I don’t want to be like Plath, Woolfe, or any other female writer who is categorized by confessing depression on paper. I want to describe my subjectivity and contrast it with objectivity, record reality as I perceive it, and analyze my most relevant moments; I want to collect soothing ones, painful ones, and all outside and in between, arranging my observations and most prominent memories into a work of art. I want to create something heinous and beautiful, an interpretation of a specific type of life where I am riddled through the spaces, cracks, unfinished bits, rushed strokes and flaws, filling what’s unsaid with myself, where I am what’s reflected. My life is a mosaic where everything is broken and together, beautiful, but nowhere near perfect, and I cannot stop staring at what I’ve created from what has been provided. The pieces I arranged I did so with variety; some were carefully placed, some impulsively stuck, and some I smashed myself, to be destructive and see what it would look like after. Moments, like assorted glass, are sometimes broken, smooth, colorful, jagged, curved, sharp and dull, but when they are placed together, their individual qualities are no longer emphasized, and the importance lies in the whole piece of what is created. A mosaic is the essence of the artist with the ability to reflect the artist’s design, like a mirror.

how can I make a translation
of these never before felt feelings
if their language I don’t possess
one of which mine ears
have never had a previliage
of previous precous encounter
and one which overwhelms so powerfully
mine eyes;  and my tongue but in realisaton
is powerless to pronounce
yet can do nothing else than confront them
these feelings, these feelings, oh these feelings
a painted mosiac of plasure and gulit
that leaves me in such a quandadry as I don’t know why
yet has me beliebve that the only thing  I trust
any longer is this very moment; the moment with him
where pure and untainted feeelings break upon me
as foamed waves upon a pebbled beach
where convention does disintigarte
in splintering bursts of Vulacn light
oh to be yet disintangled in my mind
to be detached, feeling each succeeeding thought
as it seperates itself from the centreal core of my mind
to examine them in the srange sub-lit detachement
where I find myelf now floating
there is no known languange for its expression
these feelings, these felings, these feelings
only Raleigh, only Raleigh, I hope

You are my saving grace
duct tape
the medicine that helps me bear the pain of stitching my soul
You are the teacher
with the most important lesson
how to become strong again
You draw me in
with conversations of fictional lives
that are just as important as our own
We share pieces of our souls through
hardcovers and paperbacks
in a way that makes me feel whole
repaired
less like shattered glass and more of a mosiac
Saving grace
the three syllable manifestation of
healing
                          and
                                                  happiness

I've Walked a Myriad of country roads
Places that are nowhere and everywhere

I've stepped into the deep and endless woods
Therein a billion tall, slender spirits

Old souls watched as I walked in between them
Patches of daylight played in fluttered spats

Bright daylight, it cuts into eyes and mind
Like memories fixed in a Déjà vu

Hidden beneath the mosiac floor, a love
Shining brightly as an October day

I've Watched leaves tumbling down from perfect skies
like soft kisses between falling dancers

Just as my heart tumbles out of its' place
recalling falling leaves and soft kisses



© P.M.H 12/22/2011

the clapping hands
of the soul
mirrored mosiac eyes
once out of nature
than back again
resting upon
this solid ground
i have finally found

And there was a breaking sound
When your heart fell out
Through the crack in your chest where your rib cage cracked under the stress
With the weight of the world on your shoulders  
You looked down at the shattered dark red pieces on the ground
It's funny how you thought that something as fickle as love could hold us
Through bright days, and dark nights
The hundred ways you convinced yourself that you would be alright
It's almost as if the lies you told yourself papered over the stress cracks
The ones that became obvious in the sleepless moments of the night
Started walking, one foot gingerly placed ahead of the other
Leaving all the broken mosiac pieces to continue to fall and land where they may
Never bending down, never picking up
Mouth moving violently but there were no words to say
Stress cracks, blood drains, first slowly until you stumbled in an obvious way
Pieces fell, broken heart, love had left you and the implication tearing you apart
All alone, stop walking, mouth no longer moved because you stopped talking
Look ahead, dark nothing left, the human heart could only take so much stress

the pieces splitting
become parts of their own,
each with a tongue
and a backbone. The jagged

edges are my sharps
that I pluck as the steel strings
of a harp. This music I dance
over the page. All the pieces

pulchritudinously engage! Crystal
snowflakes embound. A brilliant
diamond in the round. Like a mosiac
of colored tiles I wear it as

my father's grey and red
argyles. I fine tune this craft
out of broken splinters
and built me a raft!

Why is it secret? What we have to hide?
See why in shadow I hide?
So it is to be war between us
Sad to return to find the land we love

Silently the senses
Abandon their defences
You have come here
Through a strange new world

A man locked in a cage
This whole affair is an outrage!
You've decided.. decided...
where the daylight dissolves into darkness

Ever escape from that face
Of strutting around the stage
Yet, in his eyes all the sadness
What's all this nonsense?

No more memories
you've repaid me and betrayed me
Your mind start a journey
You show a little courtesy?

Open up your mind, fantasy unwind
I said only when the time
Away with this pretence
I shall give you one last chance

It appears we have no choice
Too late that prudent silence is wise
You must change!
And speak my name

~ Mosiac from Phantom of the Opera script ~

stories that are
     spin
        spun
like spider webs
sticking the spots
stringing to connect the dots
of straight-forward-thinking.

sacredness cries: insight may lie where our logic blinds.
insects pry
the larger picture,
so hypnotized,
all to become but the dots that have died and were left behind.

a larger mosiac of victims;
pixels stuck in sticky ichor.
an image, an illusion, all of some darker decrepit deeper demise.

bygone begone.
the predator's amuse
of a nature's refute
to abuse anymore lives;
for it cares so beautifully to be kind.

in life's hike, i use a stick to swat that structure from sticking to my eyes.

The road was a mosiac of
False Hope and angel wings,
Dark pits inlaid with gold.
Subtle paths of agenda.

Lined with flares and shadow,
Each step spring-loaded,
Swimming through molten air.
A vast expanse, web of sensation.