frightening swipes at the eyes
where blossoming from your >
I saw you as a
prophet.
-but then aswesharedourislandsand
dug canals to let the warm stream
f l o w t h r o u g h
the trenches grew deeper and more vast.
crickets fluttering, craters cremating
the sweet, soft life that flowed
underneath?
tempest torn brush me sideways
envelop me in security until the
blank casket
closes
me
Darkness.
mud flowing over my feet
disgusting feces frolicking, frowning
opening a wound of the earth
I am falling.
climbing backwards into the world of
nothing
falling rightleftupdown
the static nest protruding spasms into my skull
patterns of white on black on white
etched into my eyelids
Shellshock twang opens me,
a book,
until I open my feet and close my heart.
Two-way street.
beeping breathing believing
it will all be better
someday.
She lied.
Reset your light and continuXXXXXXXXXXXx
I love you.
I'm dirty
covered in filth
sick
hopeless
lost
I'm not even trying
to be found
I thought I already hit rock bottom
but it seems to be on repeat
why do I keep falling?!
I'm a liar
the pain is everywhere
physical
mental
it hurts everywhere
I don't deserve this soul
my body is hardly a temple
I let it become thrashed
forsaken
desolate
I've disowned my heart
bathed in all things impure
it's not worth it
to be alone
It's the optimists that I can't bear
Chinese skin farms torture for a
Collection of innocent flesh and hair
Look on the brighter side of it, bud!
As your lie writhing in a stinking pile
Of naked muscle and pooling blood
The little girl whose teeth are smashed
Whose daddy has relapsed
And sold her as a piece of ass
To be fucked over and over for some cash
So that he can buy his hooker crack
And bleed his veins for a dwindled stash
The starving owl-eyed boy who
Believes himself evil for the thought of
Turning his little brother into his next meal
And not even a little left to steal
As ribcages tell a thousand tales
Along lines of skin and bone so frail
So fuck your rhyme schemes
And your bleeding heart activists
Who scream in college courts
And completely lack the knack of it
Skin them alive and burn them as well
And maybe they'd have given their
Very souls to the fires of hell
I fiddle with these words
They lie naked on my tongue.
But like a broken man
They just can't seem to run.
I've learned not to force this.
To push this past my lips,
A tragedy worse than my travesties.
I'm still a little faint of heart.
When rain falls it does not smear.
It sticks, and then it drips.
Well these 3 syllables are certainly glued,
But we both still feel a little bruised.
When my lips do decide to spill
These raindrops it has coaxed inside,
Will you know that they fall gracefully, honestly?
They were meant to be taken gently.
A cool breeze should encourage them.
Will they wet your worn skin
Soak into you like a refreshing swim
Will they moisten your heart and not just your limbs?
Or where I see a downpour do you see a spark.
Awaiting a new host, softly lighting the dark.
Growing ever closer to your extended fuse.
When you ignite, will I be consumed?
Does it help, when I state your name.
When I beckon, do I carry you close to sanity?
Or do I hurl you farther,
Over the edge of calamity.
Tell me, When you fall
Will it be like raindrops, or a cliff.
At least, tell me, when you fall
Could you find it in your drenched heart,
Or scorched lungs,
To let me join you?
Hell was quite lovely;
I wish I could return,
but I promised to
never go back,
no matter how much
my heart yearns for
that glorious place.
Oh, how I loves it so,
surrounded by heat
and acceptance with
others who called
it their home.
The devil was quite
a lovely man. His
smile always crooked.
He told me all his
secrets, yet I never
told mine. His heart
was full of compassion
and sympathy for
all, much unlike that
evil man who lives
in the clouds above,
protected from us all.
Hell was my only
home. I never wanted
to leave, but there
comes a time when
the bad brainwashes
the innocent and the
good times must cease.
We've been talking
for longer than normal
and it feels sometimes like
there are bits of my heart
dripping onto my stomach
and I'm worried you can
see the warmth spread to
my face from the
sensation. I'm torn between
telling you and letting
this be a secret I share with
only my insides.
The sun sets gentle as it is painted
and painted over,
a portrait of sliding sky,
in gradients too slow for
notice the painter erase the day's melodies
brooding all the
while the sky finishes its fall
onto the rising night.
He is a quiet man, all
calloused hands and stained foreams,
more accustomed to solitude than
the harsh daylight of scrutiny.
With the precision of an almanac,
the painter finishes, canvas cleaned
of its light and
sliding quiet beneath his blanket of tattered stars,
the man waits
in hope, that tender lunacy,
to find the lady who resides in the corners of his dreams.
He longs to touch her outside his mind's eye,
but all too soon he is asleep
and she is nowhere to be found.
After his breathing evens out, he
rises unconscious from the bed,
shuffling towards the canvas.
Sitting picturesque before the easel
he eases the woman into existence,
champagne beneath his brush.
She never stays longs, though,
leaving with the drop
of her mimosa glass,
bleeding orange onto background and body;
he rushes to catch her oils as she drips between
his fingers.
The painter sighs deep and begins to
cover his work.
Every night his heart breaks
as he paints and paints her over.
When he finally wakes,
dropping the shredded sky from his frame,
he finds the canvas inexplicably different
than how he left it.
It will be forever, it seems,
until their shadows will be allowed to meet,
concrete as a realist's ache
for resolution.
I'm halfway to
A hundred
And I still don't
Know
Why
My soul was
Wound So
Tightly
Wound
Ed
Ted
Ted!
My teacher fought
Against the forces
Imagined, imagination-
-AL
Forces that swept the
Thin gossamer web-
Strand of
FOCUS!
Away.
I jerked awake to
Laughter, the
Unsatisfying kind of
Snickers,
Guffaws,
Kids just trying to survive
Childhood.
"I'm sorry,"
I half-sobbed,
"Would you please
Repeat the question?
I wasn't paying
Attention."
Kindness, sometimes, from
The beetled-brow
Of the series of
Stressed-out adults
Who had the distinct pleasure
Of having Teddy Scheck
Way down there on their
Class list.
Most often it was stern
Consternation. Irritation.
Sometimes, anger.
Shame is anything that
Makes you feel smaller
Than you really are.
Classrooms are battlefields.
Bullies are armies,
And I was at their un-
Mercy.
And time, which seemed to
Hold the infinite expanse
Of its boundless breath,
Exhaled slowly, the squeaky-
Balloon hiss of air escaping
A too-tight orifice.
And I'm swimming in the
Miasma of confusion, self-
Loathing, desperation, and
The incredibly strong urge
To dig for green gold
In my own nose.
Yep.
Welcome to my childhood.
Meanwhile,
OUT IN THE HALL...
Water/bathroom break.
Alphabetically, having "S"
Put me toward the end of the line,
But not "Zemichael" or
"Young, Rachel,"
or "David Woods"
And Dave Woods, whose
Eyes wandered behind
Coke-bottle glasses, and
Who whistled when he said
His 'Ws' was a kid
I could really relate to.
He got bullied 4th.
I was 3rd-most.
Two effeminate boys,
Scott and Mike,
Who played with dolls
With the girls, twirled
Jump ropes and chanted
Chants and had
High voices, and couldn't
Kick at all,
They got picked on an
Unfathomable measure
More than I did,
Although, strangely, they
Seemed much better equipped
To deal with it, or
Ignore it, or
(I don't know)
(And this killed me,
It really did)
When,
I took it all in my heart,
And head, and stomach,
And elbows, and picked
Nose, and bitten-off
Warts in 1st grade, and countless
Accidents and injuries and
Scrapes and bruises
By the plethora,
So that by 9:00 that night,
I was sobbing beneath
My pillow, trying
Not to make noise
In a household of 10.
And Mom, my sweet
Mom, would take me in
Her arms, and say
The most confusingly
Comforting words in
The whole wide world.
"I'm sorry, Teddy,"
She would cry, holding
Me so tightly I knew that
If lightning struck, or
A tornado blew in from
Kansas, no force on
Earth would seperate me
From my Mom's loving
Embrace.
"My sweet, wonderful,
Imaginative, creative,
Funny child,"
She would whisper, the
Only balm to sooth
The cuts from prissy girls'
Tongues that made
Me bunch my fists and
Run away in anger,
Or sometimes lash out
In fury;
The knuckle-rubs from
That asshole Randy, the
Class jock and class
Bully.
Mom's words of
Affirmation healed
The slashes and punctures
And lashes from the
Tongues and eyes and lips
And patience and compassion
Run dry like a well that
Has died of thirst.
But boy, did I have a
Whopping
Imagination.
I went to where
My dreams were stored
During the day.
And put them on
Like phantasmagorical
Clothes.
I rode my bike
Everywhere.
I took off my clothes
And swam in farm ponds.
I chased leopard frogs,
Ate questionable foods/plants;
And swung higher on
The swing than anybody
Else.
I was happy at times.
I could imitate just
About any sound
(Real or imagined).
I did the voices
From cartoons.
(And I STILL do 'em)
My sisters adored me.
I made people laugh
(Often by accident)
I occasionally sat
Still in church, taking in
Pictures stained colorfully
In glass frescoes.
I had a younger
Brother whom I was
Immensely proud of
And who loved me back
As best a brother
Could.
I had a roof, food,
Clean water, safety
From harm, freedom
To pray and worship,
Questionable bathing habits...
Birthday money
(For about an hour, anyway)
And love.
Wow.
I had more as a child
Than about 95% of
The entire world.
Maybe everything that
Happened to me
Brought me to this
Very
Point
In time.
Soul, wounded over time;
Creates a poem that,
Perhaps,
Can help some
Other wounded
Soul.
A bright pink head scarf reveals my position not allowing a disguise.
Piercing eyes set me alight
as you stare me down,
pinched by curious frowns
surrounded with whispering tensions.
Shame floods my pores and drowns me in accusations,
Lowering my gaze
anger courses through my veins
At the disgusting disgrace
of my kind.
Their moments of inhumanity, striking nations with tragedy and a horror stricken pain to the Muslim name.
Islamaphobia fame has spurted to tame and it cannot be held to blame,
For sick
T W I S T E D
individuals have stained and hate filled memories remain.
This is not my Islam!
I dare to mention
My heart along with yours
weeps for the innocence lost,
the heartbroken families left behind and the fearful scarred onlookers who survived.
Somehow I always seem to forget that I am not your everything,
I am not your life's story
But a mere chapter.
Perhaps a only page or two.
And it's this that worries me, because what about all this time I'm invested in you?
The seeds I planted in your chest have bloomed,
But my fingers will not be the last to pick from them
And my hands will not be the last to graze across the meadows of your skin
Nor will my lips be the last to kiss away your imperfections.
I forget that eventually ,
you will find another girl.
One who's lovely and prettier than I,
One who can tell you how she feels
And who can make decisions.
Who doesn't hinder but help.
One who can give you everything you've ever wanted in the world,
Not just her heart.
And I can't help but feel that I'd be happy for her
Because if it wasn't me at least it would mean you were happy
And then maybe you'll feel at home in her embrace, more so than mine
Perhaps the words she'll speak to you will be beautiful flowers,
instead of the weeds that seem to fall from my mouth.
And I suppose that eventually you will invest your time in her, your future
And that's when I'll become your past,
The ink blots and coffee rings,
Along the old yellow papers,
Or maybe an old flower pressed between the pages,
I think I'd like that
Because maybe you'd remember me as something beautiful
And if not that at least you'd be happy
