Archive for August, 2011


The Reminder

i'm of a sweet belief,
pressing my fingertips
to the decadent remains
of this faithfulness.
there's no such thing
as true belief.
you find it
and you let it go,
and you experience it again-
and start again
fresh, broken,
alive.

they say
that we believe
in what we see.
so what does that say of me?
you see right through me.
translucent,
a ghost running
from sea to sea.

don't worry.
i'm not gone.
this, this is me-
this is who i am.
while you're worrying,
i'm laying it out before you.
i'm showing you
the sores on my wrists;
i'm holding out everything they took away
with the full,
innocent belief
that you'll recognize these treasures.

i've forgotten how hard it is
for one so used to holding everything aside
to see
me
as who i am.
not civilized
nor wild.
existing.

so don't worry.
don't mind me;
the circle's complete.
i can always parade around and pretend
for your sake
that i am that soft-hearted,
social creature.

that isn't me.

my empathy
shines
through silence,
not words and comfort.
not lightning and fire,
but the sweet belief
of the healing gale
you cannot see.
A mirror.
Break your puzzle
and just shatter
the
goddamned mirror already.

the words
are still written
on the glass,
and somebody
broke it.
i'm looking.
Trust me.
i'm looking.

your puzzle is
more intact
than my own.
so far,
the pieces?
they don't fit.

you can't cut them, boy.

we can't
mutilate ourselves
to make them fit,
so here we are-

one willing to learn
despite the fact
that the first step
is off the edge
of this floating city's
limits,
while the other hides
in fear.
it's your move,
boy;
your move.
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The Point

you say
you don’t want
a sister.
you say
that you want
me“.

you’re
suffocating me,
darling.
i know
you
don’t mean to.

you
aren’t even aware.
yes,
you understand.
you aren’t
a fool.
yet in your concern,
you blame
the first thing
that i mention.

you say you hate him.

it’s
a peculiar thought:
i don’t hate him.
in fact,
i
don’t believe
i ever did.
disappointment?
yes.
betrayal? yes.

despite
all that
he did to me,
i can’t
bring myself
to feel “hate“.

the fear
remains.

you’re asking me
to open up-
to rouse myself
from this
pale slumber.

i refuse.

this
is my
healing.
yes,
i break
with purpose.
many
of my wounds
are self-inflicted.

star,
we are kindred.

i will accept that.

this guilt
and worry
and
crumbling determination,
this
clingy obsession,
this love
sets off
alarms
in my heart
and my head.

it isn’t your fault.

you don’t know
what words
you speak
and what i
hear.

you don’t know.

back up
to
where we started,
good friend.
you name reasons
to love me
but still,
you don’t know why.

to love
who you fear
is
a talent
i’ve honed
to perfection.

don’t love like i do.

it’s
a heavy-handed
work of art,
pressuring
the edges
of my
sanity,
mending
and soothing
highstrung nerves.

i can’t help
but smile,
a silent
acknowledgement
of my
childish temper.
i
am so used
to fighting
for this.

you
hush
my soft cries,
letting me
rest my heart
in your
gentle hands.
no favors.
no strings.
i call out
and there
you are.

i
feel
as though
i place
so much–
too
much–
of myself
upon
your shoulders.

even then,
you
carry me along
when i
cannot walk
on my own
sore
feet.

one has said
that i
am a saint
fallen
from the heavens,
taught
by the wild fey
and caressed
by mother Gaia’s
soft touch.
i was gifted,
silent,
to an angel
and a snake.

then
there is you,
strange one.
streams
of the purest
of waters
trickled
over your bones
in your
creation.
earthen gods
spun
for you
many names;
one
was taken
on an eagle’s wings,
whispered
into my
spirit’s
ear and sealed,
tender,
with fairytales
and this
silky sweet doubt.

i will not lie.
this gift
tortures me so.

"she breathes in,
she breathes out.
she wakes up
and lays down.
she can hardly speak
and so she screams.
she will bleed from insecurity."

go on,
go back and cower beneath your bed.
i cannot bear this. see here.
leave me to my self here.
hello and goodbye stitched upon my wrists.
repeat,
Repeat,
echo my own words,
tie them together
and pretend it's something fresh.
receive
half of a present
early

i'm sorry.
here i am
once more,
apologizing
to you both
for the
way
i've treated
you.

just
open your eyes!
don't even try
to tell me
there's nothing
to forgive.

this time
i will stand tall.
my spine
is a tower
of stone
and thunder,
crumbling
but strong.
let me speak.

we've
been running
for so long,
and now
i find
my legs
are splintered.
you both limp,
wounded,
carrying me
in your own
seperate
ways.

you will not
let me
fall.

and here,
i've always
made myself out
to be something...
prettier.
i've always
put myself
in the
place
of the victim,
whispering
broken words
into these pages.

let me go.
let me change.
watch
as i fall
and wait
for my time
to pass.

try to block out
the screaming;
and close your eyes.
you don't need
to see me
in this moment of self-destructive
fury,
a bloodlust
that comes and goes.

it's better for each of us.

"Well, it's not easy for me to be
somebody different, somebody else but me,
but you're the actor, the extraordinaire.
you make it look like
i am the crazy one here.
so why don't you leave me alone?"

The Grim

"and it makes my skin crawl:
i'm not the sharpest tool in the shed,
so what's the use?"

you've always
shared
these songs
with me.
they might not
be
in your words,
but they
are in
your heart.

today,
i decided
to sing along.

my voice
faltered.
suddenly,
it made sense
and
i'm so,
so very
sorry.

i know.
all of my writing
is a handful
of apologies
and dead words,
repeats
of themselves
to be
written off,
but let me tell you this:

it's all true.

the world
leeches color
from you,
leaving
your dreams
and your fears
as mirrors
of themselves.
weathered
and gray,
you fight
without knowing
what
you swing at.

here i am,
assuming
to know
what you
are going through.

and i am sorry...

"you can still find me
between devils
and deep blue seas."

A break from the usual

There’s no rhyme, rhythm or reason
in the words that I write.
I don’t mean to offend
your fragile tastes,
nor do I mean to worry you
with my sudden disappearance.

An echo amongst the rain.

There are some amongst you
who read, and think, and decide
that the manner is off-
that it was better in the beginning-
that it is best if I change.

One of you spoke it clearly,
not out of malice for my work
but out of “constructive criticism”.

I snapped.
You won’t apologize,
but neither will I.

They say that over time,
the artist’s techniques will shift.
(this feels dead to me)

The way that they sketch out these
simple lines and shapes becomes different,
and it is then that their art is unique.
(oh no, i’ve gone and written the same again)
I only want to be unique.

It’s such a fucking shame, isn’t it?

I tried to create something for myself-
I tried to grow in both my style and my self-
and when another person disagreed with me
I screamed and cried like a child,
battering my tiny fists against the mirror
that reflects only my soul
(don’t help me, don’t touch me, don’t hurt me)
in some sort of misconstrued attempt
to both justify myself and become as I was before.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I can’t.

I CAN’T.

And here I am, struggling against myself
to try and please everybody again.
I won’t even try to bleed myself out
to give you this message.

I won’t even try to pretty this up
because this is how I used to be.
There is nothing pretty in the truth.

There is, however, a saying amongst the stars.

If you can’t take the criticism,
step off the stage.

It isn’t where you belong. 

“You know exactly what
you need to say
to start a war with me.

My words will cut
you apart. Aren’t you afraid?
What is it about me that you see?”

 How
does it feel
to be
awash
in the ashes
of your
standstill victory?

I
refuse
to be tamed
by your
modernized warfare.

If you feel
your success
has
been too easy,
please,
crawl away
now.

Our dance
through
bloody hazes
and clouds
of hail
has only
just
begun.

Duck
and weave,
twist
and curl.

Accept
what you
cannot
change.

My sorrow
will not
be stolen,
so
choose your weapon.

Though you
have my heart
in a
chokehold,
my spirit
rages
on.

I will
fight
at every turn.

I am
not
malicious.

Understand that
there is
nothing
“civilized”
about me.

Ink
and treesap
tattoo
my veins.

This
beating organ
pumps only
dust
and words
and
turbulent emotion.

A tempest
rules over
my mind,
sending
electric signals
to these
glass
nerves.

The storm’s
fleeting
rage
controls
my
weathered muscles.

My bones
are but
only
brittle ice,
trapping
the first
sparks
of fire
within
their tender
marrow.

Everything
that
makes me
who I am
is also
working
against me.

I
am not
supposed
to survive.

Instead
of leaving me
to
myself,
you preserve
what you can,
stitching
my
tattered flesh
back together,
helping to hide
my
suffering
from
mortal eyes.

Why
aren’t you
running …?