Ripe, bitter, sour and oh so sweet.
Dangling off of a Californian tree.
Living within peels so stringent and
containing cascading juices so pungent.
He leaves you wanting, aching to know more.
He lures you in with the irresistible sweetest of enchanting
songs and ballads.
But what you didn't know was, that the ending
melody left you in a note that made you feel as though
you were drowning in a sea of rotten,
forgotten, and lost once loved dreams.
You became addicted to his freshness,
to the zest of his scent.
You became seduced, captivated even.
You let yourself become vulnerable
and susceptible to his touch.
You slowly opened up your wounds.
You let your friable bandages flow free.
You even let him lead the grand dance.
You let him twirl and spin you to the point
of reaching a state of trance or reverie.
He took you on romantic evening picnics,
he brought you to the oldest of antique boutiques,
and he even painted you angelic
mosaics in oil.
Ones comparable to those grandiose and imposing
works' of the masters.
At last he casted you under his spell
and he enticed you once again.
He had the charm of a thousand
and he was spontaneous in all his ways.
He never failed to surprise you.
They say he had an oriental descent
and this would explain much.
But when you least expected it,
he touched your wounds.
You felt an unbearable pain,
and a strange surge flow through you.
It burned, to say the least.
You almost felt your incisions
blister under the effect of his acid.
His yellow and aureolin tint
seemed only to be a facade.
An illusion, a charade to the naked eye.
But in that moment you could see through it.
You looked at him with pain-struck eyes,
full of confusion and disappointment.
You couldn't really identify the look in his.
You realized that he really had nothing to do
with his cadmium yellowish golden tint.
You felt as though you were fainting.
You were sinking and all the sweet
memories you two shared, flooded your
sight.
But then he said, "look at your wounds"
and you did as he ordered.
You looked down and shook off the stupor
and came back to.
You looked at your wounds and
became staggered and managed a mere "thank you".
For your wounds were no longer swollen and irritated.
He had healed you.
So when life hands you lemons,
don't make lemonade.
No, instead care for those
misunderstood beings,
and tend to their needs.
Because the lemons in our lives
are all too prevalent and far too
misread.

Perhaps I am hard to like,
     No one understand how I used my bike.

Perhaps it was me,
          who understood first
                  of their perspective's meant to be.

Perhaps that is why I stay away,
                         always a step ahead in my foolish play.

Perhaps you never notice my distance,
                                for I am alone in this charade of existence.

Amen
Take me to church
Ill worship like a dog
At the shrine of your lies
Ill tell you my sins
So you can sharpen your knife
Offer me that deathless death
Oh good God
Let me give you my life

I imagined myself obliterated by an incessant line of cars and how that would almost correspond with what I was feeling right now. I pictured God dismembering my soul again and again, wondering where He went wrong , where He missed a stitch or tore a seam; but if He doesn't make mistakes, then why am I here?

They trow me in flames
and they ask me why am I killing me
They ask me «why do you care»
Then they ask me «why don't you care»

They want to see me full of feelings
But they don't want me to show my pain
They want me perfect
And they want me carefree
They want to hear mellow words
And they want me thoughtless

*And the others are just the others
and none measure them

I walk into a narrow entry way
where the curtains are closed in the room beyond.
I extend my hand, see their eyes, and convert it
into a pleasant, not at all unsettled wave.
hello, how do you do. it states more than asks
because no one wants to share
(even though I really did want to know)

Let's look at my strangeness,
what they call odd,
and I call "different,"
the compliment kind,
like when your parents reward your eccentricities
with boxes of crayons and plenty of paper.
color outside the paper, if you want

What happens when a little girl loved by many
grows up
and becomes a swan smeared in mud with ballet shoes,
untied, ribbons dragging behind,
occasionally tripping not only herself,
but, even worse,
all in her path.

Okay, now to return to the place where I stand,
on the threshold of acceptance and rejection.
No one wins this game, you know.
I will look at the ground, at my shoes,
then at his because what kind of writer would I be
if I didn't look at worn leather sneakers,
black laces frayed at one lace end,
and then write about them?
Who would I be if I couldn't look at a room and a pair of people,
whose curious eyes and glances burn invisible candles
to one pathetic apologetic wick?

In my mind I go back to that moment,
and I blame the clothes I chose
and the words I said and said,
how I fumbled to find a place in the playbook
of How to Please Parents.

I unbuy presents and unworry hours of trepidation.
I unsweat my palms and uncry my tears,
even though I will recry them when I find out
what I am really am,
not even a who,

to those who unsee
me.

Just another sad girl.
lost.
society labeled her a bad girl.
everyone heard the song.
Never cared enough to understand the lyrics.
she, was misunderstood for the complexity of her nature.
you remember her.
with the skimpy clothes,
No one knows her depth.
But everyone plucks her petals till there's nothing left.

Amongst the multitude of solitudnal whims
I carry within,
Down to you, forgotten.
A youth that's fighting,
refusing to succumb to the delicacies
of an aging core.
The dream of love renewed,
The ambiance of it.
The life of a thousand nights of falling star
wishes and programmed dreams.
A chance within our grasps.
Mirrors.

Desolately has my soul resided in this
phantasmal reality of dull referendum,
misunderstood.
Neglected, rejected, tortured, hurt,
and broken.
I remain hidden.
A cool calm collected exterior.
The world sees me,
or so it thinks.

Hilarious hideousness.
My deceptions so simple.
Smoke and mirrors, magician I am.
Humor the powerful blinding agent
of stares, opinions, and gossip.
I laugh internally as the world judges me.
Forms its superficial egotistical
repressed opinions of me.

Do you..... see me true?
Can you.....will you ever chose to?
Demonic presence ever near, trying to **** me.
Have I fear?.........No, I have no fear!

© Crystal Erickson  11/24/07

Oh my!
The monsters in the closet!
Are coming out tonight,
I bet they have empty sockets,
And that they know how to fight,
I have no weapons in my pockets,
As I am no noble knight,
But what can I do?
Its like my feet are stuck to the floor with glue.
They can see threw my soul,
Like in my chest there is a hole,
I can't gain control,
The feelings that make me whole,
Why must I be haunted,
By these unwanted,
Forgotten,
Rotten,
Misunderstood souls?

Oh my!
Here comes one now,
Crawling on all fours,
Looking like a thin cow,
Coming out of my closet doors.
It begs,
To me,
For something more important than my legs,
More important than its knees,
It asks for my trust,
It asks for me to not run away in disgust,
I scream,
Please tell me this is all a dream!
Tell me this is not what it seems,
That this is all just an evil scheme.

I wake,
Feeling myself shake,
With pure fear,
As if I am about to shed a tear.
What was that dream about?
Why do I feel as if I must shout?
Have I seen my closet the wrong way?
That it may just be a home?
For all if the stray,
Monsters that roam,
The earth,
Looking for what they are worth?

I climb out of bed,
Remembering what the monster said,
I open the door,
Peering down at the floor,
I heard no roar,
I heard no squeal of a boar.
Could it all have been fake?
Well that's a chance I will not take.
I place myself down,
Inside my closet,
I try not to frown,
As no monster comes for my nightly fear deposit,
I sigh,
And close my eyes,
Giving my monsters a surprise,
Giving them no wails or cries,
But hugs in till the sun a rise.