If only my heart beat in syncopation with my mind.
I wish to make the words collide, but separation is all I can find.
Still I force my hand to tell a tale a soul would plead to hear.
I pray to some cigarette and wine stained God that tomorrow will draw me near.
Yes, tomorrow I would fly high and caress the sky with such a tender touch.
But tonight I am buried, beneath emotion uncontrolled and contorted.
Tonight I cannot so much as separate a single strand of hair from my eyes without the flood of passion.
Pass the salt, pour it onto my self-inflicted wound we so often refer to as love.
But my love has been bruised burnt and destroyed.
I have cursed, killed and polluted my own mind with thoughts of sickness, and now I crave it.
Had I only believed the goodness in myself?
Not let the demons creep up and **** all hope of a new beginning.
Had I so simply as smiled and thanked the lady when she spoke, the gentle kisses of her soft words had pulled my mind from where it had been.
too where I am now.
There are no words. No motions, no belief.
I am Godless and covered in the spit of my immortal demons.
Would it be better if I simply let them win…
their knives are as sharp and their whip is warm.
Their sick pretend grace causes my hands to reach for them. But they’re not there.
Not here, I am without my demons, my lover, my God, my destroyer.
I am alone.
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 11:34 AM UTC
You should just get out.
I’ve changed too much; the pretty lady you looked through that night isn’t the same space being filled by the broken body in your bed. So just get out, you don’t find my frightening or mysterious anymore. My ****** thoughts aren’t spoken words but ravaged thoughts, repressed and undressed for no one anymore. I keep it in, I cannot communicate the bastardizing ******** that’s in my head, I am not brilliantly broken, I am ashamed and busted.
I am not the princess you paid for. I am the thing you’ve worked so hard for, but have failed at none the less. I am the mess you let slip into your heart when you thought no one was looking.
I am not the wind, or the ice water down your throat on a hot day, I am unforgiven and easily forgotten. I am bitten but not chewed, I have bite marks the shape of my own mouth down the gaps in my spine and I am nothing, I am not my own mind.
So just leave, let this be a warning and just get out. I am not deserving of your serving or your love. I am pathetic and weak and baby I am not the sunrise you thought you were chasing I am the fire that burnt down your house.
I have done nothing for you but bend your will, I am not fortifying and I am not forcing you to stay anymore. So say what you but just get out.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
I do not exist.
I have translucent skin,
I insist on the breath I take, I am responsible for no one.
muscle structure is a modern myth.
my bones only move on your command.
There is control in your touch.
and your memory is holding me down.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 9:47 PM UTC
This house is as old as dust.
It creaks and sighs with ever once of pressure.
My room
Is dark and smells ever so slightly of someone who is not me.
The young girl who waited for snow days, the boy: his
Midnight eyes and, broken memories, intact.
(His heart and his head in a field somewhere)
She holds a place here, with the dust and the creaking floors.
There are moments held in captivity within these walls.
(Suspended in disbelief, for they cannot imagine who has replaced them.)
My heart still rests on the bed, my eyes weary.
A day of traveling behind me, a lifetime of moments ahead.
(the blunt assumption there is more to life than this.)
She is not me, the crossed legged one.
Computer screen, light pollution beside the old lamp,
(cascading the room with warm and comforting shadows)
What once frightened me, now I greet like an old friend.
I am here for a moment, as is the light.
Ignited with a spark and snuffed again by a whim,
Of something I cannot control.
This house is as old as dust, and I will return to it
Time and again, although it will never truly
Be mine
(ever again.)
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
There are no hammers in my room.
No tactical advances which need enhancements.
no broken bits of furniture in need of further
assessment.
There are no screwdrivers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed.
nothing blotchy or broken.
or to say this house is less than homely.
There are no hammers.
no holes filled with crack filling nothing willing to be cut.
destroyed. Deconstructed. Detonated.
No little lines on the carpet, no rusty pipes beneath my sink
There are no razors in my bathroom
nothing which brings blood from my retinas
nothing stinks of mold, nothing sinks in the carberater
escaping excavation
measure the short comings of my
makings, and takings, and tasks.
There are no dust mites beneath my bed
there are nothing but soap and cleansing masks.
sleeping with the boogy man, sharing his head
space,
no naked, termites in my walls.
skeletons in my closet.
nothing that would appall an exterminator.
nothing which says this house is less than
homely.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Watch him work.
legs swinging,
head bumping to the music floating between his ears.
look to his hands hold pens, pencils, stylus.
awkward stance, laying.
look up,
there's the rub.
You cannot see the finished piece, but the work in progress is progressive enough.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 11:31 PM UTC
I lose people, it's what I do.
While my friends lose car keys or pairs of socks.
I'm stuck losing people.
Tripping over shoe laces and old belongings.
Longing to look back and see familiar smiling faces,
instead I'm left with my own star dust, which rusts in the rain.
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
The artist sits with one leg crossing over the other.
she doesn't look at him, draped over the sofa, eyes softly closed.
she wishes his lips were as soft as they appeared when he spoke to her.
The historian studies until it's too late to think straight.
The artist will be sleeping and dreaming in
technicolor.
He hurts her from the inside, moving but somehow keeping his body motionless.
making her wish, his whispers were as soft as his lips looked
in the sunlight.
but he only holds history, and she would hurl his head at a canvas
if it would make the memories mute.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
Once tall, he now sits stooped over a stool.
drool, dropping from his lips.
pen in hand and hardly a smirk to share
where he once mocked.
the clock now ticks
louder.
He’s still regarded as a ****
by everyone but her.
and it sticks like gum under
table tops, and flips
and flops, because he once had a confident air.
Now there is a blatant obnoxious stare.
A history of charm does less good
and more harm than it should.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 3:53 PM UTC
The world was cold this evening, hard as fresh rocks on the beach. There was no rain to lull us to sleep.
My love you and are floating.
There is no space more vast than the piece between our fingers.
millenniums pulled into the inches between your naked feet; and mine
bathed in the moonlight, the frozen grass.
We slept here, was it the pills which numbed our senses,
or did we only now feel the putrid sadness which emancipates all lovers.
lengthy discussions between my teeth and your lips, strong cheap tea.
and ***** toes.
millions of miles resting between who we were,
and where we were going.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 2:31 PM UTC