Ignore the impending doom,
ignore the warning signs
Ignore the hateful glares
The flashing red lines
The labels beg to differ
Between everyone I meet
But still I feel myself simmer
In a vat of oiled up sheets
This escape room turns to hell
My every thought here to dwell
A bird inside a cage in a cell
I knew this could never turn out well
I thought you were good
but it’s clear that you’re not
If I wasn’t so kind
I’d leave you here to rot
You signed your fate
You’re to bleed under a rock
So won’t you please
Ignore my Warning Signs?

It's the same old story
for the millionth time.
The same stale thoughts
return to my mind.

Why is what I want to be
always beyond my reach.
Why do I  never seem
to practice what I preach.

I don't mean to make excuses
or helplessly whine.
But I somehow **** it up
and the fault is all mine.

These lofty ideas
From the books on my shelves
Seem to just fall through
Because I don't change myself.

Sometimes
You make me want to scream
(You make me late for everything)
Out loud
(Too proud)
Like a beast howling with rage and uncultivated fear
(Just the same **** arguments year after year)
You make me ashamed to want attention
(You argue with anything I mention)
That isnt fought for or coerced
(Plans made with you are cursed)
And I just want to make you see
(All the things that you do to me)
That things could be different
(You never take things as they're meant)
Better or worse
(You cut me down first)
And I could still be here in a couple of years
(You dont understand the depth of my tears)
Or maybe not
(You forget what you forgot?)
And I love you
(There's nothing more true)
But loving you hurts
(And sometimes you're just a ****)

are pushed.
Voices
ignored.
Tones
raised.
Feelings
on the floor.

If there was a chance for me to disengage
every ounce of affection for you in this day and age,
I would have done it a long time ago.

But unknowingly,
I always end up wounded by the shrapnel of your bombs,
causing me to fall down hard.
But I stand back up harder.

I wonder why I always wake up dissatisfied
with way the sun sets
or with the way the mountains coordinate with the sky---

---they’re beautiful.
I could write about them.
But there’s still not a genuine smile on my face.

How fate has always toyed with me;
twisting and snapping the very bones of hope I have kept in my closet..
How life in general is funny;
because I’m happy for a minute and I reel back into the darkness that feels like an eternity.

It has got me whining, and crying like a brat.
I have kept asking and asking,
begging and pleading--

---I just wanted my own peace,
my solitude, and sanctuary;
my own person.
I just wanted you.

But then I am just one of the buds in your flower fields
that you happened to just pick out of the blue.
And to me, you were the unexpected deviation of my usual routine
that I made a fantasy out of.


So here I am,
daydreaming like a stupid girl.
But hey, this is just me and my heart
I still remember.

And I’d live with it until I fade
Only flowing, never forcing.

-c.s. (083018)

It’s actually quite fun
throwing mud,
if you can accept it
sticks sometimes
to your own slow fingers,
staining them.

But gather it all up
in handfuls,
dirt, wet for preference,
delightful
as missiles targeted
away there:

At the dark heart hated
by us all
and by all means repeat
the treatment,
until the target becomes
the victim.

There. Hopefully you feel
better now.

I am two steps away from addiction
One step is when I love you
One step is when you love me
One step without the other brings desperation
Which is one step away from frustration

I wash-up two cups, find a spoon,
decipher his mood whilst I pour us coffee.
He’s not talking.
Dishevelled.
Frustrated.
Irate.
Whoever she is, last night wasn’t great-
The bed’s made up with clean white sheets.
She didn’t stay over.

I hand him his coffee.
He nods,
it’s a start but
there’s nothing set up and
I can’t tell where he wants me.
He’s paid for a day- I undress anyway.
And because it’s quite early, still cool-
I sit in a spilled-sunshine-pool
at the foot of his bed.

He studies me.
Traces my line with his eyes.
I keep warm,
drink coffee.
Wait.
He draws a deep breath-
takes my cup,
holds my face in both hands.
Says nothing, just kisses me hard
and pushes me back.

I unbutton his fly-
lick my fingers,
let them glide,
slide.
Rise up to meet him.
He pulls out the moment he’s done.
His frustration feels hot
on flushed skin,
and becomes mine when
he walks away.

He gathers up paper and charcoal-
the tools of his trade.
Arranges my limbs,
places my hand in
glossy-soft-heat between
my slight-parted thighs.
Leans close, kisses me thank you
then whispers
Be still.

muse