Alivefarthest from my mindis the thought of turning backand drowning in a sea of thoughts,struggling for air -i do not want my mind possessed,with whispers of ‘never, never’rustling within me like a taffeta skirtacross the floor –instead,i want to be alive,not simply breathing –a survivor, not a victim.
Insecuritiesi could tell you a million talesof when i stared into the abyss,and drowned in the thrashing wavesof my own torturous thoughts,that the dark crevices of my mindbegan dragging me undera sea of endless insecuritiesimprinting on my bones.
Interrupting the Fallbrittle carcassesof autumn trees,naked and bare,swaying, contorting, like my feeble frame -bending and breaking, breaking and bending,under the pressure ofthe words i speak to myself: simply cold, and harsh,like an early winter,interrupting the fall.
Onceyour beauty lies restless behind thosehills, where you fought valiantly. andthe man you once were was brave and kind,but now you are possessed by a passengerof darkness, whispering words of yourloneliness.the man you once were is forgotten, andthe man you are today, is only a ghost, ashadow, of what you were before.
Soldiercigarette between his lips,tar-induced lungs struggling to inflate –a soldier (a man)struggling to make senseof a warwhere men are only equalwhen they're dead.
Ghostfog wraps around bare-naked, skeletal trees,and she wanders aimlessly, like a lost child(without him).he had once told her, to be fooled by your emptiness is crazy,there is so much more room for bliss.but he had ripped out her heart, and now she is struggling to survivein this world, alone –but there is a difference between surviving and living, and without august, oh darling august,she has simply existed –she is a ghost of who she was.
Guide MeThe shadows of my past, like trembling fingers, strum the song of warfare with my heartstrings and piano-key-ribs.The ghosts of empty faces, empty shells, waltz to the tune of my miseries.The war raging inside my head, like the waves of an ocean crashing against the sides of skull, cause me to drown in insecurities so deep within my tired vessel.I am tired of this warfare.I am tired of playing the role of some valiant soldier.I am dimming under the power of the shadows, of the ghosts, of the war inside me –And my only beacon is you, dear mother.When the fire rages on, and the music is gone, I will always look to you for guidance – and you will guide me to safety, always ending the war within me.
Imaginea mind lost in the midst of the forest; dreaming of aworld of heroes.
Sleeplessshe spends those sleepless nightscaught in her little worlds,cursed by the moonlight, dying in the twilight –and the darken figure within her dreamsenslaves her,and the stories she spins of courageous menend only in tragedies (melodies are lost).but the little bird which rests in her handsawakens her from within,hope fills her lungs, her heart, her soul –and maybe,when the time arrives and her bird singsthe softest tune,she will become imprisonedby sleep.
why we pity angelsto him;you are afraid of phonecalls. youare afraid of your own voice, andopening your ribcage to letyour heart come live on your sleeve.you are afraid of living without caffeineor alcohol, whatever the day calls for;you are afraid of being realwithout laughing afterwards, becomingeverything you worked so hard to getaway from, acknowledging allthat you still are. know this:I am afraid of loud noises.I am afraid of honesty and drowning,people I don’t know and wordsI won’t say. I am afraidof growing old and living alone andyou not accepting me. I am afraidof myself. In that, we are the same.to her;I have the compulsion to grab youand cup you to me like you are somehalf-alive bird, like that soundas the lazy sun paints you a portrait isyour hummingbird heart and not my ownshallow breaths. in the beginning,you were my peace of mind. you tracedthe contours of my being with a scalpeland held me up, a shadow puppet,as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
And There Was Lighti.He was seventeen when he died.I never went to the funeralbut I walked past it the day ofthe service. His motherwas in the backseat of a blue Dodge,door open, head in her hands."My baby," she kept repeating."My baby." It would go from sobbing, toscreaming, to a soft whisper thatI could only hear being carriedon the wind.ii.It was a Wednesday afternoon that they foundhis old red pickup truck parkedout front of Slim's, two beer bottles inthe back and the windows cracked to let the staleair out.I heard that his dad told the police he wasgonna take that old truck and fix it up, becausehe had promised his son before—because it's always in the before—he died.And in the after, his mother never had dry eyesand I'm pretty sure my mom told methat she saw his dad at the bar every night,drinking his sorrows down because some people can'thandle the stress.Some people can't figure out why their son wouldkill himself.iii."Some men just want to w
something lacking this way comesshe smells of smoke, tastesof cheap dreams and cheaper makeup,sounds like someone who's usedto giving; her eyes are twoglossy sunsets out of a fewtrillion that have set before--when she shuts them, no oneblinks.
Cancer has a smell.Old classics,lilac air-fresheners,the half cup ofpeppermint ice creamthat’s beensitting in your freezerfor weeks, and cat litter.He won’t eat anymore,but there arepiles and pilesof dirty dishessitting in the sink.He’s slowlydisintegratingbefore your eyes.You can wrapyour whole selfaround his tiny bonesnow.You can hold himlike he used to hold youall those years ago.And you are angry.You try to findsomeone,or somethingto blame.You hate doctors,and you hateNovember now.November meansbirthdays, diagnoses,chemo treatments,and realization.You have to force yourselfto stop crying,every day.This is the one personwho’s always had faithin you.He’s read every poemand hoarded every awardyou ever won.You ignore statistics,because rosesthey alwayssmell nicer.
For every boy I ever kissedi.you took my hand 'neath the magnoliaat a christmas dinner party I held.your mouth was cold. so were my affections.ii.you were the first man to listen to me.i let you listen to my heartbeat; butwhen the day fell away, you bruised me deep.iii.you were my safe harbour, and i your stormturning your misery to naught but airbut i squirmed away from your tongue, repulsed.iv.you were my cradle, when i couldn't sleepyou would hold me close and pray for something,anything, to keep me safe. (it was you).v.eleven months spent sleeping with my phone,i still couldn't believe when you kissed meeven after midnight struck us again.vi.i don't miss those guitar-player fingersyou wrapped me 'round. i loved enough for youuntil i realised you didn't love me.vii.we fell into our love by accidentand like one, there were some fatalitieswhen you said you loved me using her name.viii.opposites attract. i fell hard for you.you kissed me in starlit castle ruins.we par
Confessionsthere’s a lot I never told you1. I have a habit of lying, aboutthe simple things (like, yes Iforgot to remember and I swear bysoul mates and I’m in lovewith your susurrus voiceand no, I’m really doing fine).It was not an act of infidelity becauseI believed it, too.2. I’m infatuated with the conceptthat I am more or less fictional, thedelusive beauty a million men willdedicate novels to: I am fragile,a dust angel sent to save the worldfrom commonalities andmyself.3. Since I’m not allowedto remember your nameI will commemorate youin acts of escapism,killing off the piecesof the person you left behind.4. I believe in a past lifeI was a bird with a tendencytowards tall buildings; the sorry kindof bird with heavy bones and crumpled wingswho never quite learnedto fly away.5. I miss you. I used to thinkyou were a person, but now I knowyou’re the happiness I will neversee.6. I'm sorry.
I'm talking myself in circles,I screamed,"There is nothingwrong with me, not a damnthing.”I wanted to believethe big dipper on my armmeant something morethan sun marks & kisses.But, how can I trust wordsthat slip through my teethas easy as breathingwhen this starhas only ever learnedhow to f a l l ?
Starving sleep and apologies.My sleep is starving.It is shivering sweat like snowacross my shoulders as I sob screamafter scream against your skin;"sorry, I'm so sorry,go back to sleep."I am sadand struggling to staytogether but you slumpagainst my sicknessand hold meanyway.
Last night,I broke every bone in my bodyso I could have a reason to drownin the isolated ocean inside me.And then,when my dilapidated lungs finally caved in,I swam ashore and crawled across the polluted sand.Only glass-edged skinand salt-licked eyelashescan help me now.
leap through eternityi will sink my teeth into a supernovato let the stardust andcosmosslide down my parched throat andwash over my intestines,like a pebbledrowning in the sound--
NymphTranslucent asa dragonfly wing—her hair fansin the water, andthe sun bleeds.
Epitaph in Bathroom Mirror1)My tawny skin suffocates meMy lackluster lips ringa looped rope around my neck2)Gloom crawls in like creeping vinesstrangling my wordsTwisting at my wrists and anklesSuspending them in a purplish hue3)I lay contorted onmy cold bathroom floorSeeking for solace in prescriptiontelevision eyesOnly to poke into old woundsthat have not yet healed andI have only begun to fermentall my tears into wine4)Plant seeds in my blue-green veinsFor red blossoms to bloomin my once-blood's place
the theatreit is a Tuesday afternoonand I observethe proscenium archof your spine.I am separated from youby several degrees,a world and a half,the ornate, sweeping dividebetween watcher and watched(and you've never caredto break the fourth wall)
unfound i am petra, i am the rose city half as old as history can behold bedouin music serenades the night as candlelight burns the dimming apparitions of our mortal plight i am buena queen of the adriatic where my po arms and piave legs lead folk to a trance as i dance honoring venus as she floods her lovedrunk venice in vineyard fools i am the khmer prasat angkor wat
Growing Upit seems that by now I’ve been diagnosedwith a mild case of weightlessness, mindlessdrifting past empty homes and the emptier peoplethat purchased them. I remember conversationswith you about existentialismand the almost intricate fabric of my mind andeverything in between, and you-- the way youpaused before making a point asthe words defined themselves in your head:I remember the day I told you I was God.Creator of all things unimportant, trappedin the body of a girl with nothing left to give, youbelieved meit must be a beautiful placeinside your head, with a worldthat revolves around hope and expectationsthe way it was supposed to; allstorybook-perfect like thewars promise we’ll one daybecome[I’d like to think that every great leaderonce cried themselves to sleep wonderingif they’d ever mean anything anddid things to stand out like smokingor drinking or pretending to be someonethey’re not and every morning they’d tilt
1,001 NightsIn a land ofdreams and dust:the curve ofa half-hazed sun,devoured.
(0, 0)I see a snapshot of a hundredsoulful eyes stirring insideyour dilated form; there existsa thousand tales unfinished anditching at the very fibers ofyour fingertips.I am a million shredded piecesof time-tethered maps blown abillion miles apart at the thoughtof losing trace of the curing,clement timbre of your voice-and you always doubted me whenI said that out of my adorationI could preach of promises andcherishables worthy of asynagogue-like audience.Should I be given an ultimatum,I would choose to fade like anaurora only after captivatingyou entirely, even if only fora while.Comprehend that I am a mavenat being a miserable messof trillions of moleculespulled in shallow meaning andpiercing, naked breaths;I cannot foresee a life withoutthe echo of your footsteps on ourflaky floorboards, for it is theonly supplication to celebrateyou're having made it throughand coming back home to me.
xsuch an infinitesimal amountof forgotten languagefound only in shuddering touchbreaking waves orlapping tides beneathyour fingertipsstronger than the fleeting gazeyou can’t holdthat moment between stolenmugged and beaten glanceswhen both crash as lastto intersect as we should
Lingerhow can i move forward,when the fingerprints of my insecuritiesare still lingering within my chest,pressing against my ribs like piano keys?i am just waiting, for the day,when the saddest parts of meare overcome with songs of serenity.