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Johnnie Rae Apr 2016
i.  I love you like the sea loves the shoreline; forever coming back for more, and there aren't enough words in the english language to accurately describe what it feels like when you run your hand up my thigh or trace my shoulder blades with the tips of your fingers.  There aren't enough syllables to string together for me to tell you just how much you mean to me. You've become my reason to wake up in the morning.

ii. You are intoxicating. There's no drug out there with a higher potency than your love. I'm afraid I've become a ******, I now need you to survive.

iii. To hear you speak is to feel alive.

iv. I'd give my life to see you smile. Or to save yours.

v. *I can no longer picture an existence without you.
Johnnie Rae Apr 2016
I spend so much time staring at blank canvases
hoping beauty will appear before me instantly
that I forget how the right brain works.
I forget how art doesn't come, it simply is;
you either have it or you don't.
These are talents you don't learn, can't learn.
You're born with the instinct to string words into sonnets
and mix paints into masterpieces, and most of the time,
no one else is capable of understanding just how you got them
to be what they are; it's your own personal daydream
that you can choose to get lost in, or lose in the crevices
in the back of your mind. That's why I write until
my hands go numb and my mind is in shambles.
I figure the more I do it, the better it will become.
The brain is more than an *****. It's a muscle that requires
constant manipulation to keep it in tip-top shape
and I don't ever want to fall into the background.
I want to spend my life tip tapping on keyboards and
scratching at paper with fine tipped pens as if my life
depended on it. To write of things unknown to the
not-so-artsy types. Because I've come to find that
a math or science major isn't usually capable of creating
crescendos with wordplay, or letting syllables shimmy
and shake off the tongue like they're doing the merengue.
It's a song and dance that takes more than simple muscle-memory:
it takes heart and soul and usually a little bit of pain along the way.
Starving artists aren't sad because they're hungry,
no, it's usually because they've experienced life in a way
that no one really wishes to. They've felt emotions rip through them
like tidal waves and that's how they came to write so **** beautifully,
or paint with such depth. Now a day's with depression levels
shooting up like rockets, outlets are hard to come by
but if you can source that pain into something beautiful,
you must be doing something right.
It's come to a point in my life where I believe half of my blood
is infused with the ink I've used to label my hurt
and ease my pain.
It's all about what gets you by; it's become a lifeline.
If it keeps me breathing for another
second, another minute, another hour, another day,
then I might as well let it grow like wild fire. Let it blossom into something beautiful.
Johnnie Rae Mar 2016
instead of dancing in the rain we
let it chain us to the bed post
and i don't think i'll ever forget how
your hands felt at two am when
you should have been home but instead
our legs became tangled and you abandoned
the idea of sleep and took the time to devour me.
Johnnie Rae Mar 2016
the truth is i want to live long enough
to find sustenance in the roots of trees
and the green of grass.
live long enough to see a flower sprouting
in the middle of an untended lawn
and find a metaphor for my own life
within it's growing petals.

i don't know exactly what it is i want to live for
but i know that whatever it is will be beautiful
and i will drown in it's relevance.
it may take me years to find
and i may be old and gray by the time that day comes
but as soon as my eyes lay upon that certain thing
everything that has ever tried to knock me down
will be left dead in dust for a grave

humans are like stones in the ocean
tides turn us over until smooth, if we're lucky
if we're unlucky, the tide rejects us,
rough around the edges
and we face being buried under hot sand
that represents our mistakes.
choices made in moments where thought
was not a process, but instead a rejected idea.
like the many balled up pieces of looseleaf
that live in the garbage pail
next to a dissatisfied writers desk.
it overflows like our own regret.

i can only pray that i do not end up settling
for anything less than the smooth perfection
that i've worked so hard for years to accomplish
i did not pick the hand i was dealt
only made do with the cards in my hand
i am tired of settling
too compulsive to deal with anything less than
what i am capable of changing
i am not saying that i am mansion bound
or set on owning a private jet
but a white picket fence would be nice
maybe a black lab guarding a red front door.
there will be daisies in the flower beds
and red wine in the fridge
i'll make dinners made for kings and our pillowcases
will always match, no matter what.
Johnnie Rae Mar 2016
his hands trailed down my body like november rain
slow and steady, with purpose, with passion
and before my body knew how to react, we were one.

my heart swells in my chest.
i'd craved this for so long.
i rarely pray

but in this situation i mutter of deities,
breathless, i praise a god i don't believe in
and treat pleasure like religion.
Johnnie Rae Mar 2016
I.
It isn't easy spending every day of your life filled with questions. Questions that you're no where near finding the answers to. I feel obligated to turn my life into structured metaphors; unneeded structure is better than none at all, you see. My head is full of question marks, and the sound they make is all together indescribable, and excruciating. Deafening, even. To say that it sounds like impending death is pretty accurate. I can't explain this to people and make sense at the same time, just as it isn't possible to put the feeling of car crashes into words. it's like one minute you're doing as okay as you possibly can and the next, you're falling. Impact can be a deadly thing. Remind me of this when I threaten to jump off a bridge. Maybe you'll scare me straight and I'll stop seeing danger like it's supposed to be a fun thing. Maybe I'll stop spending so much time trying to bite the bullet, and spend more time trying to get out of the firing range. Life is full of maybes and that's the very thing that's killing me at the moment. One can never be certain
Johnnie Rae Mar 2016
it's like there's a stranger living within me
one that wishes to take up less space
and speak not so loudly.

hushed tones sound deafening in empty hallways
no matter how few people are around to listen
I have become scared of the sounds I emit, no matter how necessary.

wish I could sit pretty on the head of a pin
and not have these thighs that rub together
like sticks used to start a campfire to roast me over

I am edible in the eyes of the insane
but there are more of them than there are of me
so I might as well submit to purgatory

treat it as I did for close to 12 years,
something I had to face at least twice a day
once in the morning and again before bed

you'd spit fire in my direction
and I'd send a thank you card
and tell you to expect flowers in the morning

i was  in still water and you were a tornado
you disheveled me every chance you got
and I never once thought to seek dry land

never once thought to rid myself of poison
because to me it was normal,
and I hate you for that.

hate you for making me think it was okay
okay to grow up in a home where abuse was normal
and accepted.

I pass the street of my childhood home and cringe
every slamming door, broken hinge, and shattered dish
replay like violent storms in my memory

things I wish I could forget, but know I never will.
you are the reason I jump as I turn corners
and itch at the thought of razor blades.

i lay restless turning the thoughts over in my mind
staring at a clock with numbers that only climb
screaming and slamming doors never did make for a good lullaby.
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