gloves-off, she
leans on her back foot
moves fast and hides tired eyes
behind a battle-blue arm  

from a punch-bloodied mouth
she spills and spits words out on canvas
makes way for cool air- tries to
pacify lungs before they explode, calm
a heart that longs to rebel

she needs to feel loved, but can
be understood only by tracing braille-like-trauma
on her Vaseline skin-
and if she’s not out for the count
she doesn't keep still

the voyage of innumerable miles
furnished strength, of a thousand sails
guiding each yonder the reach
off to a boundless expanse
of the new tomorrow

in countenance
with arms outstretched
to tolerate contentment
to acclimate to the average
and want for far less
smiling

I found that the cracks in my skin began to heal whenever the moonlight lingered by my window,
during the nights when I let the wind bring in its cooling remedies.

I would sit still, lost in my head,  
With a storm brewing in my swollen heart,
Ruminating as I opened my eyes,  
And I watched the dainty fabric of my curtains as they danced with the cold breeze.
Slowly sunlight leaked into the sky as birds sang their delicate songs,

And I found my restlessness fast asleep on my palms.
For a moment, time was standing still and I was...

healing.

there's a war waging on in my head

as it turns out, staying inside these walls while the world passes us by
isn't the best for our creative minds, or is it?
3 am often hits me like a brick and is met with tired eyes and yet another restless night.
crumbled, torn up pages collect in the corner.
the contents will consist of unfinished pieces
and disconnected thoughts;
acting as a representation of my muddled mind.
and it could very well be the wine,
but this state of being is beginning
to feel all too artificial.  
its almost as if we were programmed by our creators only to be destroyed.
and those of us who lack conformity are sent down an assembly line labeled as ‘defective.'  
Our box will read, "Lonely twenty something-year-olds with mild to moderate ******* addictions. CAUTION: has a temper."  

But darling, don't be fooled:
for we are all the same.
We may be hiding behind
our individuality or lack thereof,
but we are, in fact,
only pawns in a game.

Restless.
The unknown and the very familiar knocking on your door.
Everyday.
Forcing you to have them make their way through.
You.
Breathing in and out, you try to be one with everything around you.
Wind.
Thinking the rain would be refreshing but today you can’t smell a thing.
Walking.
So restless and no control so having to surrender and give in.

To everything.
To everything, sometimes it gets so old to be dealing with the same things.
And not knowing if they will be what you hoped they would be.

So nice to just be able to be in the moment.
So nice to be able to share it.
So nice to have it all for yourself and not care whoever else is there.

Sing.
Breathing, or just making noises that you’re feeling like making.
Moving.
Not fighting your body in moving and movements in moments.
Cuddling.
Under a sheet and really loving somebody, their body.
Noticing.
And smiling and strechting, take a little breather.
Waking.
You know you’ve been through the night and there’s a new beginning.

Always hard and not very interesting and somebody will be taking your place.
Whether you’re rushing, stressing or forced to be resting.
Always starting over and over but oh, sometimes these moments...
They feel, taste, smell and look just so amazing.

And so you’re jumping and floating into the unknown or the very familiar.
And you’re opening the door.
Oh please, just open up that door.
I’m knocking...
I know you hear me.

Train horns pierce the muggy night.
Persistent in their cacophony.
They shake the walls and sound the time.
Like midnight roosters.

I shift beneath my stuffy sheets.
Roused from fitful sleep.
My eyes move to the bedroom window.
Drawn to the alure of night.

The moonlight has me in a trance.
Stray beams beckon me.
Dancing light to call me closer.
Through intermittent haze.

Now I feel the fog behind my eyes.
The night's hold has loosened.
I drift away until I'm awoken by birds,
Or the siren songs of boxcars.

Were there clouds upon the sea
For they would shelter me;
Were there string tied to my heart
For you to pull them to and fro;
Were there clarity in my mind
So that i May function half the time.
Were there peace in my soul
So I would not lust after you no more.

that
Bone chipping
Heart throbbing
Teeth grinding
fingernail biting
Mind racing
Toe tapping
Kind of anxiety

From the moon,
comes a letter of reconciliation,
an apology carried with the tide.
Written in an ink infused with hope,

to be read on those restless nights.