I have no damnable words to make my voice
fit the sorrow. My heart had the audacity
to open, and then beat itself to life.
There isn't enough suffering to make anything.
pieces of beautiful scattered and kept both and I
have no room to belong to his smile.
.Or maybe just I
are not breathing and the night
never ends. Nothing changes,
These eyes used to see imagination's miracles
trembling; motion; moons; hands; leaves.
often I speak dreams now useless and how love
must simply sit waiting so refined and unadorned.
but I become undefined and more unclear.
and I blur in his eyes.
and I cant focus.
I move. Grow old. Die
Unbelieving. eventually unfeeling. body at rest
but soul imploring more...
of anything.......but distance.
. .there is a voice i hear
incessantly....caught in my hair.
It takes me to again.
and over. and over.
I know we have already died numerous times
unrequited. and unknown. and these words feel like cotton.
feel tasteless and pointless.
but they are words, and words are all that stick to my skin.
after all the places he touched. my God, i am treading air.
living is a chore. loving is a risk.
and i want to rip everything
away from the world except the truth.
which always resided in him.
depth is endless.
the end is nothing.
and if i can bear the quiet,
maybe the residual fire will keep me warm enough
to teach me that silence is not so terrible;
it is a language that could resurrect us all
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Slit it open
like a device of pain.
Fill its crevice
with an imploring disdain.
Cry out asunder
let no one hear
let your blood bear
create scars deep
Keep healing at bay
may gore gashes peep
Happiness is a drug
Romance pain and torture plug.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Here: Nothing has changed. It's morning and it's light. She wishes her eyes were glued so the sun wouln't stream through her eyes so. It's morning and she's got nightmares stuck under her fingernails and crimson stained lips from the night before. It's morning and she doesn't remember the night before.
Here: She only likes Spring. She only likes the smell of Jasmine and she only likes white dresses with lace. She says I'm tired, tired of the snow and isn't it ironic February takes so long? She says I want birds. I want birds outside my window. She says I want to wake up, and I want to smell fresh warmth. She says, I don't want to remember the last time I felt warm. She says, I can't pretend anymore.
Here: The white walls of her tenemant are really doorways to other empty worlds. Places where everything is the same colour - cocaine/bone/teeth. She stays away from the walls, afraid sh'll crossover, afraid Alice will find white oleander wonderland, afraid she'll never find her way back. Afraid she won't want to. The floor looks like it should creak but it doesn't. The windows look poetic frames and maybe she wants to jump.
Then: She used to sing at the balcony. She used to dance in the kitchen. She used to write letters everyday. She scribbled her life. She hashtagged her soul. She poured thoughts in 140 characters or more. She couldn't write anymore. Pages went empty. Links died. He used to watch her, she remembered. He used to let her veins tear and stain the paper in words that made it all poetic and pretty, he said. You see, he thought, it was art. He told her it was the preetiest thing in the world. But now he isn't here anymore.
Then : It's morning and her skin doesn't feel as soft. Her eyes aren't limpid and brightly honey-dew. The cieling fan isn't spinning. It's morning and there are empty pages strewn on her white floor. It's morning and she opens her eyes like she's been asleep. It's morning and it seems like it's always morning. It's morning and the windows talk to her.
They call and then she jumps!