my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

(I cannot determine who is the coil)
Heavy ropes wrapped around me
So tightly wound up I can feel
My chest cracking, brittle bones
Breaking in unison.

The sound echoes throughout my skull
My temples pounding
Burning up in flames
Desperate to be extinguished
Praying for the fire to move downwards
To ignite the rope, for the conflagration
To run dangerously out of control
My body a raging inferno of war.

My voice choked
There’s not enough oxygen
I’m being suffocated
And only smoke signals
Are emitted from me.

I’m trying to reach, someone
Or something, in the distance
No one can come too close
And anything is always too far
It’s the unfathomable truth
Of my existence.

(I cannot determine who is the coil)
I cannot be understood
Because every look from another
Disintegrates me
And I become nothing more than
A sheet of searing flames.

But every time I’m left alone
I’m always screaming within
My body eating itself from
The inside out
Penetrating pain never laying
Dormant, my skin
its vivacious host.

Heavy ropes wrapped around me
Forging incessant loops
Smothering me to the point
Of death.
(I cannot determine who is the coil)

© Sia Jane

I want my words to be beautiful.
Beautiful like yours.
I want to see ordinary things,
Find the magic in them,
And put the magic on a page, for everyone to understand.

I want to have a way with words.
I want every poem of mine
To become a masterpiece.
Just like yours.

I am not broken.

But you are.

You see the world through pain,
And pain makes the colors brighter.
It makes the value of feelings
Climb higher.

Sometimes I wonder
If I should be broken like you
If I want my words to resonate
Like yours.

Sometimes I wonder,
If it will be truly worth it
In the end.

I wonder what it will be like,
To cut myself up to pour out the beauty inside me.

Just like you.

I imagine that you
Raise the blade
Slice your feelings open
And write your masterpiece
In red.

Life is a fighter's ring
        your opponent
is life's most downs
        with all its fury
forever challenging us most prevalent surely...

What type glory
         do you choose
when failing your fighter's round?
Do you pick yourself up
            after crashing
                           to the ground?

What glory in rising
          your situation
                   newly found?
What invention
              of yourself
in your up and coming round?

Do your cheering crowds please you
               your real friends know
your need?
Will you rise yourself up
          in a thunderous quickened speed?

So, your fighter's glory in rising
       each bout that you take
Will you rise yourself up
      for your honor is at stake...

-This is why i think that most average are heroes no matter what country-
RW Dennen

I remain happy on gains
I become sad on losses
all these reflect me
as I'm human
you are silent
I'm worried
you are one of two
God or Savage

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

I’m a lone wolf
howling in the woods
drawn into darkness
blinded by mere mysteries
I am that I am
because you are of what you made me
you’ve dispersed me into wilderness
you’ve made my soul as hollow
as a ill-treated tree of life
you are my weakness
you are joy
you are a demon implanted in me
I’m somewhere between psychotic and ironic
misunderstood by defiants ...
sometimes I don’t relate to my thoughts, my skin, my walk, and smile
sometimes I don’t know freedom;
is it reluctant obedience towards a fiend or constant countless breaths of a new life?
I’m not death
for I live in the presence of life
you were almost the death of me
but my artistry became the saviour -
the saviour of my soul, my mind, my heart
I’m a lone wolf
howling in the woods
where darkness was drawn to light.

You ask me to believe in you,
To trust you,
To love you,
But how can I do those things
When you are a mere chat window
On my laptop,
And the only way I can see you
Is through a small video clip
On a blurred phone screen?

You and your empty words.
Sometimes I wish
You would just leave me alone
So I can rejoin reality.

flawed to near insanity
but long as you could hold down a job then its alright
isn't that a wise policy she asked
i'm not so sure
watching the clowns strut their stuff
in the midnight sun
they are reckless to be certain but self aware to a fault
just makes it all the more bizarre
watch em go at it with each other over the simplest thing
its no way to live
you can vouch for the living as long as you haven't died
and this madness is just shy of being in a pine box
so darling lets get outa this crazy place
get away from the thinking
that you gotta be like everybody else
get away from the plastic hippie rat-race
roll down the easy highway
find us some sweet sunshine to breath in
find us a better life to be