Is that what we wake up to every day?
Fast food and gas stations are forever stamped in the corners of my eyes as they are looking through the glass of minimum wage to the red flashing lights of a man hoping to get back to his children safely.
Is life is a pointed dagger then my blade is rusted and dull when I wonder why I even try some days.
Do I dare defend my pride and still demand something more than this? Is this a call for engines in the air or wings made of wax? Death would be more alive than waking up to another day of shampoo commercials and microwave dinners.
You are always whispering in my ear though dear and telling me that you're more than just a particle flown into my imagination from a world so oh very different than ours.
Are your eyes as bright as I imagine? Will the glare from them blind me from the tax collectors whip and will your laughter drown out the screams of onlookers who are throwing peanuts through the bars at my feet?
Will your kiss melt me and cause me to fall into wind like leaves in a storm, a tornado of color and beauty..?
I lay in bed and my eyes close tightly, my breathing slows and thoughts drip into pits men drown themselves in, the murky waters of nihilistic cynicism...
Though my hand will still not be closed around yours when the sun rises, the whisper lets me know you are still awake and searching for me too...
we were just small children so we didn’t quite understand what father meant when he said
“mother is sad”
we continued our games and make believe stories and waited for mother to be happy
and when we were young, sad just meant someone stepped on your picture
or they ruined your sand castle
and in 2 seconds it was over
the deeper I fall into my depression I find my mother
I find her ghouls and her ghosts
I find her dark eyes in my dark eyes every time I look in the mirror
and I find her hatred for everything, including me
I find new ways to torture myself
“you have your mothers eyes”
we also have the same disease
the only difference is, her demons won
mine don’t stand a chance
The girl standing in the corner, all alone,
Wearing the face kept in a jar by the door,
Cries silently in the night when she's at home,
And nobody's there to see her fall to the floor.
Do you see the pink lines peeking out,
Under thick layers of cotton, in the hot summer day?
Do you hear the sound of her heart,
Cracking, shattering, with every insult she takes?
I don't think you do, I honestly don't,
From the way you stare with scornful eyes,
To the acid that drips from you lips,
I can tell that you don't know what your words can do.
Precise, calculated attempts of
Resuscitating my drowned mind
Eventually fall by the wayside;
Two lone hunters,
Eyes gleaming with prospect of
Dare not disturb the
Intricate balance of
Nature at her purest -
Why is the speckled lark oblivious to the fading warmth
of a dying sun that taints the world with feeble light
illuminating the motionless face of a stone mountain dwelling?
Does it cease the rhythmic flutter of wings all aglow
fashioned like countless generations before and those yet to come?
When shadows fall and gradually disappear
into obscure crevices of clearings in woods never tread upon
it would seem that darkness exposes
reflects the barren souls living, existing,
and yet almost incapable of being.
So much of everything is composed of nothing
mere empty space yearning to pull off the illusion of reality-
until a desire to delve deeper
to push through quanta of energy
and minuscule atoms screaming with silent fury
in psychologists and philosophers
eager to present another iota of wisdom obtained
in a shivering orphan living day to day
with an unparalleled yearning for better tomorrows
in a lark not oblivious to the fading warmth of a dying sun
but striving with all the forces inside impelling it
to live in anticipation of a phoenix orb of light
to exist amidst this terrible chaotic world
gradually growing resplendent
cyclical as a flame
You can call me Ella because i'm enchanted by you.
The way you are and the things that you do.
You never see anything you don't want to.
I wonder if you're enchanted too.
You can call me Ella because i'm cursed.
But the magic here is a spell that can't be reversed.
I'd like to ask my fairy god mother if she knows she gave me the worst.
I wonder if she knew with her gift my life would burst.
You can call me Ella because I live in a fairytale.
Waiting for my prince to come and love to prevail.
I wonder when my fairytale will fall.
Because there's no such thing after all.