Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Storm May 2014
On the highway
They’re sitting down and rolling joints
If it was freedom
When she pierced the muscles
Struggling beneath her frail bones.
They all draw wings on the wall behind the road and
Some say about her rings,
That in a corner in Thamel
Scientific instruments in a white room replicate force
(And it doesn’t hurt so much anymore)
On the highway
The times before rolling joints
She rubbed elbows.
***** in the mud like a pig.
But the tourists still took pictures of her snout, and called it
When that mother came into her room
She was sleeping with a pout on her face.
Until the highway men drawing wings on the high wall
“Woke” her up.
(The first day, she thought she was still rubbing elbows)
Until the marks came on hers and bled
But not on the other side as well.
Almost simultaneously with the gypsy’s work Aureliano had been reading
On wires metamorphosis-ed into the air
(Brought the world to her feet, or the other way round)
And she knew it must have been a high because
The ground was cold.
And all above she saw the skies cheat
Right before they pressed in on your lungs
Leaking smoke
(When you thought you were made of blood)
Yet before, in your head you’ve smashed the universe
And eaten its brains for lunch – they are green.
Before it gulped her down
In a go.
So you know
How drawing wings on the wall
Has gotten no one nowhere except
Talking about that girl
Who pierced the skin under her bones
In Thamel.

Storm Apr 2014
To love someone is like

Ripping up yourself to allow them inside

But more often than not they will

Stick up their hands into your thoughts,

And **** your insides with questions,


Poking their way


and then


of you.


Moving up to the throne. Seal the fortress.
Storm Mar 2014
How long
Can illusions forestall
The dawn? A
House of cards
Is bound
To fall.
To illusions we've created.
Storm Mar 2014
Between you and me,
Those lies have come crashing on
Pretenses stripped off of
Our nakedness; look
At all the scars on our bodies.
****** flaws.  
These tattoos I’d hidden from you. All conversations ever do,
Under the dissimulation of words
(I could laugh),
Lash out at us the acute lack
Of conversations. The absence
Of meanings, the shredded ruins of laughter, some very
Jagged melodies that cannot be
In-tuned into a single code, no no.  Courtesies.
Courtesies have put up quite a show.
What has become of us. It is sad.
Storm Feb 2014
It was a carnival.
Of memories all flooded all over the place like a mad parade, and I
listlessly stood by waving
at each one of them--
Odd bits
and pieces they threw in the air, preserving
their scent in
Storm Feb 2014
Sickened roads.
I have memorized all these lanes by heart and they make me sick. Everyday
I see
Faces that look at me with knowing. They know
too much and nothing.
High on the hills of adrenaline. I have had
too much of everything,
Thrown out into the abyss to fend for one’s sanity.
Everything is too deep.
I do not need.
This adventure, thank you.
I just want to go back home now.
Winding roads will lead me home.
Lead me home.

— The End —