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Nov 2012 · 471
When I Cry
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
When I cry,
I try not to brush away the tears.
Instead I pull my hair behind my ears,
To make way for the cascade of years.
Nov 2012 · 649
Honesty Ends
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
It's dark, but you can see.
                                  You're alone, but it's not lonely.
You're cornered, but nothing is chasing you.
                               It's scary, but that is nothing new.
Here is where the truth begins to bend,
                                  Here is where the honesty ends.
Nov 2012 · 786
Open Hands
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
Balloons drift idly towards the ceiling of our world
Until they reach the end of the line
And spiral down as an empty shell of the dreams
All the dreams I forced in until it floated up
It left my reach but somehow I knew
That it would reach the top of the sky and be heard
And maybe the remnants would fall down into
My open hands
And I could put my dreams inside again
****** it up into the sky once more
Until
Balloons drift idly towards the ceiling of our world
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
Looking back, I think I knew she wasn’t going to wake up that night. Maybe I thought she wouldn’t wake up ever.
CHAPTER 1: ENDLESS SLEEP
It seemed to me that the fact that movies and stories make it appear as if sad things can only and will only occur during rain and thunder was just stupid. The weather has no affect on the events, right? But I was wrong. On Tuesday, April 18th, I began to realize this apparently idiotic movie ploy might have an inkling of truth buried in it.
That day, the kids had teased me again, but to be totally honest, I didn’t mind it then and I don’t mind it now. It had begun to rain when I was halfway down 17th street. I had immediately removed my shoes and socks, and stuffed them into my bag, which was already overflowing with scraps of paper and books. Most of the books had been for free time reading, and are currently lying in a heap in my room at Dad's, where they will remain unread until I decide to forget that awful, horrible, tragic day.
I ran all the way to our apartment, but went the long way and danced and twirled as my un-zippered jacked flapped uselessly behind me. My lungs burned white-hot, but my body was freezing, a feeling I still to this day enjoy. By the time I had reached the alleyway behind the crumbling yet comforting building, I was soaked through, and I loved it. I decided to go around back so Martin would have no excuse to yell at me in that foul, ill-tempered way that made the skin underneath his chin jiggle. I had started towards the rusted door when I saw her. Of course, it hadn't been her. She had been inside, where she alway waited for me to get home. But I had felt on that day as protective of her as she always insisted upon being with me.
I grasped the icy handle and slipped inside, the warmth of the building suffocating rather than comforting me. To this day, I prefer being cold, because it clears the mind, and warmth clouds it, like the foul demon that lures you into the endless sleep that tried to take my mother that day. I climbed the steps; the sudden noise of my feet on the stairs was like a rock sliding under the water, breaking the calm.
I remember how the climb up the stairs that day had seemed especially long. But mostly, I remember how the apartment smelled when I finally reached the top and slid the key into the lock, turning it noisily. I remember the smell, and how the instant it hit my nose I knew that I wasn’t to expect the warm, gentle mother I came to expect most days, but that I was going to get the harsh, drunken version, when she had been smoking and on drugs.
Resignedly, I called, “MOM! I'm home from school!” only then I hadn't known that I would never get an answer. I dumped my soaking bag unceremoniously in the hall, and it hit the floor with a wet thump, splattering mud on the tiles. When she didn't respond, I had frowned; a face Andrew tells me makes me look somehow more mysterious.
The trip I had then taken to her room revealed only that she had passed out on the bed, and that she smelt of sadness. But at that time, sadness wasn't uncommon. I don't remember how long I stood there, but I know that when I finally awoke from my thoughts, I showered and got into my softest pajamas. I settled down to do my homework, but I hadn't been trying hard, so when the time had come to make dinner, I had only made the smallest of dents.
Simply because I had been tired and hadn't been up to making anything more complicated, I made tomato soup. Mom always used to make my soup with milk rather than water, so that was how I made it too. I poured the soup into mugs, because we always liked to drink it rather than eat it. I remember sipping from my mug, and I remember how the warmth burned the roof of my mouth. The heat of it brought tears to my eyes, which were every bit as salty as the soup. I walked to her room, and knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the apartment. She hadn’t answered though, so I entered with the intention of waking her up.
“Mom!” I had said. “Wake up, I made dinner!” and I set the mugs down on her bedside table. With my freed hands, I had shaken her shoulder softly. She didn't wake though, which had surprised me, for she always woke instantly as if her dreams were frail and easy to shatter.
“Mom!” I had raised my voice, and I shook her more vigorously. “MOM!” I think it was on the third time that I finally began to realize, but I still shook her.
On the fifth try I had begun to cry, and on the sixth the calm part of me told the hysterical part: *She is fine. She will wake in the morning, I promise. She will wake.
That was the first time I ever lied to myself.
I remember pulling the covers on the bed over her, and then gingerly lying down next to her. Mom. I kept thinking to myself, as if my mere thoughts might wake her. But I had known she wasn't gone, for I felt her breath next to me, soft, shallow, and hardly discernible from my own, yet still breathing. I had drunk the rest of my soup, but left hers, telling myself she would drink it when she woke. Now, looking back, I realize how stupid it was of me to have thought that she would wake up.
I don't even remember falling asleep that night, but I must have, for in the morning when I woke I looked quickly over at her, hoping, wishing that she might have risen. I remember shaking her again, pleading, “Mom, it's the morning, and you missed dinner but it's okay, I will make you more if you please wake up, please momma. Please,” But she didn't heed me. I remember sitting in bed with her all morning, watching the clock. I didn't get ready for school. My mom was more important, I told myself. When the clock had ticked from 8:29 to 8:30, I knew the bell had rung, and I was late. I guess to me that had been a signal: The rest of the world has continued without us. I remember standing up and padding to the kitchen, and grabbing the wireless phone. I remember how icy cold it had felt, as opposed to the warmth and comfort of the bed in Mom's room. For once I simply craved the innocent warmth from my mother's inert body. I walked back in and sat on the edge of the bed. I dialed 9-1-1 and hit the 'call' button.
“This is 9-1-1 what is your emergency?” a rough male voice had said.
“I-” I had to clear my throat from lack of use. “My mom was passed out last night when I got home from school. I thought she would wake up, like she always does, but she hasn't. She is still breathing. Please come,” I had said all that with a flat voice, refusing the awful feeling in my throat that warned of tears.
“What is your location?” he asked, his voice softer now.
“913 Alvarado,” I whisper. “Fourth floor, number 413. My name is Sierra Banks.”
“Paramedics are on their way, ok?”
“Ok,” I recall how loud the click was when he hung up, and I felt the cold, empty silence press down and around me until I couldn't stand it anymore. I wanted to talk to someone, anyone, except the police officers who sounded way too casual. My mom's life might be on the line, and all they do is talk in monotone. Like they don’t care about all those lives. I knew then that I was being unfair, and that they were simply used to losing lives, but...
I looked up at the soup mugs on the table and next to them...her cell. The last person she talked to. I scooped it up, went to last calls, and hit redial.
Ring...Ring...Ring... “Hello, Clemens residence.”
“Dad.” The pain of hearing his voice then was the same as when I hear it every day now. Regret had instatly clouded my heart with the cold wall I built four years ago. Tears began to pour down my cheeks, but I can't recall now if they were hot and scalding, or cold.
“Sierra?” his voice too had become thick, and I hated him for crying. He left us.
“Yes,” I had been unable to force any other meaningless words at him. I hadn't seen him in four years, when we visited him, his beautiful new wife, and worst of all, his new baby girl. He replaced me! My throat burns to think of it. I hadn't thought of Lila, my step sister, and my replacement since she was born. Fury built up inside me. Why did mom call them last? Why does she still hold his number in her phone even after he left? And most importantly, what did they talk about? I still haven't forgotten these questions, but I most certainly haven't got any answers.
“Dad, mom is in trouble. She hasn't woken up since yesterday. I thought she would wake up but she hasn't. The ambulance is on its way,” Instantaneously, I hated myself for telling him, pouring out how scared I was. He didn't deserve to know, to pretend to feel sorry.
“Oh Sierra. Oh my beautiful daug-” he began, but I had already ended the call. How dare he call me beautiful? He hadn't seen me in so many years. He didn't deserve to pretend he care. Maybe I loved him once, but not anymore. I didn’t, and still don’t, want his sympathy, his false words, dripping in I-told-you-so. But most importantly, I didn’t want him to hear me cry.
Now I find myself having to live with him, and have to be constantly aware of him walking in on me. Like the other day when he walked into my room to see how I was doing with homework and found me rocking and bawling on the bed. Gasps had escaped from me in rapid succession; my sobs had shaken the bed so that it creaked softly. My lips curled apart from my teeth as I convulsed. I sniffed loudly and, gradually, my sobs had died down. Eventually too, my ears had regained their sense, and their voices had drifted to me from outside my bubble of silence.
Most days I had control enough to save my tears for the night or not cry at all. A week ago my English teacher had made us write letters to our parents. I had asked if I could write mine to someone else, because I was still furious at my dad, and mom left me. I know that she was in a coma, and she can't help it now, but I remember all the times that I was strong through her rampages. It didn't matter anyways, because Mr. Steiner blatantly refused. I decided to write it to mom, since I refused those days to even to acknowledge that I had a father.
And to this day I remember every word, for I read that letter a hundred times that day, until I had it committed to memory, so that I could have it with me, where ever I might be.
The ambulance arrived about five minutes after I hung up on Richard. The memory of crying, and rocking endlessly in pitch blackness made me refuse even to call him my father. What I kind of father, I asked myself, leaves his daughter crying, without comforting her, when the only person who ever loved her, is a million miles away? 'Mine,' I had answered myself, bitterly.
Nov 2012 · 1.0k
She Listens
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
She listens
And though she is right beside me
She is a million miles away in thought
And yet she listens
She still somehow hears what I say
Even though
She is a million miles away in thought
Her emotions are paper thin
And her charade is opaque
She is easily broken
From her mindless stupor
And yet she listens
To the troubled words of a troubled mind
And yet she listens
To the sorrowful twang of teenage vanities
And yet she listens
To the colors and the smells of burning candles
She listens to the feel of skin on paper
She listens to the cloyingly sweet emotions
Drifting off where no one else can hear them
And yet she listens
To taped-back-together-but-so-far-apart souls
Desperate not to be blown away
Nov 2012 · 512
Feeling When You Fall
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
Writers need inspiration
They need a source of wonder
To tap into their pen
They need the perfect string of words
Aroused from just a glance
They need a sight so beautiful
And that feeling when you fall
They need that sense of danger
Prickling behind their soul
They need a dash of wisdom
That flashes by unseen
They need a dose of clarity
To reach from within
They need to search under their dreams
And find the words tucked away
Writers need inspiration
Dedicated to my dear Rachel Spung, who liked this, and who is a great friend. You are my inspiration Rachel. Love always,
Maggie
Nov 2012 · 416
Wings of Perfection
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
I wish I could fly
                         Fly to worlds unknown
Unknown only to me
                                  Me, who lives
Lives every day alone
                                 Alone, with no wings
Wings of perfection
                   Perfection is what I wish
Wish for them to accept
                                  Accept me
Me who is not enough
                             Enough to fly
Fly to worlds unknown.
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
No one is waiting
So I'll just keep pacing
Pacing till I wear a hole in the floor
Cause there's nothing left to live for anymore
There is no one left to see
There is no one but me

No one is waiting
So I'll just keep standing, rooted to the ground
They may be gone
But I'll still stand there at dawn
Of tomorrow, of next year
I won't stop, I have no fear

No one is waiting
So I'll just keep fighting
My will is strong
And this fight will be long
I can't bring them back to me
But I can channel them into who I will be

No one is waiting
So I'll just keep screaming
Screaming through the cold night
Screaming until the first light
When they come
Whether there be many, or only some

No one is waiting
So I'll just keep bleeding
Cause they broke my will
So now my blood will spill
But I will still be waiting
Waiting for the others to come

I know they won't come,
Cause I couldn't save them when they cried for me
But I will still wait
I will still pace
I will still stand, rooted to the ground
I will still fight
I will still scream
I will still bleed
I will live
Even though they wish me to die
I refuse
For my will is strong.
Nov 2012 · 773
False as the Clouds
Maggie Lane Nov 2012
I see the world all around me.
But if I reach out to touch it,
I'm afraid it will just disappear.
Vanish away from my fingertips.
That reach out in curiosity.
If I reach out,
Will the world disappear?
Hiding it's secrets from me.
When all I want to know is...
*Do I exist?
Or am I as false as the clouds above me?
Oct 2012 · 502
Vanities
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
You are always there, waiting,
Waiting for me to pour my heart out.
Out come the desperate words.
Words of my innocent vanities,
Vanities that consume me.
Me, who you can always trust,
Trust me,  for I,
I know that hearts can get too full.
Full with your own toils, and mine.
So pour your heart out to me,
I know sometimes they get too full.
Oct 2012 · 2.5k
Gruesome Show
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
Rambunctious thoughts race through a mind already cluttered with worries.

He wonders if this will relieve his pain, brought on by years of abuse.

He shifts his feet curiously on the edge, still not allowing his eyes the freedom of glancing at the street below.

His balance is almost lost when the wind blows in flurries.

He has been a ticking time bomb all these years, and now they have lit his fuse.

Pedestrians gather at the bottom of the building, ready for the gruesome show,
          Then, he
                          *j
                              u
                                  m
                                       p
                                          s.
Oct 2012 · 2.4k
Weaving Memories
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
Floating through the depths of a soulless wonderland.

Memories fast fading from my mind.

I try to catch them in my hands  but they  rush through my fingers like sand.

Searching behind clouds and under dreams for something I can never find.

I weave  new memories with strands of  admitted love.

With dirtied hands I feel my way out of the darkness, with unexpected twists and bends.

Tipping back my head to look at the light dripping in from above.

I continue to maneuver out of the uninterrupted nightmares until forever ends.
Oct 2012 · 2.2k
People Are Like...
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
People are like flowers
Blooming when they're ready
Showing off all their beauty
People are like stars
They glow brighter and brighter
Boasting all their power
People are like books
Sharing their story to all who listen
Hiding all their secrets
People are like love
They have their ups and downs
But they always prosper in the end
Oct 2012 · 589
I Looked Up
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
I stared into the sky.
But the stars didn't tell me anything.
Like you told me.
You told me they wouldn't whisper.

But the stars didn't tell me anything.
Like you told me.
You told me they wouldn't whisper.
But I didn't believe you.

Like you told me.
You told me they wouldn't whisper.
But I didn't believe you.
So I stared into the stars anyways.

You told me they wouldn't whisper.
But I didn't believe you.
So I stared into the stars anyways.
I reached out my hand like I could touch them.

But I didn't believe you.
So I stared into the stars anyways.
I reached out my hand like I could touch them.
I felt their heat on my fingers.

So I stared into the stars anyways.
I reached out my hand like I could touch them.
I felt their heat on my fingers.
But I knew I was too far away.

I reached out my hand like I could touch them.
I felt their heat on my fingers.
But I knew I was too far away.
Too far away for me to touch you.

I felt their heat on my fingers.
But I knew I was too far away.
Too far away for me to touch you.
And that seemed to hurt my heart.

But I knew I was too far away.
Too far away for me to touch you.
And that seemed to hurt my heart.
It hurt that I couldn't reach you.

Too far away for me to touch you.
And that seemed to hurt my heart.
It hurt that I couldn't reach you.
So I looked up.

And that seemed to hurt my heart.
It hurt that I couldn't reach you.
So I looked up.
I stared into the sky.

It hurt that I couldn't reach you.
So I looked up.
I stared into the sky.
But the stars didn't tell me anything.

So I looked up.
I stared into the sky.
But the stars didn't tell me anything.
Like you told me.

I stared into the sky.
But the stars didn't tell me anything.
Like you told me.
You told me they wouldn't whisper.
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
My world comes crashing down....
This is when the dream begins
Reality, writhing, contorted
Nothing is natural
I sweat cold into the sheets
And try to find a better sleep
To prove that nothing is  real
To be numb and slip away
To lose myself.
I found this in my old journal from years ago. My friend and I co-wrote this (more him than me) but he refuses to post it, so I will.
Oct 2012 · 417
I Am...But With You
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
I am brave.
But it helps when you are brave for me.
I am beautiful.
But I am more beautiful with you next to me.
I am strong.
But I am stronger when you hold me up.
I am kind.
But I'm kinder when I'm in your arms.
I can be scared.
But I am less so with you near.
I hold on.
But my grip is tighter with you holding on too.
I can stand up for myself.
But it's good to have you on my side too.
I love you.
But it's easier when you love me too.
Oct 2012 · 481
Unraveled
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
Grab on.
On the journey we must take.
Take nothing.
Nothing will be there.
There, where time unravels.
Unravels our lives.
Lives that can be lived again.
Again and again, we take the journey.
Journey to love.
Love what you must, but leave it at home.
Home is where we will head after.
After we show them time.
Time lasts forever.
Forever is our love.
Love that has been unraveled, and sewn back together.
Together forever.
Forever.
Forever.
Forever it goes on.
On the journey we must take.
Oct 2012 · 723
Patterns for Beauty
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
When the stars fall from the heavens
They burn up in our sky
Leaving a cold, twinkling flake
If you stretch out your hand, they dissolve into nothing
They land in your hair and shimmer on your clothing
When they touch the ground they leave an endless carpet of white
If you look closely, you can see they all have millions of colors inside them
And they all have different patterns for beauty
They are called snowflakes.
Oct 2012 · 488
Bright White Hot
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
In order to write, you must have a soul.
You must heat that soul in emotion.
Until it bubbles, bright white hot.
You must then pour the emotion into an endless string of words.
And watch as they harden into history.
Oct 2012 · 392
SECONDS PAST
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
The clocks hands shift,
Shortening my life.
Yet dulling my pain.
For my shoulders carry everything,
That none would lift.
I have seen much strife,
And such has become my bane.
The tick of the seconds past, yet my ears still ring.
Oct 2012 · 3.0k
LAUGH AS YOU MAY
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
I'm going.
Going fast.
Fast running.
Running hard.
Hard work.
Work as hard as I will for you.
You laugh.
Laugh as you may, I'm not alone.
Alone is something I am not.
Not scared.
Scared of nothing.
Nothing important enough.
Enough to **** me?
Me, who's death is intimate?
Yes.
Oct 2012 · 890
CRIME SCENE
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
When I was at the scene,
A man perishing at my feet,
Yet nothing could be done.
Ignorance was on my side.

A man perishing at my feet,
A curtain of water separated him from me,
Ignorance was on my side,
In the aftermath I imagine him choking, gasping for my help.

A curtain of water separated him from me,
I couldn't see him, I couldn't hear him,
In the aftermath I imagine him choking, gasping for my help,
In the moment he and I had drowned in my innocence.

I couldn't see him, I couldn't hear him,
He called to me, but his voice was one I was destined never to hear.
In the moment he and I were drowning in my innocence.
Waves pounded the distant shore, solitude and silence in their clamor.

He called to me, but his voice was one I was destined never to hear,
I had been the only presence, his only hope.
Waves pounded the distant shore, solitude and silence in their clamor.
If I was his hope, did I **** him?

I had been the only presence, his only hope.
Later I was to learn of his death.
If I was his hope, did I **** him?
Does his ****** hang on my soul?

Later I was to learn of his death,
The death of a man whose name and face I will never know.
Does his ****** hang on my soul?
Will my life forever be tied to his?

The death of a man whose name and face I will never know,
The pain of my actions will remain painted on my mind.
Will my life forever be tied to his?
I changed my life that day, and stole another's.

The pain of my actions will remain painted on my mind,
Like abstract shapes dancing in my eyes.
I changed my life that day, and stole another's,
When I was at the scene.
Oct 2012 · 1.3k
CONTRACT WITH DEATH
Maggie Lane Oct 2012
I walked along the rough and rugged road
Traveled farther than the walking dead
Bearing the heaviest, the worst of loads
My hands are strong; forever stained with red

And carrying the burden of the ****
That I committed; seared into my mind
Reminding me that one day I'll fulfill
The contract with death that remains unsigned

And as I step into his cold embrace
Death releases me from my tightening chain
No longer apart of the living race
Once again I see the man that I have slain

And as I flow into the deadly dances
I know at last that I am out of chances

— The End —