Breathless, contending with soft incantations, sorrowfully begging to be allowed to take their rest,
to fasten drowned butterfly lids covered with lashes filled with dead skinned dust
To glorify the film foaming from behind the eyes in which reel underneath entombed flesh,
as if trying to create a virtue within every taken step
Justifying every fickle and fear littered yawn,
as heavy blinks cause a rupture in the flawlessly molded skin around the maw
To venerate the endless curriculum of the sleepless nights of golden lamplight,
sodden eyes of the blind to live within darkness within plight
Ask the bird outside the shell of what he sees through the filtered shades drawn to a close,
a genuinely gruesome viewing of the true ****** of the situation's woes
Naught a reaction nor utterance escapes his arid desert of a throat, sickened, but wizened
as his sharp eyes catch singled beats of the struggling heart inside
A single croak of the crinkled night shares the isolation,
within the cold and dark limbs of the fractured sun shining through the skies exploitation
Sending sequined daydreams with hands that acquire hold,
and never cease to grow in checks and balances,
as the cracks on the fogged windowsill allow in the howling cold
Bleary eyes additionally crinkle with disgust at the marks written at the bottom of graphite laden pages,
with falsified make-believe and little white lies mixed with the scent of sharpened wood edges
Sentences blurring together, creativity shortening ,and discontinuity rearing its ugly head high
causes a shift in the neurological aspect of the mindset, leaving the windmill to stop its slow lilting to the left and right
Tricked into the bliss of sullen sleep, head crashing to the harsh wooden desk, lolling ever so slightly in the dream land
Where the night is swept aside with a glowing, angelic paradise, with promises of maiden's lips upon soft hands
Oh how much don't you wish for these lusting stories to be true,
\in which the bridge between reality and the dream world would intersect and begin anew
So old man, you can sit and waste away your life and check the paper work of peers
Who don't even give a **** at the thoughts that whirl through your head in rusting gears
Because they don't understand, they don't even know how it feels to wish to be freed from the flock.
How could they?
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
Through the masks and obscured within the lies, lays the truth unsaid in which all despise
Too much had been appraised, and much was fitfully un-right, so vastly dark within folded light
He was King, and she forever his Queen, still they hold each others hands, a thrilling vice in which they teamed
Their faces lit with withering sight, flightless eyes instead of cocky fulfilled and streaming plight
They tangoed to flooded phantom operas and darkly lit scenes, set with bloodset roses and heartfelt keys
Bowing inside the night they longfully romanced, ballerined on fruitless olden toes that would soon become cramped
Whispering together, they flee against the mournless sounds, that crept and prowled outside the bounds'
Deciding a long time ago to dance their lives away, to live within the fleeting joy and feel their heartbeats sway
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
She sits alone, mostly. Rolling within the rank sweat and smog filled room she calls her "home"
Black and white, black on black, white on white. Crisp and clean, yet muddied with her emotional tolls
Gangly legs lay crissed and crossed into the apple sauce, folding in and bent at the knees
Her Raven hair is swept across the floor like a ***** mop left out to dry in the rotten sunshine (or so she calls it)
Portraying the swayed emotions that she feels like a long black river of gnat buzzing irritation
"Stupid." she whispers in a mocking tone, head cocked to the side with a face filled with blankness
"Stupid Pretenders," she mutters in a voice as soft as the whispering ghosts, lost within the sounds of the dead
Pretenders. That is what she calls them as they flit too and fro, ignorance and bliss surrounding the obvious facts
Floating in and out of her mind, she has memorized every single one of their faces, down to the last detail;
Every last acne scarred face that tormented her while she was a "just a child", they billow down into her mind
The blank and fish glossed eyes never truly seeing, staring blankly ahead of them while they passed by, oblivious
Like running brooks, and rays of light they ebb and intertwine into who she is (or who she thought she once was)
She enjoys pretending that she knows their stories, has lived their lives, all while she is glaring madly into lost space
Having been swept astray, she descends deeper between lulling calls of the dead, mourning in sweet song for her fruitless life
They plead with her to sacrifice her existence, escorting peace into her tattered soul, to terminate her withdrawn pain
Lending her the hand of the Black Rider who comes at dusk, singing a haunting lullaby to drag her down into the dawn
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
There is only solace within the silenced bird who had the wanton thoughts of singing
And clarity within the cold dead hands of the mangled bodies who lay beneath
The soft black soil held inside the pliable folds of the Presidents hands.
As he lobs it into the impoverished child's grits to feed upon
Suckling from the **** of a democratic mans ideology
He heaves it into their frantic phizog, because he has got the green from cultured trees
And all they own within possession are his feces, to be buried within the waste of his decisions.
But no matter
As we have always evolved to strive within the muck of poverty.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 3:35 PM UTC
There no longer is light in once brightly lit blue eyes
The light has faded being overrun by
Rotting alone with the steam of the bath drawn
High in heat and low in self esteem
She sits wrinkling in her own decaying moods
The razored edge pressed against the bite plain palm of her left hand
The nails on her right too bitten and bruised from a nervous tick
That was earned over the formidable years of solitude
In the presence of a man, women or child
She chewed those nails untill only ****** stumps remained
To hold the blade against the skin
As she slits the frightened skin, it splits open against the cool metal
Repeatedly freezing her dead beating heart
Giving jumps to an amnesiac heart that forgot
The drums in which it beat alongside to the tune
Peeling at the edges to reveal a rotten core
Oozing with an unknown slime
The black coloured lumps of already clotted blood
From the twenty times before
She took the razor again in her hands
Again and
Again and over
Again.
Slowly and always she's been cutting off her life line
One slit of the vein at a time
Exposing the eroded mess of a body
And the tangles of a decomposing brain that is
Wishing away her life upon a dream
A dream inside the dream of a life that was not her own
The model who lives in anorexia, who cannot actually breathe
But it is what she wishes.
So her bones jut out like flags against the bathtubs silkiness
Her face is sunken, a hallowed place with no life
Her bones etched and engraved with years of fear
From the "dimples" and layers of fat that stuck to her like glue
The "flab" that was skin that hung loosely from her ribs
An aspiration that caused this illness
And set her on the course of searching for a homedial cure
Yet, she is not thin enough, so she cuts away the flesh upon her body
With salt mixing with soap
From her once bright blue eyes and
The suds within the steaming water
That lap against her skin like a cat tongue
Roughly tormenting her already devoured soul
A harsh reminder of what she could never have
So the resolution she came up was to carve away her insides
To give away her vitals to the poor children in the world
In an attempt to be rendered thin and to disappear from plain sight
But she still can't choose what stays and what fades away
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 2:27 PM UTC
To paint the scene of my former life
One must first take a look into a little dusky room filled with shady sunlight,
Streaming in through dusty blinds that never actually shade the eyes.
They produce blinding shafts of light that burn the eyes like blades are hiding within red fired laser beams.
Imagine a little rocking horse, painted black and gold, with a little red bell dangling off of the red reins attached. Nostrils flaring, ready to be ride out into the sunset, but never actually to be ridden.
Two comfortable twin beds shoved into the corners of the room, leaving indentations upon the slightly greying,
Off white carpet that had once been plush, now smashed into the ground with dirt and grime from children playing.
The comforters on the top of the bed lay strewn and rumpled; covered with dinosaurs and their names,
Allosaurus, Tyrannosaurus Rex, and Brontosaurus.
All with goofy pictures in greens and oranges that a child could laugh at when frightened.
On the right side of that room, from when you walk inside, the walls are painted a malicious purple,
Like a swelling bruise had been inflicted upon the wall by some unseen hand that had forced a fist.
A big ugly bruised wall.
Accompanying that bruise on the left half of the wall is a faded blue,
The color of pearls painted over with a smattering of blue paints,
Enveloping the trim of the room is a metallic silver haze that was just beautiful,
Creating illusions of moonbeams and silver roses within it.
The ceiling was glorious as well. It was covered in millions of stars.
Although they were glow in the dark plastic stickers that could be hung anywhere,
I still saw them as fiery gases burning miles away.
Of course, at the time I was well aware of what stars were, as I had a love for them.
I would gaze upon them late into the night, often in awe and wonder at how it would feel to be one.
Would it feel as if I was enlightened and owned the universe,
Or would it be a darkened, frightening place, filled with loneliness?
I had always wondered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is much screaming. High pitched, it sounds like the whining buzz of an angry bee .
A scream nonetheless. So very loud, it is, and it rings like church bells in my ears.
Ringing, and ringing, and ringing...
The scream sounds so very close to me,
Perhaps this is because the wailing sounds some from my very own mouth.
The screams, crawling and digging their claws up and out of my throat,
Unburying themselves as they seep out in tormenting waves, leaving my throat a red and raw coated mess.
But still, I scream.
My throat resounds the despairing loneliness that had welled up in those short years of my life,
Finally taking their act of freedom, welling up and pouring out like caged birds,
Fleeing from the cage with freedom in their hearts.
Although this was never true, this was never to become freedom,
The fleeing screams do not pierce the veil that shrouds the deaf ears that were meant to hear it,
Turning away in ignoramus bliss.
“You are the banshee wailing,”
My Mum says with a growling lilt to her voice as she pushed the door to my room closed with a glare,
Her fingers clenching the door, knuckles turning white with frustration.
Tiredness has already beginning to line her once youthful face with spiderwebs of indecision of what she truly wanted. As I scratched my bleeding nails across the closing door, frantically searching for a place of escape,
My mind races and thus, I began to horde emotions of resentment for my parents.
I constantly wanted to free myself from the jail that my world had always seemed to be revolved around.
My nails are bloodied and fingers bruised, I give up in defeat from the fear.
Although it may only be pounding upon and freezing the insides of my veins,
It is exactly what created this insane version of myself. This wild animal who scratches, bites and roars,
The primitive animal comes from deep within the skin wearing it as a costume in the form of a little three year old girl.
I was locked away for most of the three years I had spent with my cold and unfeeling parents,
Who wanted nothing to do with me, nor ever share their love.
(Or so I thought as a child, whose hopes of freedom were breaking away even before they were molded).
I have retained this in my memory banks for my entire life,
Even after when those around me told me I was too young to remember it.
But how could I possibly remember this in such crystal clear detail,i
If I had been a thoughtless, and blank minded child at the time?
This experience has obtained and earned one of the darkest places in my mind,
It has forced me to keep it inside my entire life.
I call it the dark forest, the place that remains shadowed, blackened and cold.
Most of my horrible memories are part of that forest, creating the trees that form it.
From this forest leaps the monsters that tormented me in my dreams, howling and baring their teeth,
Their shapes surrounding me like a thick and rank fog that was inescapable, their breath rolling down my neck.
The stench making my eyes roll back, turning the world black.
Then suddenly I would wake up, an invisible scream rising in my throat, sweat soaked and shivering with fright.
Even then, I could still see them.
Their red eyes glowering at me in the darkness of my room that I shared with my sister Dakota.
Sometimes I imagine that I can still see them, and a paradoxical paranoia rushes down my spine,
Forcing every hair to stand on end, and cold fear to paralyze my body, to the point that I am immobile.
Like frightened prey trying to hide and fold the body in on itself,
From an un-explainable fear that was reared from my childhood.
I was created at the hands of those who love me now, but at first were disgusted at the sight of me.
I was merely an obligation in which they had to feed and bathe on few occasions.
An abomination, something to be frowned upon.
Their indecision and ignorance was what caused one of my largest complications of the brain.
This experience created the driving need that I still carry with me today to be surrounded with people.
I feel as if I cannot survive without them, because my childhood was so filled with loneliness,
That I need to gain back that attention that was taken away from me.
Considering this, of how insane I had been as a child, like a froth mouthed animal, begging for scraps of food,
Only my food was social activity and freedom, in which I was explicitly not allowed to be given often.
My grandparents, if I have remembered correctly, their faces seeming more youthful than my parents,
Pouring experiences into me like a mug, gracing me with feelings of wonder instead of blind fury,
Overwhelming me with their kindness and compassion.
They were the ones who changed me, took me in and made me feel like I was really alive and was of relation.
They made it seem as if I were still slightly human, not a craze eyed child who acted like a wild animal,
Who was feared and pitied by those who came to see me.
Although it did take time to recover from my horrific experience,
I have learned to gain control of my emotions through meditation, sometimes to the point of becoming a blank slate.
I was the girl who acted as if I was not of this planet, as if I was off in another universe taking a soul vacation.
Tracing patterns in the constellations, my eyes star struck and filled with wonders that only I knew of.
Being so used to a constant state of harmony, that the world around began to blur,
Taking little notice of any change within it, even if the images crossed and passed within inches of my unseeing gaze.
Viewing the world as it was meant to be seen; with beauty and stained with emotions.
This is a story of a girl with the once crazed eyes who saw the world as a fearful place with no freedom,
Who behaved not unlike a wounded animal caught in a trap,
Whimpering and pleading with her mournful gaze for freedom.
Only now this girl had been turned into a starry eyed child with wisdom from a past of tragedies.
~This is who I am and this is my story~
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:09 PM UTC
"My dahling," ...
That is how she always will begin, with a lilt to her speach
Her words slurring together as if she's been ******* on the bourbon from your private store
For every minute and every second of the three hours that she had been gone away
Doing whatever it is that young damsels, who do whatever they please shall do
Then she will wrap her cold arms around you, reminding you of the wintery landscape outside
Putting her lips close to your ears, she will whisper and she will try to tell you again;
"My dahhling, my dearest, dearest friend,"
She pauses, hesitating a little too much for you to know that it is not something good.
But since when have the two of you been friends?
She was just a women, and you were just a lonely old man who needed someone
To take care of your very sore and achy feet from the arthritis that had evolved over the many decades of your life
So why the hell would she call you her dearest friend? When the hell did this happen?
What did she want from you? More? You had given her everything her little heart could ever desire;
The fur coats, the crystal jewels, even that 1997 baby blue convertable with the velvet seats
That you had proffesonally done, not too mention that as well
**** women always want more. More, more, more. Can never get enough can they?
They whine, they snivel, they grovel, and they chirp like little birds when they recieve what they want
But she, Little Miss Want It All, still seems to be left, and always wanting more.
Turning you face her, you notice the little things that you have never seen before
The way her nose is slightly off center, or that her eyes are an eerie blue tang color
The way her breath feels against your old wrinkly skin when she speaks to you softly
"My dahling, I need to tell you something."
She whispers this as she curls her hair around her fingers from where she is standing
Which is behind your real, and expensive leather couch that she had you get imported from Russia
You roll your eyes, thinking you know what the little **** will say;
That she lost the diamond earings you got her, or she got a scratch on the car you bought
And she wants a replacement. ********* Always. This always happened, practically once a month
Money, **** that women to hell! She seemed to just throw it out the window and forget that she had it
Well enough was enough, you could nolonger take this part of her.
No matter how long her legs were in five inch heels, or how beautiful she looked
She seemed to spend every penny that you had ever earned without noticing
Leaning towards you her hair tickles against your face, the smell of cherries floating out
That was the one good thing about her, she always kept herself in tip top shape
But now as she leans over you, her lips inches away from yours;
This is how she will end, her voice reeking of yes, the bourbon from your private store
"My dahling, it seems that I have pawned off your house. And everything else you own."
Well ****
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
The people surounding me; in looks is where they are bloated with pride
Of this of course, I am so very sure, that upon wood I could knock
They have to walk the walk and be able to talk the talk
Not thinking much of, or giving a care on to what is inside
Well as for me, I have begun to learn my face
And I know for sure as well; that it is not a thing of grace (Nor will it ever be)
So I would rather work upon the parts of me
What is inside; That no one seems to really see
Some jesters will happen to say with a voice of stern
"Pray to the Lord she is ugly as sin,
And perhaps another will say in a kindly return;
"But luckily she has beauty deep within."
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 9:04 PM UTC
The beauty of youth will forever belong at your side, and therefore it will stay
Even after the hairs upon each of our heads begin to glow like a white halo ray
After it has turned from the fairest of golds to whispy alabaster whites and greys
Never shall youthful beauty whisper farewell to us on any occuring days
Even after long are gone the glorious days in the past and time we have spent
Now filled with the sad longing, with hurting glances, in which is called resentement;
These are from the multitude of wrinkles; of which to gain we never meant
But still; the beauty of youth weeds out those feelings, helping us to repent
The thinning upon our heads? Remind us of the days we were conspicuously snooty
Because those were the fruitful times in which we were often called a "natural beauty"
Noses in the air because we thought being beautiful was our righteous duty
Only now the surface of our faces have been wrinkled and bleached like an old dried abalone
The bounties of our short timed youth, have long been washed away with the waves of time
But that allows us to remember; and rejoice at every steep mountainous climb
Through smiles and laughs; and the misshaps in which we were thoroughly covered in grime
The beauty of youth resonates through every memory even when it tries to be sublime
The richest of light is not from youthful beauty; but forever it will always be lit and cast
The light from the joyful sound of chirping birds; and the tirelessness of laughs,
Of the mindless days we spend vainly dreaming, stepping off our "to be discovered" paths
With the hopes of regaining our once beauty filled and profitable youthful pasts
(Those are the very brightest, of every youthful light)
Aug 5, 2013
Aug 5, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC
In Truth;
Should it matter what we really are? Or should we let our true colors shine?
Being held alive, but only in a straightjacket, learning you are bisexual?
Getting the doctors' notice that you are bipolar, or just being merely different?
Should we be ashamed, from the words that pass from behind each of our lips?
Should we simply hear the music, in which is played by the melody that you create by your own hands?
Should we repress out the truest of our colors so the rest of society cannot see the difference?
Dear Mika;
Say Goodbye; to the world you thought you lived in, to the world I thought I lived in
Where society was all strange, with no definite curve, without any hesitation from the ignorance
Now, the bitter and sour taste behind swollen tongues in disgust of what they only think they see
Spitting acid upon those they are lead to believe are sinners, disgraceful, and unrighteous
As they hold out a helping hand, disciplining to correct atrocious mistakes they believe you made
But you are only human, and they peeled through the defenses of pride and confidence you had built up
Take a bow;
And say Farewell, to a society filled with leniency, with the hatred branded hearts breathing fire
In any other world you, could be the difference. To change the rankings of what is right, and what is wrong
But here, you have had to give up your defenses and to let go of the emotions that create this difference
Although society believes that there are two choices to be made, and you have chosen the incorrect side
All you can do is hold your head up higher than the rest, and have skin made of diamonds and steel
Because; it is as if the World wishes to believe that the molecules in your DNA strands are not the same, and gravity doesn't affect you any longer
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 5:27 PM UTC