things worse.

A dark shadow moves over me.
I look up  as far as I can lift my heavy head
and like a fat man coming to rest on an ant's back,
I see The Decades with their massive, soul crushing weight
squatting their hindquarters;
oppressively,
down upon my twig-like spine.

This is a merciless beating!
This is the beat of time.

And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"

My feelings are dead,
Reduced deceased,
Anger brings forth the beast,
From the very depths of hell,
Not feeling very well,
Depression got the best of me ,
Shake this beast,
Let me free,
Now you see the real me,
Writes in style,
Once in a while depressive hands strangle me,
Entangling in their mind control,
My mind is my own worst enemy,
At times I'm dashed,
My head is trashed,
Sometimes I write better,
No one else was in control,
Today,
I dug my own dark hole,
A few more writes will put me right,
The great escape you see,
By tomorrow,
Feet on deck and I'll be grounded,
I'll run free again!

By ladylivvi1



© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

I wanted to lay for awhile
in the incomprehensible darkness,
eyes needling all the things
which they could not see.

I'd imagine I was on Mercury,
where the hot, hot sun turned the ore
to slag rivers which carved up the surface
now the miasma of heat roams
the barren hilltops and plains
starving
for there is nothing left to consume.

Or Venus,
breathing poison,
weighted down and cooking me,
hotter even than Mercury,
where I'd watch the lightening play
across the saffron sky,
from the calderas of spent volcanos.

Or Earth,
where I lay awake in the night,
dreaming.

On Mars,
digging up fossils,
prowling riverbeds,
searching for memories in the broken rock
and bloody soil
Olympus looming in the distance.

Jupiter,
where my heart would break,
amid all the thunder
shouting itself against the gales
There is Ganymede,
silent above the endless storm

Or Saturn,
floating in the shadow
of those celestial rings
where Titan guards over them
ready for thieves in the darkness

Uranus,
where there are oceans of liquid diamond
glittering endlessly
through the alternating
decades long days and nights.

On Neptune,
beneath the sky so blue
and torn apart by the winds
nearing supersonic
over the burning ice.

Or lonely Pluto,
where I'd forget myself,
there in the dark.

in a world where the world ends
at the end of the block,
carnivores watch and stare
when i skin my knee jumping
the fence into mr. mcgregor's garden.

where is it that we were together?
who were you that i lived with?

back past the old levee road,
a fen fox bounds over the ridge,
squeezes through the fence,
licks its snout and teeth
and sneaks under the briar patch.

does nature vie with itself?
land contend with sea?

in mr. mcgregor’s garden,
tomatoes sag heavy on the vine
and the atropa, creeps,
trespasses around the hedge.

a glance from your eyes
and my life would be yours.

under the old earth buried
deep as marrow,
a rabbit rises from its rest,
and runs from the dark.

is this darkness in you too?
have you passed through this night?

The howl and gnashing of teeth-
They slice.
The fox sinks deep
into hair and blood.
Rabbits scream when they die.

How'd it steal into the world?
What seed, what root did it grow from?

Mr. McGregor yells, the backdoor slams.
I jump the fence, run home
lock all the windows.
My mother asks “Are you alright?”

Hours like months,
days like years.

Back to the door
I stay quiet, wonder
what will the farmer do with the body?

That death's got the final word,
it's laughing at her.

Three seventy-five. At my current muscle weight, that’s the amount of force, in pounds, with which my fist smashes into my opponent’s face. Flesh molds against my knuckles, vessels rupture under the impact; I am that unstoppable object, that destruction you can only watch. I am that confused, hurt, angry child. I channel it through my arms, conduct it through my knuckles, watch it spark and jump from fist to cheekbone. This is the therapy I so wantonly crave, so needed. The only place I can vent the full wrath of my frustration upon the world; or…at least, a single member of it….

Jump back three days.

     Why can’t I see you more? I text her. Because I don’t want a relationship. She says. I don’t need a relationship. I just want to see more of you. I tell her. I’m afraid I’ll invest too much. She says. I don’t understand. Is that a bad thing? Seven years of friendship, two of off-on dates and rendezvous. How could you get more invested? What else can you spill after your hearts in a pool at my feet?
I drank a lot that night.

Jump back four days.

     I’m coming out that way. What are you doing tonight? I always initiate…everything. Always the first question, the first proposal, the first, the first, the first. Am I that threatening? Going out with friends. Homework and going out is all this woman seems to do. Maybe one less night with friends, one more with me wouldn’t hurt? Cool. Celebrating a birthday with friends, we’ll be out and about. Maybe we should meet up? If I’m here, she’s got no reason to refuse me…right? I thought distance was our only problem. Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know. I don’t want you to see me stupid drunk. What a stupid excuse. I actually want to see you stupid drunk. I will at some point if we keep things up.

     Long story short, a guy she sometimes fucks is going to be wherever it is they’re going, and she doesn’t want to have two guys she’s seeing in the same vicinity. What does that make me? I’m getting frustrated with all this confusion and sideways talking. My group incidentally ends up at the same place they are. I don’t even talk to her face-to-face. I’m such a sporting guy. She goes home...alone, to my relief. I get stupid drunk with friends. But never forget to message her back and act like everything’s cool.

Jump ahead a week.

     More conversations to clear up why I fill only one void in her life lead to more confusion. I’m frothing with it. It’ll be in my mouth soon. Wait…I taste it already.

     “Let’s drink and pick fights,” I say to a couple buds. Two hours out, we’re sloshed and trading licks in a back alley. The guy that had taunted and jostled me in the bar follows us out and picks a fight. Says I’m too drunk. Not worth it. I hide a smile, raise my arms, “Let’s see.”

     Shirts are off. Left hook to my ribs, I pivot an elbow, deflect with forearm. This leaves his side open. I duck his wild right-hand and drive a straight hit into his open spleen. He hits the alley wall. “Still want to take a drunk?” I taunt from my knee. He comes back, still sure of himself. I’ll show you what confidence does to us, my friend. He puts up a boxer’s guard and comes back, more cautious. Friends and enemies cheer and joan around me. I don’t hear a thing. There are thoughts. Dark, confused, smashed together, waiting to be dealt with. I focus on all of it. I focus on his face. I listen to the conversations that leave me more hurt and alone than they should. I lean into a false waltz stance, he doesn’t notice the feet. I notice his. He’s more drunk, on less, than I. Every time you breathe, I hope you think of me. The mass in my mind flows through my arms and legs. I charge and he punches straight where my head should go. I dodge right, grab his wrist, snap in and pull out, stringing him in an invisible flaying bed; my left elbow crosses his solar plexus, throwing him to the ground. Knees pin his arms. The hate, and anger, and confusion, and helplessness dissolve between fist and flesh, arc across the pain in my heart and the bruises and blood flowing freely from a fool....

Never entice a man with a need to portray his problems upon a heedless world.

     His friend steps in and plants a well-thought-out fist against my jaw. The one on the ground is down for the count. My friends don’t step in. They know me. I roll off him before his friend’s hit can follow through. Now I have physical pain to channel, too. I grin and my assailant isn’t comforted. This is the release I need. This is my way out. This is what will help. Fuck you, world. Fuck you girl. Damn all of you for your games and your feelings and your mysteries. To hell with why you think you need to hide your heart. Wear it on your goddamn sleeves. Fuck your dishonesty and your insincerity. Fuck your exes. May you all drowned in your lies and guilt and shame. Damn you for assuming I’d ever judge any of you, for not taking my love at face-value, for thinking I had anywhere near the ulterior motives you all harbored. My left hand grabs his left elbow, simultaneously blocking a right jab and flipping his arm out of the way for the full force of my right arm into his ribs. A cacophony of bone and flesh giving way to my wrath meets my ears. He yelps. Never yelp when you’re trying to be strong for a friend. Keep your damned lips closed, asshole. He recovers only slightly before my right meets his face. My arc is perfect: the momentum of muscle as it curves the natural twist of a muscled arm, the darkness of my life gathering on knuckle-tips like obsidian gems glinting in the dirty hallway between worlds of vice and vindication, the cording muscle releasing the pent-up rage of a thousand lives gathered in one body.

     Connection shatters worlds. The horror of life bleeds across his broken window to the world. The reflection of my jeweled nirvana wink across his eyes. See the world I live in, failed rescuer. See the hopeless honor I hold in my bosom. Sleep with the knowledge that even when you try, someone will always be there to flash the dark, jaded realities across your eyes…and bring you to my level.

     The other friends won’t budge ‘till I’ve stepped past. They part like the Red Sea for me. My ark is empty until I interact with the world tomorrow.

Brief peace is better than none.

-###-

I've spent years in a hole
That got deeper each day
Then somehow I found a rope
Now i'm slowly falling
Back into my dark hole
And it's deeper than ever before

"You are beautiful."
That is what they say,
and you reply,
"Thanks, you too."
A compliment, received and courteously relayed.

But what is really meant by this statement?

"You are beautiful."
Implies the speaker has identified that you exist—nothing out of the ordinary, but important nonetheless.

"You are beautiful."
Implies something much more—that the speaker not only acknowledges you, but understands you. It implies they have access to the real you, the one beneath the surface, and that they are capable of evaluating it. Notice that "You look beautiful." is not what has been said. No, what has been said is much more than that.

"You are beautiful."
This is their evaluation. Through the lens of their own perception, what they see when they observe who you are is best described by the word "beautiful". From my perspective, this can only be taken as a sign of deep appreciation, of recognition from one soul to another that on some level, they share the same substance.

Yet, knowing all of this raises a great suspicion. Do those who make this statement truly understand what they are saying? Do they mean it? Did they mean to say, instead, "You look beautiful."? Did they even mean anything at all? Did they give this compliment for the mere sake of giving it, or did they give it with the expectation of receiving something in return?

Do they know of the tension behind your smile? Do they know of the fear residing in the dark pools of your eyes? Do they know that the way you present yourself is often done in spite of how you truly feel?

Do they know, deeper still, of the tiny, yet unwavering flame that burns inside of you? Do they know that underneath the layers of frost that guard your soul is a core of warmth that craves release? Do they know that deep down, you don't believe the horrible things you tell yourself—you can't believe them—, but that it's much easier to pretend otherwise? Do they know that you numb yourself to escape unrelenting pain, often at the cost of escaping joy?

When they say you are beautiful, is it this you they speak of, or is it the you they see but do not understand?

Does their statement stand against who you are by trying to convince you of a self-image you do not have? Does it attempt to ignore, and by ignoring, negate the fact that you possess flaws, insecurities, and imperfections? Does it try desperately to project an image of perfection upon you, as if to acknowledge the truth would be too difficult?

Do they really think you are beautiful, or do they merely want to think it, blindly and without commitment?

Of the answers to those questions I am not certain. But, if I were one of those speakers who dared to make such a bold statement, I would be very careful. For if they are not truly ready to admit with full honesty that they understand exactly the meaning of what they are saying, then they do not deserve to say it.

And if they do not deserve to say it, then they ought to be careful of another thing, too. For if their compliment is not genuine, then the response they receive in return might not be genuine, either.

"Thanks. You, too."
Oh, really,
I am beautiful, you say?
Thanks. You, too.

I am your eyelids and the train-tracks of your stitches. I am the cracks in your bones and the wealthy mind riches. I am the fluid of your language that speaks in every sentence of your prose, I am the syllable you cannot speak though your tongue still knows. I am the chapel of your rib cage and the rage that it slows, closing the gates to the crosses in rows. I am the dirt under your cuticle and the follicle of your skin, sprouting a thread of your body within. I am the anxiety of your brain and the ecstasy of your flesh, crawling at the sense that you attain and possess. I am your lost baby teeth and the way that they chatter, I am the neurons, the synapses, the dark and brain matter. I am your saliva burning caverns in the cave of your time. I am the line of your lips and the lungs you call, "mine." I am your soul, your secrecy, your sanctity. Your spine.