Twisted bed-sheets
Reveal last nights deceits.
I'm sure many "I love you" 's
Ricocheted off of the ceiling, into wallpaper
peeling.
Marks upon skin, rarely sink lower
past those deeper walls within.

But you don't want a lover anyway.

These moments always bring her dread
For they arouse the negativity in her head.

To most kids, they sit and anxiously wait,
While she awaits her most feared fate

Papers passed about by the teacher.
Students scramble to get their grade.
She sits there, wishing the moment would pass.
Wishing she could simply fade.

The verdict's in, the marks are out,
Kids discuss and compare.
They ask her what she got,
She wishes she were anywhere but there.

She sneaks a peak at the paper,
Immediate thoughts cloud her brain
Students desperately want to know,
She braces for the impending pain.

"I beat her, I beat her!"
A few students cry
Others beam at their amazing feat.
As the girl feels her insides die.

"You're an idiot, how could you get those wrong?"
The mockery arises in her head.
She hates herself more than you'll ever know,
A few of her tears are painfully shed.

Her faults are pointed out by others,
As they celebrate their victory,
And her internal demons hiss at her,
From criticism, she is never free.

These instances may seem short-lived,
The pain will surely pass,
But these cracks in her self confidence
Caused it to shatter into broken glass.

Markings

    He asked the farmer, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the sun that burns
    his crops.

    He asked the fisherman, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the sea that drowns
    his ships.

    He asked the laborer, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the earth that burdens
    his body.

    He asked the soldier, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes
    it is the battle that destroys
    his home.

    He asked the priest, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is the cross that bloodies
    his soul.

    He asked the child, "What is holy?"
    In his eyes,
    it is his father that treads
    his worth.

On this hillside where the homeless rest
The Song Sparrow bursts into psalm,
Reciting beautiful exclamations to the heavens above
For the forgotten souls that are concealed below.

In this place called Potters Field lay one million souls
Unknowns from 200 years ago....more & more arriving everyday.
Nestled thickets of wild trees hold these memories past and
Shadow the headstones with prayers inscribed.

How could one small place hold so many forgotten souls?
How could we have forgotten those less fortunate than us?
Saint Benedict's tear filled eyes scan the field
As he try's to to make sense of what has happened.

Lift up your eyes New York and make your voices heard.
Don't let their memory fade away.
God holds a special place for these children because....
In the Kingdom of God....
                                 The last shall be first.

K.E Carman 2016

Have you ever woke up in the middle of the night
With panic gripping your heart tight

Have you ever seen the shadows walk the halls
Or seen the black marks they leave upon your walls

Have you ever heard their growls or hisses
Or felt on your skin their dark kisses

Have you ever shut your bedroom door tight
But they still pass through to give you a fright

Have you ever felt the fear dripping from the ceiling
Have you ever had that awful feeling

Have you ever had your demons play
Outside your head that way?

As I peer across the Mountain range of my life,
I see a vast array of peaks and valleys,
Roads that wander near and far.

Some roads seemed unsurpassable,
Some roads were thought to be inconceivable,
Some roads I felt were unapproachable,
And I see them all as landmarks in my life.

The one road in the very middle of my lifescape,
The one that's known for being less traveled,
I so often avoided and I don't understand why.

Some roads seemed impossible,
Some roads were thought to be infallible,
Some roads lead to intimacy,
And I see them all, good or bad as milestones in my life.

Standing at the base of the mountain top,
I feel a presence encouraging me to climb the summit.
My breathe becomes heavy, my limbs are numb but my mind is focused.

Advancing the summit, I pull myself above the misty clouds,
Peering below I find oceans of generations that have gone before me....but were never forgotten,
And one stands at the forefront, with arms outstretched, an unforgettable smile, and love thats unending.

There's only one road that leads us to an island universe where we live on forever past fatality.
All roads have the same waypoint which leads us to forever.
Close your eyes and imagine a place that does not judge and only loves.

K.Carman 2016

I will place my lips all over your skin

I will imprint your flesh with my teeth

I will make you forget your name

AND YOU WILL BREATHE THE SYLLABLES OF MINE ...

“That’s so high school,” they say.
“What are you, fifteen?” they ask.
But why?
I call them battle wounds,
And you’ve always hated that.
But why?
What we do in bed is who we are
Let me carve valleys into your back
With my sharpened fingers.
Puncture my legs with your jagged nails
Until I stain the ocean dark, dark black.
Claw, bite, rip, tear, gnaw
Your way to my heart.
Take it in your mouth and crunch down,
Until we mix into one. Until we are.
What were we?
Friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies, strangers,
It doesn’t matter anymore. Now we’re one.
I will leave whatever marks on you I can,
Be they out of love and passion.
I will colonize your skin, make my home in
Every pore and crevice.
I will mark what is mine in that moment,
Out of fear that you will be gone tomorrow.
Do the same to me. Make me yours.
Strip my identity from my bones,
Replace my flesh with you, with us, with this.
Your friends’ lovers don’t leave marks like that?
Your friends don’t know how to love like I do.
We are what we do in bed,
and I leave marks.

I'm so sorry...

I was 7 when I learned the art of touch
but that doesn’t make me ******’s sister.

I was 14 when I thought I figured out *** and love
were one in the same.

So tell me why everywhere you touched me
I began to turn black like a the band of a fake ring on a child’s finger

I began to turn a colour I could not wash off
with soap and water.

The darker I became the more you began to
smell of rotting meat left out in the sun.

You were festering and the holes in your heart
burned through to your skin.

Sometimes in my sleep
I still smell you waiting in the darkness.

And sometimes in the shower
I still find deep marks I cannot ever seem to get rid of.

Everyone in this life might mistake the look in your eyes as love,
but I will never be so easily fooled again.