pacified

my loyalty is frugal and shy. i am unable to guard while stationary, and i pray my arms my soul to keep.
i throe with the haunting - yes, i see your words and hear your images.
you were once midas to me, and i ventured after my own platonic in your library mind.
what i found were the tragedies and romanticism of isolation, though now as my thoughts pull themselves through scathing cracks, i realize it was devastatingly perceived.
i found a subtle rebellion, a chaos, a revolution. and to fight the ghosts, i begged for a shell of you.
when my hands clutched the vain wind in triumph, i found the stench of my days in pretense, and resented you for my own request.

to put it simply, i said words in ecstasy that i should have ensnared.
i cried with angst because i didn't know what to say.
i was an awful tangled mess of beginning to be me, and ending as your impostor.

the wrong you have not yet charged me with.

so ask anyone - i elude. i'm no more than a thief sustained by the thrill.
i don't know if i'll ever be my own pillar, and until then, collapsing at the base of you would only cause your temple to fall.
to suffer you that agony again, believe it or not, terrifies me.

"to love, and lose what we love, are equally things appointed for our nature." -lewis

i merely haven't cradled the first. i'm sorry i let you down.

Question:

Is it better to be lonesome and free?
Is it better to be petted and caged?

11-1-10

These days are colored in the Impressionist style. Today is fog, early persimmon; the subject a sick flower. I'm no more a little school girl, perfecting my cursive spelling words. But my fingers scroll the same. Recreating what looms for kill outside the heater-vents. Supplanting myself as frightened beneath pervading rain. Always running. I wasn't meant to be the savior - I'll leave that to God. Macabre and journal in hand, I'll document your downfall. It's what He made me for. If only the critics weren't shy.

Let me lie.

Coffee has been crippled by the doe - this trembling dry throat.
A cello haunts my chest like a fluid ghost in tapestry, and
I'm tormented with uncertainty of the drum's aim -
Celebration or War.

I don't mean all that I say:
"I'd rather be alone."

Photographs, neglected to keep me ardent for my isolation,
Are tattered when reflected upsidedown.
Now I see you are like my father,
Securing me in your Indian summer.

Blue eyes proud.
Green eyes storming.

Horror unlike gore is taunting me.
For in my last sight of you,
I stand small -
Charmed to be yours.

And now I am large and maladroit,
Unstable as to where I stand at all.

thorn

my eye's veins are in love.

inhaling underground,
comforted by tree root's fortitude,
exalting in red wind mantra,
wearing the veil of dragonfly wings,
steps resounding off my heart's swing....

you held to me a weed -
violet thistle.

my eye's veins are in love.

At Fault

I wish to transpose my gypsy mind to who it was before I suffered it to pattern.

Granny

Her scent pervades her photographs.
Nearing my vanity, I educe my truth;
She, the patroness of quest,
Bids me "digress."

Her scent resides in her pillows.
My wayward vernacular induced coma attempts
To deplete me,
But she
Tucks me in with Ecuador.

if i wrote a song

so in my plaid pants and obscure band shirt i'll sleep
after deluding that screamo is not my propensity.
i'll dream i'll arise content at 6:15
and at my 9-5 i won't sing asinine mainstream.

life's a ruptured balloon - shredded askew -
each withered latex fulfilling only while new.
every rose - bloodless. every photograph fades blue.
weary of procuring myself - lonely - i'll hunt you.

grey hairs not from thought but lack thereof.
my depth is reduced to paste and makeup.
i'll skip, like on sinking bricks, on hearts depleted.
inspiration. my power. unplugged.

a sculpture injected with styrofoam
cursory metropolis drinks and i'm home.
this rhymed meter is moronic like the death of our phone.
like a sloth-minded bird, oh God, i'm undone and alone.

black widow

tombstone rooted weeds are planted by the lonely.
we, ones who inhabit grass and ground.
dragging the bodies fettered to our feet, we stumbled into a puddle and made it our sea.

but, my love, you erred upon assumption that i am human.
you're my muscles affliction.
my toxic epidemic.

my sole antidote.

these robotic fingers will sew my love into your skin and inject the shrapnel of my heart.
resist embrace of my eyes – razored glass compost.
eyelashes clasp like lacerating teeth.

i'm a black widow.

when the sun rains

nightmares feast as i'm half alive.

my eyes' detached veins snake before they ride through glassy teeth.

enamel sloughs away like noodles.

illegitimacies of molested sun fall, festering between my every rib.

they dissemble my mind's chords and let my body writhe.

haunted gaps of gray between black trees gracefully sway me into the sky's boiling mire.

and when the sun rains......

two children drowning on a stairwell

i licked my fingers when you threw up your heart in my hands.
i bathe in sickness with a smile and swallowed my fingernails.
you kissed the sad spot beside my eye, warm beneath my hair.
when your broken limbs fell they jerked the safety pins of my jagged heart.
my face's home is your shoulder where you carry me.
with your shaking hands, you held this corpse.
i pray the cold would drink or sever us.
but instead of you, i smell the dirt in the carpet as it climbs into my skin.

C.S.Lewis Photography

1 Corinthians 13:12

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face.

please don't keep me

your humble arms, like an awakened tree, are my faint wings' asylum.
your cradle exposes desperation.
my face sinks to the bottom of your heart.
lead fused eyelids are sleep hungry.
melancholy ringing love,
as gossiping walls dull like a theater's bow.

raven

she has a mother's face
and a child's elite delicacy of trust.

window shadows and stars bathe
and echo her chocolate face.

her eyes - rivers of peace -
caress tears.

guilt disassembles her delight.
she does not know why she cries to me.

and i do not know why either.

dear mommy,

you've breathed into me
a seed.

an early tickle - a surge of life

writhing in growth - snapping my veins

excruciating firming of roots

soft lace nourishing blossoms

tsunamis echo.
but i have mommy here.

Wisteria is my Wine

Planted piano keys - trees -
are parted like ocean waters when
Lady Sun bashfully spies from her corner.

She undresses slowly, innocently
from polyester work garb to a
hazy sunflower ball gown.

She is radiant,
passionately swaying.

Her balm spills to awaken kindred earth's
rapture.

Wisteria is my wine.

Drunk with beauty,
I am pupil of whimsical Sun.

She flushes pink from her secret lover's
soft kisses and carassing voice.

Rose, she accedes him,
and reclines
as she lays until waking.

vicarious

perhaps it (the untouchable all-comprehensible infamous life or time or state of existance etc..) is better to dwell alone. why is it we feel acomplished upon non-existance of sleep for reading? hollow pregnant romance novels (better yet, romance novels involving vampires) or significant works of cannon - no matter. i exist vicariously though memiors of those who claim misfittedness. i then rotate in my swivel chain to write my own personal memio of this personal nobody. i'll hand myself the ragged truth on a platter that will do no good unless used to end my life and shout that we're all simply blundering nobodies attempting to be beautiful and feign adventure.

will you carry me away on an eagle?

my adventures are composed in sweet invested books. i let the words write themselves on my face, scrawling across with each thought of attaining (and excusing life to attain) that insurmountable something.
a'gape. peace. red.
however, "first art will imitate life, then life will imitate art, then life will find its very meaning from the arts." - unknown
that is why memiors are so uncomplicatedly genious. they allow me contentment with my own mundane, for, if they can see the beauty (or at least sound poetic and profound when discussing life and death) then so can i.

right?

Loving and Devouring are the same

Tis' better to love not at all,
Than to love perversely with crooked spine.
My stor'ge will devour the both of us.

3-22-10 (Oh yeah, she's losing it)

I could scribe my life in song.
I think that is what all artist think, and then they pick up their laptops as I do know, and write some ridiculous nonsense like “Code Monkey” or “We the Dreamers” or “Like Steps in a Dance.”
And then, lo the beerholder, voila splits a song that all other artists can relate to in completely relative ways.

It probably started when they had an asi-asi day at their prep school, came home, drove to their empty best friend's house, immersed themselves in that person's scent, and observed their domicile whilst the said person was out and about. They then turned into The Almost's song “Say This Sooner” which made them realize their insociability and disgust/curiosity in the eyes of most people. They then drove a rode that was once, two days ago, new to them, but no longer has the lemon orange taste of freshness. Now, they know where they are going, that it will lead to another road on which their bodies will autopilot home, and all will result in gas waste. Upon arrival at their own dwelling, they logged into a social networking site, on which they spent an hour enraptured with the live of others. They live that hour or so vicariously, and then feel sick afterward, with a reminder of the hammering homework ahead. They begin to finish a book, for a test that they probably shouldn't take, and eventually close their eyes. They dream of outrageous trinkets and escapades that occur in seconds of unconsciousness. Life in anime or something or something or something. Upon awakening to a mother's yelling voice, they forget every excitement the day held in those few minutes or hours of deadness. They proceed to make a sandwich, and think, I could write my life in song.

She eats the same bread every day,
All those who know her call it by name.
She drinks coffee in the dead of night,
Finally realizing sleep is for the weak.
Or invaluable. Or not as valuable as awakeness.
And she also happens to take showers only so the next day she can skip one.
She burns her icy tongue every day of the week.
Her life consists of dead flowers and candles.
She blatantly speaks in secretive oxymorons.

…..I have not the patience for a song at this point, I realize.
I also have not words to elaborate my ill disposition to my wondering mother.
Perhaps it is because money is so very short.
I then remember a part of my dream/dreams, where when told the miniscule-in-comparison-to-total amount of money in my missions trip account, instead of smiling politely to Mrs. Dickens and thanking her for her concern, I took a sword and sliced down my leg. It is easier for me to give blood than money. Perhaps that is where the aphorism “blood money” came from.
No, probably not.
Perhaps my foul mood is result of a timid fear. A fear, like a shy doe, that has been frightened and runs with calamity, displacing all the neatly orderly placed places inside my chest and stomach.
I fear the lumps in my tissue.
I fear the lack of feeling and poor circulation.
I fear that my knee is still unhealed.
I think I have my memaw's disease.
I cannot escape it.

But my mother drops the topic without further prodding and I mount the stairs with my life and curse (coffee) and force myself to believe that I am too young for health or money problems.

Then my coffee gets cold and my mother calls, and I know this is the beginning of my (their) evening.

Shed the Glib and Bones

Public interrogation swelled and ceased.
Self proclaimed verdict of
Counterfeit.

I unzipped my plastic skin,
threw my havocked bones to Flight in migration,
banished my
glass green eyes.
Nothing left of my lonely, fine figure but
metal
teeth.

Mr. Dead Sea gorged himself on my crackled shell;
Next day he “spewed me out of his mouth.”
Tramp, Or my soul, acrid and heavy like sand in the mouth,
Convulses in space for its rightful owner.

She decorates murderous detached hearts and sobs when embraced with love.
'Hunger' is her middle initial with calligraphy curls of burgeoned eyes and skin suctioned ribs.
Her nests of idle words scrounged in trees of “vanity underneath the sun...”
Fall.
She is ink mishaps in books.
She storms with elephants and Preys with octopuses.
Stars are enticed by her.
Sun is her sea.

I am a mere vestige now.
Devouring time with my metal teeth in desperation for a Mother
Something.
I donated preconceived eloquence I've yet to attain.
Vigil to my hollow words and pulped art -
I am a mere ghost.
Reconstruct our memories and mourn that I was good.

She is insatiable for bona fide.