Imaginea mind lost in the midst of the forest; dreaming of aworld of heroes.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Landmarksshe strummed his ribcagewith delicate fingers andhummed soft melodiesof unknown worlds –go to sleep, my dearest loveshe whisperedas she traced the landmarksupon his back –go to sleep.
Beautyhe held a mirrorup to her face, andwhispered‘you are beautiful’.‘looks don’tinterestme’ shestated;and he,removing themask of happinesshe wore,whispered inreturn:‘that’s because you’veneverbeen ugly.’
Pocket UniverseI can smell the typewriters beneath your skinmetallic, halting, smudged vibratowavering note stretched out far beyondthe edge of the universe tucked in your front pocketbreathing out in time with your heartbeats.All along the wall I find notebook pagesold teabags hung for too long, green flakes whirlingwhile you sit in the lean of the willow treeand watch the play that is my lifechew the scenery; the stage collapses with a groan.You pull your scarf inand wrap the scars in burnt umberwhile the show goes onagain.
Our DutyWe swallowed the path homeBecause we were hungry,Though starving is an ongoingStory, an empty bagDancing in the streets,Full of an unfastened voiceWalking through the house,Wind unchained, heart admonished.Heaven fills its eyes, crawls away,That sleeping boat content to followThe vacant waves, intervalsOf dying that we dare not interrupt,And we watch the kind ear shrinkingFrom our charcoal docks; heavenWith a full stomach crawls away.This is what we were put here for.
Crown of ThornsShe wakes up with red staining her pillowand the taste of blood like iron in her mouthIt stains her teeth and leaks from her lips, and as sherinses her mouth out, she can’t help thinking thatit’s better than dirt and ashesit feels like she’s wearing a nooseof broken promises and shattered glassthat tightens around her throat with every day that passesShe nails a smile to her faceand doesn't let herself think the word dying
pollenwasp-waisted beautypray into my collarbonelet your snake tongue slitherwith the syllables.i wish for soft-chested nights,and the trickle of champagne down crystal glass.poppy-lips, lull me to sleep,nurse my coiling tongue with yours;tap my scalp like a silent drum,and wind my hair in between your fingerslike broken guitar strings.(serenade me with the buzz of pollen in your kiss.)
wednesday's childit is the third of octoberand i am building a castle for usout of feathers, bird bones, ocean waves and library book pages. anything to keep our feet fromtouching the ground.you are sin, he whispersand his fingers trail cold fire down my side, scorching fleshand freezing bone;brittle pieces of me shatteras they hit the stained linoleum floor.don't wake me from this nightmare.i whisper a nursery rhyme as i walk down ourautumn path.kamikaze leaves fall, trailingfire as they throw themselves fromthe branches, down, down,to cold pavement below.your words echo in my minda constant reminderthat i am sinbut you,you werenevergod
adventurousyou're walking on a tightropeas thin and as brittle asgossamer in the cool rain I dare you totake a barefoot baby stepall misty tundra and windlay in a cobweb hammock be allyour afternoon reverieall your forgotten regretsyou never thought would brighten you dreamof the chances you will takefor it is not an old end--it is a new beginning;it is not a winter melt--but a summer to be
.i dream of drowning inlakes, belly up, a petalshaped bruise of your thumbon either wristi dream that what laysin my bed is so muchmore terrifying than whatlurks underneath it
steps.humans were made to run barefoot.we were made to climb mountains, fighting gravityand to fly across stony deserts and dangerous forests.we were not made for these,these bastardizations of heels and soles and skin.humans were made to run barefoot,becausewe were always meant to leave traces of ourselveson everything we touched, every inchof the world that we would walk.we were always meant to take with usthe scars left by the walls we would climb,the bruises left by the falls we would take,the hard skin and the instant familiarity left by the paths we would forge alone.so worry not.you were never meant to feel the skin of this earththrough designer heels and combat boots.you were only ever meant to feel the weight of yourself,a breathing, bleeding, humancharged with electric emotions and spinningout of control upon the ground,meant to break yourself on the roads you pavedand the dreams you wrought in sto
an irrevocable truthi.snowflake child, you are a fine exampleof the incandescence of a human lighteven under innumerable umbrasi see you- ruby and bloomingferociously fighting your wayout of a pile of rubbleii.my anemone, my halothat comely wraps around my moon pithdo not fret if i self-stumble, fumblewith my fingers, and mumble to my toesmy center of gravity is oft frail andmeek to begin withiii.you are lead cause of the diamond flecksscattering about the carbon of my pupilsyou do not leave meyou teach me to besnake-eyed yet shotgun-hearted-a sapphire wanderlust lividfor life and star-gazing sights, you mapconstellations on my freckles and fright iv.look now at how i'll find my lighthouse loverthen tend to some kidsand grow out of my gills and into grey hairsthen tend to some kids with their own kidsand reminisce about friends and phenomenai signed my name on a patch of sky withall on my own exceptthat your hand never left minethat if i were to crumblelike the sandcastle
a hospital bird with soot in her lungsshe slept through a car crashthat almost killed her.through whitewhite walls,and dreamswhere her lover dies.nobody thought she'd make it,but she woke up a few months laterwith flowers in her hairand ash in her airway;trying to remember how to start all over,but forgetting to remember how to live.fall slipped from her open eyesand winter crawled in for a long hibernationof not-quite-cold-enough-for-snow.to her the clouds looked sickand pale like they mightlet everything inside them out,but she opened up wide instead,spilling blood where there was none to be spilled.her heart slipped down the streetand with unsteady handsshe stitched in a bird and cut off its wings.
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--
i don't think im alive enough to die yet.we used to play russian roulette on dingy street corners,cigarettes hanging from soot-blackened lipsand morphine running rampant through our drugged up systems.i remember how i was always shot.you ran away when i didn't dieand left me to bleed outonto the cold concrete.but you don't understand-dolls and wallflowers are empty inside,and hearts constructed hastily with broken matchsticksdon't beat true. it's just dull thumpingin a hollow chest cavity.(and even the best dentists can't fill this one up.)
BreakfastYou told me she had died in a hospital bedWith her glasses onSo that she could see Death properlyAnd I picked away at my breakfast,Which was pancakes and strawberries,Trying to imagineHer squinting ahead at HimWith her dying eyesightThe pancakes were dry and store-boughtAnd my plate was a pool of cold syrupAnd flavorless,Half-eaten strawberriesWhen I had finished,And my hands were stained with the sweet bloodAnd you took my place,Picking away at soggy crumbs.
the arrangement of astral cordsThis is how I'm built up, you see;stars trapped in the linings of mystomach andthe regurgitation of meteorsthunderingthe chambers of a heart--deconstructs of kaleidoscope-stainedglass.This is the reason why my throatbubbles like witch's brew--the insides of my body form monsoons thatscratch my lungs anddisintegrate my windpipe,an off-pitched dissonancelike wind chimeswhenever I try to shout or speak oreven whisper. (and they tell me that you could sing the moon to sleep when you cast your faithful nothings on a star)[and, no, I'm not some kind of genietrapped in an expanse of dustrather than a lamp]Darling, I was never caught betweena collision of star-crossed galaxies,nor an accident between the big bangand a black hole.I was born a star-child.and, no, they could never be beautiful.Yet, I could never be as graceful.I could never carve my face the way gods do, and
rising from the riverit's one of the drowned days; those that draglike hooks through a river,turning dead thingsbelly-up on your shores. listen.i am listening. to name it lover,this ripening ache stretchedbetween us; to knowwhat it is you carry. youare a deep silence gardenedby ghosts; hangingfrom the hinges of a sprawledelsewhere. (they are herestill, pacing the long brimof your memory aroundto the long brim of mine.)i too have been drowning.if not by one stone,then another. the autumn quietof the bodyin bed. this language named skin,beast, temple, home. underwater,you open your mouth; amnioticvoid of unspeaking, horizontaltrespass from dark to dark.lover, i would kissyour ghosts. the spinning prayerof my mouth taking their poisoninto mine. secretsblooming there, blooming darklike strangers. we sleep now. dreamourselves against them, dancing. promisethe space of your breath worth morethan its abandoning, the static stainthat crawls you out to sea.low, circl
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.