"pealing" poems
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC
#*It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to ***** idols for ourselves.
Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.
Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.
It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate fullness
and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is everything
we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.*#
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 10:41 PM UTC
Out here in the fields of the distance
whither the wind blows the silence further afield;
roughhewn footprints show a windswept pathway
from whence feral feet lightly trod
Only the passing whispers chase after the gypsy wind:
that the silence be in quire, placed aloft like a sigh,
pealing through the gentle sway of sweet grass' hush
There are no walls need echo an evanescent wind-song
as each breath of earthen psalm vanishes
lilting into the crystalline quietude colour;
The callused patience still held in these hands
is frayed and tattered, but hope heals stronger
than a ream of paper wings to fly away
And I'm mindful I'm not alone again, lost in
a lingering silent storm — pensively listening —
enraptured aneath all the big skies hold
Jesse Stillwater
Aug 31, 2018
Aug 31, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
My mother's breath is tainted with alcohol
She's on my floor, sleeping away the dinner she refused to swallow
I try to forget she was never there, and remember how hollow
Her skinny love for me was, and I ate my way into her Hell
The first cigarette, the first drink, the first time I forgot to think
I was induced in her fairy tale, my morals wothout ink, to go on
I tried to slip away, grasp a hint of bliss
I did catch something, and that was a fish
Her name was Autumn
Her hands on my shoulders, mine on her hips
We were one glance away, and this time, it hit
An anchor she was, I left my dreaded life behind
I took her calloused hand, and she took mine
Our pasts weren't us, they were our luggage
We dropped it off far back, buried it, covered it
A pair of suicidal lovers, a kiss above the chin
I was pulled on a thread
Seven months of lies
She was a chameleon
No painful past of cries
She wasn't molested
Her mom wasn't at the end of the line
Her dad didn't abuse her
Now wasn't her time
She left me longing for another
Another Autumn, another lover
I didn't love her, I loved who I thought she was
I know I will see her again, when the leaves are dust
She is so sorry
Sorry I'm sad
She got to live the life
The life I never had
I yearn to forget the name of Autumn
Until the season leaves, fall from the pealing trees
I will lie in the lies of the baked brown leaves
Crumple them one by one, calming myself, forming ease
Chills form around my neck
The same spot my mother gripped my throat
It is so hard to love someone, who despises being loved
My mother, a liar, a man sitting above
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 4:23 AM UTC
P-Postponing all those things until another time
R-Rostering them for attention down the track
O-Offering all sorts of excuses stalls one's climb
C-Constantly one defers the mounting job stack
R-Repeatedly ignoring their pealing bell chimes
A-Acting upon them requires an assertive knack
S-Still one avers in responding to their rhymes
T-Taking not a step forward nor any back
I-Initiative and get in and do it isn't one's paradigm
N-Never does one heed their ever tolling clacks
A-Always sitting in an idle non moving show time
T-The day shall arrive with a great waking whack
I-Into motion one shall soon be called to climb
O-On one's toes the chores are waiting in the rack
N-No more disregarding the many sounding chimes
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
they say that love never dies
could never curl and bawl and cry
love is the purest of all emotions
even turbulent and torrid
it is pure, never horrid
but I'm tired of loving you
or seeing your jaw, you finger, your tooth
and feeling a rush of fear
that i will never escape from this anxious pit of unclear
good intentions and impure thoughts
so i do what i am taught
i slog through the love, the lust
the misplaced affections because i need, i must
be graced with one smile, a small glimpse
even if my feelings you already dismissed
i was going to tell you, don't you know?
i was going to knock my feelings off their petty throne
i thought that maybe if i let it all out
i would not feel a gout
of excitement for the forbidden feelings
that maybe i could stop pealing
in laughter at the smallest thing
when i thought you weren't looking, as i watched you sing
that i would have the control of my buzzing desire
but now i refuse to fan the fire
my friends still egg me on.
Valentines Day is on Saturday, what could go wrong?
I've found that people are great at giving advice
when it wont affect them even once or twice
but they know that you know off my misplaced affection
you see it now in every inflection
she lied and told you behind my back
and then asked me to cut her some slack
when now that tenuous friendship we once had was broken
and i only ask you to give me a token
of admitting your silence
rings out louder
than any no
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 11:51 PM UTC
*Pealing,
Poking,
Patrolling...
...Her...
...with eyes...
...like a busy snail.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
~ one more for patty m. ~
slept late after dancing with my devils, from,
from the wee, until a pealing pearl from the Earl of Dawn,
recovering from an intrusion~invasion~brain~regurgitation,
and it’s nearly 9am, sipping my first cuppa Hawaiian,
& woke to a repost of a ten year old wondering plea(1)
makes me think “This old thing,” poem, like a fav
frock/suit that still drapes perfectly, and yet draws the
***** admiration and drippy drawling yummy compliments,
gracefully, gratefully demurred with them three words,
& it’s 8:39am, Bruce pitching in with “Born in the USA”
recipe for a new thank u Gawd poem to make room for
a fast~break diet for an old man with a rebuilt ticker, this
very emission~transmission of a verbal politesse writ going
some where, cooked on a medium slow burner fueling dressed up seeds of heartfelt appreciation made of ancient oat grasses
birthing a poem~child of thanks to the Lawd for one more day,
opportunity, the five sense’s delivery gratitude and gratifications, and the desire to intertwine the sights, music, a crisp blue November Sky, the need to bleed brew these words into a fulfilling,
second moment mug, for the pearls and Earls
of poetic humans
10:01am
Thu Nov 2 2023
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 10:16 AM UTC
my friends said last night
I should write something light
something shiny and bright
to the readers’ delight
no fights and no terror
no soldiers no war
no suicide bombers
no refugees galore
after all it’s the season
when altogether we sing
of the love that we bring
to each other
within reason
so I am doing my best
NOT to make a clean breast
of the worries that plague me
cuddle deep in my nest
only welcome the guests
who brings me good news
and carefully wipes
all bad cues from their shoes
ere they enter my house
so
to rouse our good feelings
we all listen to the chimes
of the church bells a-pealing
and to a poem that rhymes
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 4:48 PM UTC
Oh, the great city's madness when at nightfall
The crippled trees gape by the blackened wall,
The spirit of evil peers from a silver mask;
Lights with magnetic scourge drive off the stony night.
Oh, the sunken pealing of evening bells.
***** who in her icy shivers sheds a still-born child.
With raving whips God's fury punishes brows possessed.
Purple pestilence, hunger that breaks green eyes.
Oh, the horrible laughter of gold.
But silent in dark caves a stiller humanity bleeds,
Out of hard metals moulds the redeeming head.
2.5k
The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid, the night is still;
A single church below the hill
Is pealing, folded in the mist.
A single peal of bells below,
That wakens at this hour of rest
A single murmur in the breast,
That these are not the bells I know.
Like strangers' voices here they sound,
In lands where not a memory strays,
Nor landmark breathes of other days,
But all is new unhallow'd ground.
2.4k
The color of lost time
The color of white on an horizon
The color of midnight in the garden of words
The color of sound pealing in a vast sea of bluebells
The color of thought indentured to compelling
Imunities that complain of authenticities so intence
There are cloistered calls for an incantatory language
of soft colored vowels a,e,i,o,u
In an enigmatic language of legitimacy
That wrests the color of colors from themselves
And provides a history of the world in 13 tweets
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC
It Was A Warm Spring Day,
In Our Downtown Home,
White Paint Was Lethargically Pealing,
Off The Siding Which Lay Beneath Curling Vines,
I Still Remember Your Smile Daddy,
Your Coal Colored Hair Lingering In The Breeze,
As You Asked Me, "Do You Wanna See?"
I Nodded Not Quite Sure What I Was Going To See,
You Gently Lifted Me Up,
Put Me On Your Shoulders Like You Always Did,
And Let Me Peer Inside A Forest Of Vines,
And What I Saw Both Frighted And Enchanted Me,
Something Completely New,
A Little House Wren Who Cradled Her Eggs,
And Looked At Me,
Her Heart Beating Quickly,
"She's Protecting Her Babies," You Whispered,
"Just Like I'll Always Protect You"
"Hi," I Said And Held Out My Hand,
The Little Wren Flew Away And I Sobbed,
"Why Was It Scared Of Me Daddy?"
"It Was Only Letting You See It's Eggs"
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
Above, above, the sky is a painting
A renaissance piece that calls out for sainting
The billows, the ripples the silver-lined rims
Are strokes of a genius; of mother earth's whims.
The cumulonimbus, the rippling ceiling
Rumbles and rolls with the cracks that are pealing
The flickering tridents, the wrath of the gods
Strike awe in the temporary, tainted and flawed
And I, insubstantial, un-lasting and fading
Stand beneath hanging eaves, hearing and waiting
Beside me, within me, a childish voice
Hums a soft tune beneath all the noise:
The sky, the sky, it's all coming down
The indigo shroud; it's falling around
In crystalline spheres and mother earth's mist-
The dust is erupting, the earth feels its kiss.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
~
dark early pre-dawn
body suspended between the-dark ochre earth tones of night,
and the teal pealing notes of warning of an impending morning,
signs aborning, me rising with urgency of the leaden half deaden,
torn from the bed casket to venture into a different kind of twi-lights,
nature demanding both intake and outtake, a restoration of balance
but first a bumbling wobbling, the body as carnival bumper car,
installing soon-to-be-bruising for later examination-exhumation,
lurching from handhold crevices in the walls like crazy cliff climbers,
my balance disturbed, eyes try tearing apart the sticky glue of night,
my sense of direction keeping me from free falling into green glass
edges of glass tables, barely, and not always, red cuts evidentiary
“my balance disturbed” words fresh formed, and a poem expulsion
required to balance the unjust scales of spirit soul and the body cage,
patch an negotiated agreement between warring cousins, just a
twenty four hour ceasefire to retrieve the wounded and the
corpses unfounded in the small copses of false shelter,
like my ancestors expelled from Spain, making escape to be
strangers in strange lands, or remain hidden in place neath disguises
of clothes of new poems, prayers for old and new gods
this new poem comes quick like a young man making first love,
for the poem has been written by thousands nights of practicing,
so ready for quick retrieving in a smattering of a few minutes,
expulsion expulsion
what a perfect verbiage to capture the night terrors, the differentials,
the procession path between what was and what will be,
when my balance restored and this poem’s completion installation
in the body of my work, as a nail disguised in the works of my body,
entering by command of the pitch black gods
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 8:42 AM UTC
DEAR ENPAL PEOPLE, a poem to the dark;-?>
worn out faces
empty starks from deepest embraces
once called on together
never true alone even better
neon lights
blame them on the lonely nights
in advance
I get the train traffic another chance
elevated the chills
things that can't be drowned upon stupid pills
done with healing
now the skin put to the pealing
set red to the lies
gazes speak in dresses fancy to die
time scattered on the desk slow motion
in a black marker all clear devotion
eternal freeze
when the upside embraced the back some disease
contagious when escaped
cant **** even when baked
----ravenfeels
Jul 22, 2021
Jul 22, 2021 at 4:07 PM UTC
This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling,
Like a huge ***** rise the burnished arms;
But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing
Startles the villages with strange alarms.
Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary,
When the death-angel touches those swift keys!
What loud lament and dismal Miserere
Will mingle with their awful symphonies!
I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,
The cries of agony, the endless groan,
Which, through the ages that have gone before us,
In long reverberations reach our own.
On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer,
Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman’s song,
And loud, amid the universal clamor,
O’er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong.
I hear the Florentine, who from his palace
Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din,
And Aztec priests upon their teocallis
Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent’s skin;
The tumult of each sacked and burning village;
The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns;
The soldiers’ revels in the midst of pillage;
The wail of famine in beleaguered towns;
The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder,
The rattling musketry, the clashing blade;
And ever and anon, in tones of thunder
The diapason of the cannonade.
Is it, O man, with such discordant noises,
With such accursed instruments as these,
Thou drownest Nature’s sweet and kindly voices,
And jarrest the celestial harmonies?
Were half the power, that fills the world with terror,
Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts,
Given to redeem the human mind from error,
There were no need of arsenals or forts:
The warrior’s name would be a name abhorred!
And every nation, that should lift again
Its hand against a brother, on its forehead
Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain!
Down the dark future, through long generations,
The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease;
And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations,
I hear once more the voice of Christ say, “Peace!”
Peace! and no longer from its brazen portals
The blast of War’s great ***** shakes the skies!
But beautiful as songs of the immortals,
The holy melodies of love arise.
1.9k
I have issues,
Lots of them,
I could fill a library with my issues,
My problems,
And self-loathing.
Whole buckets full of issues.
Like nails driven into my skin I can't quite get out,
I try to fix myself,
To find the things I lack and lost along the way,
But I find myself breaking even more,
Like a porcelain doll.
I feel like a liar,
Smiling like this in your face,
While I go bring pain upon myself by crushing the hopes and dreams I struggled to hang onto.
I've forgotten myself somewhere in the darkness,
And can't get out.
My sadness is only temporary,
It happens when I'm alone,
I put my mask on,
And take it off when I go home.
But my mask is fading fast,
Pealing away to reveal the things I lack,
As people get close to me,
I push them away,
The people I do keep close in mind,
I tell them all the time,
Of my issues,
And my hurting,
And they get bored of me and leave,
They don't want a basket-case,
A whiny little girl,
A problematic teen,
A pity party indeed,
When I do learn how to trust you,
I'll come to you with all my problems,
But soon enough you'll give up on me because you don't know how to solve them.
My issues are like chains,
And life is like water,
The more I struggle with these issues,
The faster I sink into the water,
Drowning.
Suffocating.
I don't want people to treat me different,
I don't them to try to fix me,
Because I'm a lost case.
I just want some friends to talk to,
Not to tell me what to do.
I don't you to try fix me,
Or cry over me,
Just go.
I don't want pity,
I don't want your pity,
I don't want anyone's pity,
I pity myself enough,
And hate myself too,
I've hurt myself worse than anyone ever could,
Worse than you.
I just want to keep my scars safely hidden away,
To push my issues so far beneath my skin,
You can no long see them,
And you and I both win,
I don't get pitied,
And you think you fixed me,
See?
isn't everyone happy.
But the problem is my mask it fades,
My issues are resurfacing,
And you can see everything that's wrong with me,
I try to pick the nails out of my skin, but more get jabbed in.
I'm too tired,
I can't sleep.
I'm too mad,
I can't eat.
I'm so happy.
...I feel sad.
So sad this happiness can't last forever,
But this sadness...
This sadness will last forever,
These wounds will never heal,
These scars will never quite fade,
I'll never learn to feel,
Happy,
Is word,
I never quite learned,
My dictionary is limited,
By me,
And my melancholy.
I can tell you words like,
Sadness,
And apathy.
I can tell you words like,
Ugliness,
And stupidity.
I can tell you words like,
Anger,
And rage.
But the word I'm most familiar with is
Melancholy,
Melancholy is me,
Issue are me,
I am made up of lies, melancholy and issues,
I have so many problems I don't know who I am!
Who am I?
This happy girl?
This sad one?
This mean girl?
This evil one?
This liar?
This quiet one?
Who is the real me?
Who are these people I try to be?
Which one do you see?
Which one do I portray to be?
Which one is the true me?
I have problems,
I have fears,
I have issues,
Like nails in my skin.
... Sometimes I don't think it's melancholy...
I think it's something worse,
Something that people know as the d word,
Something that you don't say,
Something that can get you on medication,
Something far more sinister than any old melancholy...
Do I dare say it?
What I think I have?
Yes...
I think have depression.
.... I have depression.
Sad.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
And through the air their mingled music floats.
Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
But the west glories in the deepest red:
So may our ******* with ev’ry virtue glow,
The living temples of our God below!
Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
And draws the sable curtains of the night,
Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
So shall the labours of the day begin
More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.
1.8k
The day is ending,
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,
The river dead.
Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows
That glimmer red.
The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer
The road o’er the plain;
While through the meadows,
Like fearful shadows,
Slowly passes
A funeral train.
The bell is pealing,
And every feeling
Within me responds
To the dismal knell;
Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.
1.7k
You pull yourself away
And drag everybody along
Along the road of misery and misleadingness
Some know it's all your lies
Some know it's all your mask
But wait a little longer, the light is creaking in
For the mask is pealing off and the devil is revealing
And the time will come, when everyone will see
The true face of the misleading
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:26 PM UTC
“The Unveiling”
A name so inconsistent for what it represents:
The pinch of the IV injection
The instant heaviness in my head
Wobbly knees
Being assisted to the “Treatment Room”
Its bitter sterility
Shedding my clothes
And all sense of control
The chill of the cold metal bed
The goose-bumps crawling over my skin
The stick of plastic beneath me
Luke-warm water
Slow pealing of ****** bandages
Sharp stings of pain
Quick to come again
And again
Soiled runoff dripping down my legs
Pop music playing over the speakers
The discomfort it caused me
Yellow curtains
The little boy on the other side
His screams filled with agony
Clenching a towel between my teeth
How it didn’t help either of us
Slowly examining the new skin
Black, blue, and bleeding
The smell of its rawness
Nausea
Hot tears on my cheeks
They burn
A team of doctors
Their impenetrable staring
Hearing them mumble, “It looks great.”
My disagreement
The gnawing desire to ask
Why
They give an utterly gut wrenching experience
Such a grandeur name
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:42 PM UTC
It was clear to me then, but it escapes me now. Infinity was condensed to a single moment, I don't know how I knew that, but I did.
I saw standing before me, a tomato, a swine and a human. They stood side by side. Their physical bodies were dissimilar, but their souls were all the same.
By cutting the tomato you cut yourself, and by killing the swine you **** yourself. They all may not look the same, but what they feel is the same. You are the tomato, you are the swine, and they are you too.
To you this is ****** but to me this is life.
Life has got to eat life, It is how we survive.
Life has got to eat life, It is how we stay alive.
Life to you rings a different tone. You claim that life is more than food, that to feed is to ****** but no one says a snake is a murderer when it kills a mouse.
You say no one needs to die in order for others to live. But death comes one way or another.
You say:
"Stop mashing that potato,
Stop cutting that tomoto,
Stop pealing those carrots,
Stop grating those onions.
Just because you can't hear them, does not mean they don't scream;
And just because they aren't people, doesn't mean they can't feel."
How you see the world is the only way to see it? But I saw infinity in the fraction of a second, yet it was an eternity. I saw that what we see, is what we want to see. And that what really is, is what we make it out to be.
I was laying in the dirt, then the dirt became me. I then fed a flower, then I became the flower. A doe ate the flower, then I became the doe. A wolf consumed the doe, then I became the wolf. A man skinned the wolf, then I became the man. The man lay in the dirt, then I became the dirt again.
Life bleeds into new life, It is how we stay alive.
Life bleeds into new life, It is how we survive.
Feb 21, 2019
Feb 21, 2019 at 6:12 PM UTC
Tufted ethereality, angelism of stock and store
pedestrian...alas, circusy.
Helm of streets bob...our supplicant pulls out
a mile or two of scripture from an enormous
pocket.
Fingers ink-blotted with grime, bent forth striding--
a heedless Beethoven tuned in immaculately.
Array's arrival stunned with scurry...planets of
conveyance pull at their elliptical wiring.
Some rare gigantism to the tenth of powers has
touched everything...all he could do from
going where he's arrived is futile.
From time immemorial, he...at present, its full
possessor!
What convoluted theorem of probability will
forcibly eject him from eureka...from where he's
vaporized his wears...naught...naught!
Some precipice's nudge knew best the wind for
his thought to take to, a majestic soar pealing the
spheres to show them their shape.
Life has exemplified its frugal capacity to him--
simmering creation tucked away for one fine day.
He, to outlive the closing energy that dances him,
an immortal...to be handled with care...with
universal intelligence--be, has let him...loosed.
He's broken the code of things in and of themselves...
he's a thing in and of himself--the Unitative factor erupts.
As the credits of glory pull upward...so he as them.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC
When
my body starts to
shake, I imagine the
worst thing that could
happen. There's a riot
in my heart, ambulances
speeding along the
veins in my wrists.
My blood can paint
firetrucks that
hose down the cities
and bridges I've burned.
My lungs: a house on
fire, smoke floating out
of mouths and charred
skin pealing away
like dandelion seeds
on a summer day.
This is chaos and I could
find beauty in it. I could paint
a picture for each of my nightmares
that I dream in color. I could call
empty streets Home
and I could pretend that thunderstorms
are really angels crying for me
and that the mud I roll myself in
is their wet mascara.
But sometimes its easier
to be compassionless
to myself, and sometimes
I feel better after imagining the
worst, because I'm not there yet.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 4:33 PM UTC