infinity
i stare at the walls for hours on end
and dream about a time when
this box felt like home
and this chipped paint looked like something
other than a reflection of the fist-shaped
holes in my heart from nights
where ****** knuckles were the only
security blankets familiar enough to cradle
against me all night long
the clock keeps ticking,
all day and all night,
like the hands on the glass
that measure the feeble idea of some
meaningless notion from a corpse now
rotting in the same earth he dared to
test the limits of
actually means something
in the big picture
but in the aerial view,
the hands on the clock are all
snapped in two
because time can't save anybody
from vituperative parents;
from profligate neighbors;
from the entire volatile essence of humanity
time does not, in fact,
heal a broken heart,
or toss aside the muddy rug
with footprints of those who whispered
"i love you"
into the pillow case but never
came back in the morning
time can't protect anyone
from even the most unholy
truth of all:
there is no rapture on the brink
of delivery,
there is no antichrist plotting
a resurrection of hell,
there is no divinity coming
to save you from the darkness
inevitably forcing its way
into this world
people are destroying each other
because humanity is flawed
and no amount of time can
ever find the piece of the puzzle
that would sync us all together in
a symphony of lives untouched by the
execrable blood pumping in the veins
of this earth like a poison
time can't save you from yourself
*and so maybe, the hands
on this clock are better off
broken.*
m.k.
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 9:07 AM UTC
My thoughts are turbulent.
Like a clothes dryer, round and round –rumbling.
At night, these thoughts become a hurricane.
Dark clouds congregating within the spectrum of my mind.
A drizzle quickly turns into a heavy downpour,
Engulfing my sanity.
It’s as if I am consumed in flickering flames of orange and yellow.
They are dancing around in my head,
Burning my stability in its path.
Reflections of my life are rippling towards me.
Who I was, who I am…
The floorboards are creaking under the weight of all this pain I am carrying
This carousal ride is continuous,
My mind is spinning and everything is becoming dazed.
My thoughts are turbulent.
Like a clothes dryer, round and round –rumbling.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Sometimes I wish I was blind.
No, don't get me wrong.
I'm grateful that I can see flowers and sunsets but,
It's that many times what my eyes see is distorted.
It's that I find myself making judgements about people based on what they wear, what their race is, where they come from, and caving in to stereotypes set in my mind instead of thinking about who they are as a person.
It's that I use words like ugly or fat to describe people as if looks alone defined them and as if I had the power to define beauty.
It's that I start comparing myself to others instead of being thankful for what I have and who I am.
It's that I start checking out guys
And seeing what's on the outside instead of wondering about what lies inside .
It's that I start selecting people to be friends with based on their appearance instead of wondering who they are as a human being.
It's that my eyes hinder me from focusing on what's truly important.
And perhaps if I was blind my soul would better understand that there is more than meets the eye.
That what makes certain humans great is how passionate they are when they talk about what they love.
How caring they can be in time of need.
How their personality can far outshine looks.
How even if physically a person may be falling apart on the inside they have the greatest heart.
Perhaps if I was blind,
Maybe then would I truly see.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 8:07 PM UTC
These are the days of skies that drift
Down to hug the canopies and lap softly at the hills.
These are the days of rain that flies,
Droplets suspended in the air that burst as stolen kisses against passing cheeks.
These are the days of flaming trees,
Fire that courses through branches to turn leaves into flickering embers.
These are the days of stillness,
A world holding it's breath, quivering with each and every heart beat.
These are the days of lingering dusk,
Cloying so thickly it can be sliced with a cry.
These are the days.
Autumn's days.
My days.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:56 PM UTC
I can’t count with my fingers
The amount of times I have been homesick.
It is one of the bleakest feelings in the world.
The aching,
Bile rising,
Wrongness in my chest.
Makes me feel like I don’t belong here.
This isn't where I am supposed to be.
I've been gone for far too long,
And the desirable place is in his arms.
I now know the worst kind of homesickness,
The kind where I am consumed of inevitable morose.
Being with him is where I need to be.
Inhaling the leftover scent of him from his sweater,
Doesn't smell nearly as good as it would,
If it were inhaled directly from his neck.
Looking at all the photos I have of him, of us,
Isn't quite like seeing his smile in person, or hearing his laugh.
If he is my home,
I must go back soon.
I've been gone for far too long.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:56 PM UTC
the sun is too bright
and the ocean is too vast
and the blood in my veins is thicker than it was on the day i still thought the thunder was an echo of god's laugh
i heard a whisper last night that a gallon of bleach will **** the knots in my stomach,
all tangled up in wild passion
and hopeless despair
and a numbing fear of the void
outside of my boxed up world
i'm sick of all the washed up smirks
from mindless teenagers who think their white smiles and slim waists
will open the world at their feet
and aphrodite herself will bow at their reflection in the river
where the narcissus flower finally leans toward
an image of somebody else
the swing sets in the park are aching
for a child's warming touch
and mothers are bringing bouquets of
flowers to their baby's tombstone instead of wedding,
and families are reading suicide obituaries
instead of making a toast to
love and hope and passion;
boys are in a coma for saying
'i love you'
to a man
and nine year old girls are afraid
to walk through the front door because
of the men who stole their world,
and pieces of green paper hold more
value now than integrity and happiness
ever have;
and somehow we still think we're evolving
maybe the clash in the sky reminds us all that we're only human,
that hearts break and lives end
and there's nobody on the moon
filled with the magic of eternity,
and maybe that's the only beautiful
thing about this tragic world:
we're all alone together.
i made a deal with the devil last night:
he'll **** the butterflies in my stomach if i surrender my soul,
but what's the harm in that
when god is no more than
an imaginary friend
and people are made of
more evil than good;
i know the fluttering will cease eventually
but how much longer can anybody
expect me to keep breathing
when i'm coughing up broken wings
every time i hit a cigarette
there's a raspy voice in my bed late at night
that whispers into my neck
after the fifth or sixth shot
reminding me of the reasons
we'd all be better off if
nobody woke up tomorrow morning
i guess that's what happens when
we **** the grass beneath our feet
and still expect it to grow all winter long
this place is bleak and colorless
and life is vacant space
and everything is meaningless
in this washed out
bleached
world
home is where the heart is,
so maybe if i click this glass to my lips
another three times,
i'll find it
m.k.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC