In Dying

And so the mist swelled up from the snow
dancing in its own gloom glow.
Swallowing sun rays whole.
The roses crippled in the darkened night
begging for the return of light.
To burn out the blight.

Gold hues abandoned the circlet in the sky
and dust replaced the eye.
Permanence in sight.
No more in love's ache and never in hurt.
A frail existence subverted,


And for the body?
Burn it.

The HollowMan

January 7, 2011

My heart was the first to go-
but even so
Thoughts tortured me.
So I said goodbye to my brain and pulled out my eyes to string the life, poetry, and all else through.
The blackness still made it hard to breathe-
the truth.
So I dissected my lungs.
I really found no use for everything else and took it out as well.
I realized my skin still bled.
So I carved some wood and slipped inside.
Yes the fire still burned,
but I was still terrified of stone.
And didn't want to be like everyone else.

Falling into Sunrises

December 16, 2010

You make me want to write bad poetry.
Roses are red, violets are blue
Instead of tying up angels.
Glossy oil over marble Michelangelos.
Or even jazz that sings from horns.
Normally it's sex. Or death. Or those interconnections.
You make me want to dumb everything down,
You vacuous gelatin mind.

You make me feel less abnormal.
By the way,
I think I hate you for that.
There's something to be said for anti-insanity presences.

I want you to listen to my lip syncing, listen hard. Close your eyes,
Damn'it:

Sunrise's burn the waking eyes,
there's painful last breath as you die.
Clouds will touch you,
and although you won't feel,
You know by the tip of your tongue,
They do.
Earth may fold me in an embrace,
but not now, not now.
Today,
I feel your breath on my neck.
Stronger and warmer.
Ready for me to retrace.

Insert Cheesy Title

She was dancing. Lithe movements like something from a movie; was it all intentional, this perfect coordination? Water broke around her ankles and splashed her face and upper body and she bent low and tossed her head like a raging horse.

Her red hair flared against the night and her pale skin seemed breakable, even under my gaze. I could have seen her shatter for how strongly I watched her. She wore shorts only, and a tank top. Nothing seductive like a curtain of skirt to dance upon, but still it was enough. Bare skin flashed with each movement.

Cue the music that raged in my head. I couldn’t hear the music she obviously did. But I felt it. Thrumming deeply underneath my soles and through the ground, and exiting through her and her graceful movements like a spout. I felt the rain fall, and it never stopped her.

Every night it never stopped her.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So funny story. It rains, thunders, and lightning is in the air and I'm watching it pour and I get the craziest urge. I can't think of why not to do this, which is insane in itself right, but I figure what is there to lose. I go outside and lay on the ground. It has rained so much that it is like lying in a shallow pool of water and it's raining so hard that I can only barely see the lightning in the sky despite feeling the thunder under my back.
I stay there for about ten minutes before my odd laughter turns into shivers and I realize I've ruined the new dress I bought.
It was worth it.

Tone

*A note, a comment, a little hint. Do not read this plainly, monotone, or like a mime. Read with the hint of rhyme - although there is none. Read with sarcasm, frivolity, and mourning...Read with emotion that had been locked into a television screen. If that makes sense to you.
Without further ado:

If there was ever a picturesque "blackened woods"- it was these.
Painted over by an oil so thick that it not only chocked the trees, but air itself. Screams were swallowed whole by these woods. Although you are lost, however no more or less than anyone else, you dare not take off the blindfold.

Being lost, at first, was not so bad. The darkness was not lonely, and it hardly appeared dark. The shallow breathing that was forced out of your deflating lungs was symphonic, and almost companion worthy.

It began with the itch on your nose.

You itched it. Just barely brushed the blindfold. Just barely.
In fact, so barely that it was softer than the air around it, and even the occasional breeze. However, it was so alien that you became aware of everything for a moment.
The oil layers on your skin and the numbing cold as it stiffened on you - but that was gone soon enough.

But something wasn't. You felt the edge of your blindfold on your face so acutely that every thread hummed with a strange life.

You dared not touch it.

But it rubbed on you, slipped and slid across your eyes, and you itched and rubbed your body in hope to distract yourself. But it was powerful. Even in sex you felt the threads over your eyes. Mocking you in their strange life.

Sitting at the roots of this blackened tree in these blackened woods...You've been bleeding out slowly...You cut your tongue out...Ripped your nails out...Still the blindfold lay against your eyes like the marriage band. Stuck. Suffocating.

The shallow breathing had slowed and you heard your heartbeat. A thump, a thump, quicker thump ... then a thump, a thump.

Touching your face, the blood smeared. Your fingers skirted away from that filth. Skirted until you began touching the electrifying edges of that blindfold. You place your hands over your eyes as if to smother it in. Grimacing.

You become the scream swallowed whole.

Aftermath

He's like the ghost in my bedroom, true I can't see him, but I feel the presence enough to not want to change in it.

I feel your breath, tugging on my soul.

I am though:
Soulless, ...maybe it's my heart.
Heartless, ...maybe it's my dreams.
But I sleep dreamless still moreover.
Whispers catch my ear,
although I'm deaf.
And I feel your presence,
although I'm numb.

I'm the ghost to your handling s,
And yet you haunt me.

Vanity: You are no Fairytale

Feb. 12, 2010

The Debut:
The hearts you place in your eyes are deceivingly sublime. Stop those claws from the pearl of your skin. Take instead the bite of your lips to make accounts of the smiles you receive (ignore the pity). Wear it like badges upon your chest, but on your wrist.

The Silent Ball:
The pallor of your skin is not envied, Belle. The horrors of your nights are not hidden, and yet not horrifying. The whispers that ring your bells and shake your tea cups isn't gossiping Jealous, and the white room isn't encased in rose thorns (bending in coquette curiosity).

The Fall of the Midnight Hour:
Hence to your image in the ripples of the lake, and just as humble humility comes - it comes too late. The rose petals have fallen and the frozen pool has stolen your image. Hiding it in copious dew.