such a beautiful mess, intertwined and overrun
overgrown and tangled and chaotic and fair
a swirl of thorns and dewdrops and earth
eyes that sparkle with petrichor and hope
hair with sunrays weaved and rivers entwined
bones which are not bones, but inky flora and mud
sculpted by the trees and the stars and the air
ephemeral glow and luminent dullness
smell the grass and the weeds and the stone and joy
hear the light and the rain and peace and dirt
taste the wind and the toxic petals and soul
see the longing and leaping and flying and warmth
feel the lucid colors and the pastel dreams
such a beautiful mess, unclothed and airy and loved.
{alaska}
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
It burns.
Badly.
The burning sensation
Can take over and ****
But you begin to like the burn.
Even crave it sometimes.
It's the kind of pain you secretly love.
Kind of like when you hurt someone you love,
Or when someone you love hurts you.
You know it's bad.
You know it's wrong.
But you just can't stop.
Because even though it's awful,
Even though it's painful,
Even though it's lethal,
It all hurts so good.
{alaska}
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
What am I to you?
Surely, I am nothing more
Than a cigarette of yours.
You've had many like me before,
And you will have many more like me to come.
You keep me in your back pocket at all times,
Waiting,
Craving the touch of your lips
On my papery skin.
When you finally choose me,
It's heaven in my heart.
I feel fireworks, like the spark of a lighter
Igniting my love and soul.
You taunt me with the promise of a good night's kiss,
But all I receive are a few false kisses blown my way,
And eventually,
You drop me on the floor,
And stomp.
You'll leave me there, sparks extinguished and heart in fragments,
Watching your lips do their beautiful dance
On another just like me.
Forever forgotten. Forever irrelevant. Forever inept.
Breathe me in.
Inhale me.
Tempt, but never touch.
What am I to you?
Surely, I am nothing more
Than a cigarette of yours.
{alaska}
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
I like to think each soul is a story.
I like to pretend that every person has a tale inside of them, waiting to be told.
I like to fantasize about what type of story each person contains.
I like to wonder what type of story I contain.
Is my story a sad tale of misery and sorrow?
Or is mine an exciting, action-packed manuscript?
Or is it an enthralling, romantic love novel?
Or is it a warning, for others out there like me?
I like to pretend that there are whole worlds swirling around
Inside each and every person around me, waiting to be set free.
But then, maybe I'm not pretending after all.
{alaska}
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
She was a mischievous child.
Young, beautiful, playful, curious.
And at the mere age of six,
She had a secret.
Her eyes were two twinkling, shooting stars.
Stars that she had mischievously reached up and snatched from the sky one night with a butterfly net
When no one was looking.
She kept them safe, tucked away in secretive sockets so no one would know what she'd done.
They were her secret to keep.
The world spun on, and she aged and aged.
Her life went on.
She married, she worked, she had children of her own,
And not a single soul did she tell her secret of stolen light to.
Finally,
It was her last day on this planet.
She lay in her bed, covered in crocheted blankets, adorned in wrinkles
With her six year old granddaughter sitting at her bedside.
She felt herself starting to die.
She mustered up all the strength she possessed to sit up one last time.
She leaned over towards her granddaughter.
She put a bony, gentle finger to her pursed lips, and winking at the darling youth.
And then,
Mischievously, with a knowing smile,
She reached up and plucked the two twinkling, shooting stars from her eye sockets.
She extended a frail hand, palms filled by two orbs of pure shimmery light
And with a tender, placid touch
Set the stars into the sockets of her granddaughter
For the girl keep for her lifetime
Just as she had.
She slowly, calmly, laid back down.
She winked again at the youthful girl, who, in turn, put her finger up to her pursed lips.
Then, leaving her long-protected secret in the hands of her darling kin with new sparkling eyes,
The aged mademoiselle gently shut her eyelids over dark, empty sockets
For the very last time.
{alaska}
Dec 18, 2013
Dec 18, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
My imagination runs wild with thoughts of you.
Your footsteps forever embedded in the sand of the beach that is my mind.
"Why sleep?" I used to ask myself.
Now I crave sleep, for in my dreams we can spend an eternity together.
We are not what people say we are, or what we say we are.
We are lovers, dreamers, stowaways, addicts.
We will live on and love on forever,
In our own little infinity.
{alaska}
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Her skin was made of glitter and sunflower petals.
Her eyes were the oceans, condensed into little orbs that fit perfectly into her sugar-coated skull.
Her flowing hair was pure rays of sunshine that sparkled like the sea.
Her fingernails were little stars, who shrunk just for the privilege of living on her sparkly hands.
Her lips were made of fireworks, that remained on narcotics until a lucky boy kissed them.
Her shoes were pure bubblegum and smiles.
Her clothes were lace curtains and pages torn from aging books with tea stains on them.
Her scent was that of green tea and loveliness.
Her love made him truly understand that she was the Earth, the sky, and everything in between.
Her love made him believe in starry nights and dreams come true.
Her love was natural and chaotic and serene and beautiful.
Her love was real.
{alaska}
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC
Have you ever wondered who will come try to save you from killing yourself?
Or, furthermore, who will be the person to hear your dying words?
Or, furthermore, who will read your suicide note?
Or, furthermore, who will show up to your funeral with a tear in their eye once you've gone?
Have you ever wondered who truly cares about you enough to do all these things?
Have you ever wondered who is going to cry when they find out you're dead
and who is going to be just fine?
Have you ever wondered what will become of the ones you love once you've moved on?
Will they suffer in turmoil and angst,
Or will they live on as if you never left
or possibly, as if you never even came?
What about once they find out how you died? Will they suffer then?
What if your death causes another death?
What if the person you thought your whole life would never love you back
was thinking the same about you?
What if you being gone is too much to bear?
How would you feel if you knew you dying would **** someone else?
Would you still do it without any regrets?
What about now?
If you had all this information stored up in your pocket,
would it be enough to throw away the razor?
Drop the knife?
Unload the gun?
Take the noose off the ceiling fan?
Back away from the cliff?
Could you survive simply because you understood how much people really care about you?
Or would it not be enough?
It's unfortunate that we don't learn how much we are loved until after we are too dead to know.
{alaska}
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC
The smoke entwines itself around and through your soft hair
It circles around your small nose
It traces the outline of your gentle facade
It laces through your fingertips
It makes a nest on your t-shirt, and rests there for the night
It cuddles up close to your smooth, pale skin
It warms you up on a chilly November evening
It makes you feel loved.
Oh, how I wish I were smoke.
Maybe then,
I could entwine
And circle
And trace
And lace
And nest
And cuddle
And warm
And love
You too.
{alaska}
Nov 30, 2013
Nov 30, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
At first, I felt like an invader. A trespasser in these spirits’ home.
The stillness swirled around me, as if it were trying to dizzy me away.
The tombstones didn’t want me there. I was abhorrent.
But then, I felt a kindling inside of me.
And as I sat in solitude under the withered old tree between the graves at 2am,
I couldn’t help but feel like the tombstones were my friends.
I couldn’t help but feel like a tombstone myself.
All I was was a symbol for what I had once been, a memory of who I once was.
What was inside of me, though, was just ashes of the past.
Sometimes people visited, dropping off a flower of hope or love or anguish,
But once that flower died, I was dead.
I started to cry.
I cried for these people, these new friends of mine.
I cried for their pasts.
I cried for my own.
And in that moment, I realized,
I was meant to be a tombstone.
People were meant to visit my grave. People were meant to cry for me.
I wasn’t meant to have a happy life. I was meant to have a memorable death.
I was meant to transform into a tombstone, for the world to visit and cry for.
And that was okay with me.
{alaska}
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC