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Paige Serbin Oct 2014
file, new
scroll down a little more
i haven't seen them run enough
the pictures and the colors
a little faster, now
so as to see the dye run out in photo streams  
instant flashes
in shades of **** skin
in the dead
back from the flesh
they come streaking through the screen
instances from the past
in the pigment of a presumed memory
not entirely recalled
pickled here with rainbow hue
scroll faster
i want to see the images
blur into pixel.
Paige Serbin Oct 2014
a play on words
set on a stage
held up by paucity of meaning.
Not sure what to call it. Too many syllables.
Paige Serbin Oct 2014
wrapped in a blanket
a cold, insidious pig
trying to stay warm.
Paige Serbin Oct 2014
leave on your light for me
i can feel the veins in my hands pushing
for me
leave open the door for me and
i can come closed to you
the veins in my hands cheer for me
in their spindliness and apparent strength
they adore me.
stay closed those eyes for me
my hands are trained enough
for full of fluid in motion
they pound out all i have created
not for you
more for the light i can feel from your doorway
not your eyes
more the callouss in my veins
leave it be
give it me
small and strong and feminine and veiny, bony,
made of need
let the veins in my hands rush for you
for me.
Paige Serbin Oct 2014
As I will
As I like it
As my will
As it gives recursive themes of
Strength and fancy
Weakened by the real
It subsists;
It is
Cannot not be:
As they loathe it.
As I was:
My sunlit energy precedes, preceded me
Some life in me that speeds towards
Metabolism that speeds towards
Eventual cell death
Deeply respirating
I halt for no respite
Despite the leaning apprehension
Towering over what Is in me;
The roaming imposition
Of what there will be—
It seeks me
It wanders and stops occasionally
And devours something imagined
That heaven I had made
That Will that I had suffered
As it will.
I actually just wrote this one today. This is the first thing I've written in a long time, and it's sort of why I'm coming back to Hello Poetry...just for some respite, maybe.
Paige Serbin Oct 2014
we stand in stagnant shades of grey
with dark blue, for a change
and positioned between us is a
series of pregnant pauses
giving birth to discomfort
more common than our common conversation.
i am suspended between the metal spring
the dust, the cushion,
and the stone fall.
i admit to you: in my daydreams,
though i bump my head and kick the cat
and wake up too late for coffee,
have to write on my palms to remember your name
in my dreams
the writing rubs away off the skin on my hands from holding.
and the people smile under their hats at me
though it snows so hard it’s swept under the couch
and in my daydreams: i can finally hold
all the warmth in the world effusing from bodies
i cannot feel, will never touch
and when the temperature rises, i go outside after the rain
again but
the rain doesn't culminate on the evergreens;
i shook the branches to feel the balm on my shoulders
but the dryness overhead displaced me
in the absence of water.
don’t you stare at me
i am not great now; i am lying with the insects
to come up with more eyes to see with
i, this great essence of grotesque
but i must compromise my greatness for ever
dancing, eating, loving, finding some reason to pray
prey upon the bliss so truant from my mind.
i feel i am some monstrous vermin,
nameless and defiled, simply tossed among the files,
which has absconded, so punished,
from the living room floor
to under the couch.
i admit to you now, though you look at me
with vacuous acuity:
for all i know, my life was accidentally
whispered on a freudian slip
of paper from God’s pile of post-it notes
and carelessly tossed into the
eternal blue flame.
but i am no fragment
i am no flea nor tick nor
scorched typo
i am less monstrous than the universes between your eyes
which will never shine on me
we guess, we categorize, we think,
we sweat beads to make a necklace of labor
and pass it down the generations
as an embellishment of humanity
and with hallowed bird’s bones do we rip apart our wishes.
Paige Serbin Oct 2014
i have too many things.  these things keep me here.  for how would i move my amniotic items, who would want these things, who could need and buy my broken miscellany?  rather these things be burned.  but i couldn't throw that away, it was a gift.  how better to show ungratefulness in the faces of the fantastic people who once wanted things for me.  and the structure of these things, created by people; the destruction in the smolder makes me sick.  i think of teddy bears rotting in a dump.  baby birds from islands far away, across the planet, in the most isolated areas on earth, are still found with plastic trash in their downy bodies.  no, i couldn't throw these things away.  i am an empty space among things.  i am this amount of money, i am this collection of sculpted granite, plastic, glass elephants.  i am made of candle wax and useless, synthetic material, all new.  my utility stretches the length of the unused rulers in my several drawers.  these things make me.  i am this much, and not much more.  engulfed by these things in a sac, here i am, curled up in my small breathing room, darkened.  and ibuprofen taken in fours.  i wake up with headaches that won't go away with coffee, water, peace, exercise, ingenuity, grace, forgiveness.  they will not go away.  after sleeping ten, twelve hours, they will not go away.  i cannot forgive them.  no bids on eBay.  so the truth comes out:  nobody buys me.  i used to get so angry.  i would throw things, see.  i destroyed things that were beautiful and hurt the people who wanted me.  and now nobody wants my things, though they must all go away.  i must destroy them all again, to make more space for the waning disposition in the back of my brain.  the gray matter, that's what matters.  that's what creates me, and it controls how i create.  i cannot travel outside of my mind meat.  i cannot create to make up for these things i destroyed, and i cannot be forgiven.  i am this much.  an inch or two of room for me to exist.  and is the soul made out of dust and rubber?  if so, it must be sold.  given away, maybe.  it is a part of these things, though i do not know where i would go if i were freed of this caveman accumulation.  perhaps to dresden, i speak the language.  to know and not be known.  the strangers are much more strange to me when they have never known small-town america, and have never even conceived of this hollow, cluttered room.  so stuffed to the point of utter uselessness.  ah, so the utilitarians might say that i am not even human, i suppose.  my cup has not been imbued with all the functionality of humanity, and remains half empty.  half human, stretching out a day-by-day half life, getting longer by the foot.  and what of these books?  mostly read, and some looked at, a few skimmed, a few only here for a once in a lifetime reference (perhaps for a school project or a stint of curiosity long since vanished from my gray matter), several collections of my childhood fancy.  mystery and adventure.  this mantle of knick knacks and paraphernalia hails from my past and the pasts before mine.  with such an archive, i may accurately be considered a historian (with or without the halitosis…i couldn't tell you for lack of third party noses).  lately i haven't spoken in my sleep, though i couldn't say for certainly; there's no one there to talk to.  these things are tinted white and gray in the fashion of the silent film.  they act out the motions and emotions from their conceptions in my peripheral vision, sensational ****** expressions and dramatic gestures from the old south. waking and sleeping, they breathe in opposing time with me.  these things, they bury me.
Please forgive for any repetitions of lines in my writings. I think up lines and concepts and write around them, it's just how I do it, so sometimes there is going to be overlap. I'm not a professional, so I'm not too concerned about it.
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