Wars rage in between the static charge of our hatred.
Look at us.
For once, really look.
Without thinking of what you can say next to hurt me most,
look at the pain you've sewn into the boots of your children.
So that when they walk out to face an apathetic world,
the roots in their souls anchor them besides familiar creeks of pain.
You've stolen from me that which cant be replaced.
In this civil war you took my home.
Lincoln said, a house divided cannot stand.
And now I understand him.
I can feel the baseboards curling up like dried paint.
I can feel the windows fracturing inward,
I can feel the fire lapping at the bars of a crumbling hearth.
and I cant handle the evil you spill into my pillow cases anymore.
Either change,
or leave.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
Are nightmares only for the sleeping?
Or do they fester and grow
on the furrows of our soul
waiting to claim us?
Ragdoll demons
fighting over the
scraps
of our humanity.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 8:55 PM UTC
My Muse is a fickle fair weathered breeze,
staying just long enough to rustle my leaves and abandoning me
burning in the passionate colors of Fall.
Empty, the leaves fall
deserted.
My muse resembles the elemental lightning
of a boiling summer night,
illuminating the sky for no longer than an instance.
all that was vivid and clear by his lantern spirit
now drips
sloppily in blacks and grays.
My Muse is a tentative, shy being
with the voice of a God.
Delicately he dances with my sleeping soul,
leading the steps like a puppeteer afraid of hurting his limp marionette.
Still and silent I feel the pull on my heartstrings,
my Muse gently testing the threshold of the human spirit.
I am aware of him
a warm hand closes over my heart,
as if reminding me that it's not a crime to be human.
My Muse is the love of my soul,
separate and opposite,
equal parts love and hate,
annihilating together in a firework display,
leaving me free.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 10:47 PM UTC
For most people
chains are apart of their being.
They are chained to a job
a loved one
a spouse
a child
a friend.
I have no such binds.
My chains reach inward.
violently grasping
at something to secure.
each morning when I stretch the early frost from my spine
I breathe in the cold air
and the metal knot around my stomach
constricts.
Just.
a little.
tighter.
Sep 26, 2012
Sep 26, 2012 at 8:28 PM UTC
Id like to draw you a soul that fits mine.
The two halves of a small glass shell.
But.
You already lost your soul,
And mine has taken to spending lonely nights,
nestled in the trees
overlooking our stream.
Do you remember?
Do you remember telling me stories
about the owls
who carried the frost on their wings?
Only now do I understand,
the early spring frost wasn't caused
by these silent guardians.
Shoes muddy from soft banks
cool waves of rejection lapping at the shoreline of my soul
the frost tried to warn me,
an icy shield against you,
killing blossoms and decorating my heart
with snowflakes,
telling me softly, that eventually,
the warmth of your jacket would be gone.
The frost chilled me to the bone,
and my soul shivered,
trying to feel its frozen fingertips.
Honest hands cradled clockwork rhythms
and everything was warm.
Young and foolish I mistook this spark for love.
It wasn't you.
The warmth I experienced
on that frozen night
wasn't my love for you,
but my soul falling in love
with the early frosts of spring.
Never before had someone cared enough
to light a fire in my soul,
simply because
the brightest candles were made
to burn.
Unselfishly the cold mist caressed my being,
lighting a fire with the friction
of compassion.
You have long since faded from me life,
like a complex puzzle
left out in the sun.
You took back your jacket,
returned my books,
and left us lonely.
So I write my letters to no one
while my soul sits in our tree, staring hopefully
at the stagnant water
and wishing
for the owls to return.
Bringing with them
the unselfish frost.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 8:09 PM UTC