We've grown claws instead of nails,
and now they're tearing at our throats
leaving feral cuts.
Like a single atom that impossibly wants to split,
we're digging our claws into each others' skin.
Exposing wounds,
spilling guts.
"Careful, you might slip on 'em," she smiled,
not human like;
teeth sharp and menacing.
I did.
And now she lathers her hair with my blood.
A shiny red prize as she rises to the top;
a red supernova,
preaching about what is right and wrong.
Two atoms.
A miracle.
I sit down on the earth,
watching you rise, tending to my wounds.
And I tend, and I tend.
And I tend.
Heal.
Claws; I'm ready.
One day you'll dim and fall,
And I'll just walk away.
Not a supernova,
not an angel,
not a monster.
I'm a human;
body and soul,
and I won't let you waste my energy
no more.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 8:45 AM UTC
When the day comes kiss your kids goodbye
Pack up your things with your heads held high
And try not to cry
Cause we got to be strong
Put on a tough face an promise your love ones your coming back home
Cause it'll be us on the front lines
Us who will be the first to hear the bullets fly
And the rockets and tanks
Out here where just a number
Same thing back home
If you think they care our lives on the line
Your horribly wrong an a lil naive
It's us who will be in the trenches fighting for their lives
Because their to priceless to fight an die
They have to many things to loose
They have a lot to prove
But so do we too
Some of us are fighting for the promise of a big financial break
To put food on our babies plate
To stop the bank from taking
Maybe they will train us
And give us a way to survive
Or maybe it's a way to get rid of us
To deplete or population
We outweigh them
But still there on top
They control the flow of money
While our wells run dry
So when that day comes
It's us who's on the front lines
Trying to provide for the ones we love back home
And it's not like we have a choice
We are the ones picked first
But we don't back down
Be ready
When the rich wage war it's the poor who die
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 9:53 AM UTC
It seems impossible to articulate
The specific degree of hate
I feel for what I'm not
My musings leave me distraught
I feel unable to change my fate.
I fear becoming the person
Who's mind just seems to worsen
That has lost the ability to grow
Creativity under the nuclear snow
Swept away by fear and coercion
I look now at what I've created
The only one by whom I'll be berated
Sees only mediocrity
I already regret this atrocity
I'll only ever hate it
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 6:04 AM UTC
So here's the scene:
11:30p.m. on New Year's Eve;
A bedroom, dimmed lights,
And me—in bright pink pyjamas
Which looked completely ridiculous
With my hair and skin.
Life tip: Gingers and bright pink?
Best avoid.
In fact; I don't know why
I was wearing it in the first place—
I don't even like bright pink.
Anyway;
Whatever.
*This is not the point.*
The point is me;
Sitting at my desk
And writing in my journal
About how emotionally crippling
The past year had been;
Hoping I’d wake up to a better tomorrow—
Only to find the same harsh reality,
Over and over.
And God! What a toll it took on me:
Mentally, physically and spiritually—
When it happened.
It, like a large invisible hand,
Slapping me hard across the face and shouting:
Are you done being miserable?
And maybe that was all I needed to hear.
Once I read that perhaps
You couldn't decide to be happy,
But you sure as hell could decide to be miserable.
And maybe that was one of the truest things I have ever read—
Because that was exactly what was happening.
There is only so much that medications can do,
And only so much that a person could advise,
When your mind is set on:
*I don't want to get better.
I don't deserve to get better.*
And that’s when I saw it:
A tiny spark,
That was always there but for some reason
I had decided not to see.
And in that moment,
It filled my eyes with blind hope
And I decided:
I am going to let it happen.
I deserve to be happy.
I went to bed that night;
A small smile on my face
And this tiny spark still glowing so bright inside of me.
And that’s when I heard it.
When all was still, except for
The air that filled my lungs,
And the beating of my heart
In synch with the rhythm of the universe:
I heard it.
It was a purpose.
My purpose.
It has only been a few days now,
But I know I was right.
Positive.
Because I’m doing okay.
It’s not that I have gained immunity to pain,
Or that some magic has been endowed upon me:
It’s just that I’m not afraid of hurting any more.
And that's just it—
The simple story of how I’ve come to learn,
The most important lesson I have ever learnt, to date.
Jan 10, 2015
Jan 10, 2015 at 5:27 PM UTC
in the middle of the night
when everything is at its quietest
i feel a tug at my hair
i feel a nudge in my side
i feel the pull of my hand
i feel a restlessness in my body
something is calling me
a distant land or perhaps a forgotten muse
something is calling me
and i cannot wait to answer
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC
J,
I painted a picture of the deep blue sea today.
Mrs. A said she loved how I put the sea in the shape of a sphere
Going from a deep sapphire, to a light cerulean,
Until it reaches an inky blackness in the middle.
Such art.
I said thank you.
I didn't tell her about your blue eyes,
And how they reminded me of the sea.
And the air and the heat,
And the earth and life.
I didn't tell her how it feels,
When your eyes glaze over me
Like my soul carries no body.
E asked me this week
If I still collected sharpeners,
Before she whispered about how you got engaged.
I'm so happy for you.
Honestly:
I'm so happy for you it hurts.
I think she wished I hadn't heard her.
I bought more sharpeners that day.
I saw Dr. O yesterday.
She asked me if I still heard your voice
When everything's dead at night.
I know you're not wondering:
But I do.
She asked me if I'm taking my meds,
And sometimes I don't want to,
And sometimes I just want to take them all at once,
But I said I did.
She asked me about the letters.
I told her I filled my fifth box that day.
She told me to stop,
Because they weren't doing me any good.
That's why I wrote you a poem today.
I hope you don't mind.
I saw you with her this evening,
And your family,
And her family.
That's a lovely ring.
I know you're doing well,
And I know you're loved.
I hope you will always stay golden.
Really. I mean it.
Happy Holidays.
Dec 27, 2014
Dec 27, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC