Insomnia

Cataclysmic rhythms of destruction reign supreme
Angels cry and angels fall
Into the waste of the unshepherded masses
Tongues on fire and hearts of wood
Ignite and blaze burnt orange into the dusty sky
There are no stars and the moon is dead
A fluttering veil concealing a brick wall
The priestess, she weeps
She is lost
She might be dead.

I don't love you, but I always will.

I love you.

There's screaming, oh there's screaming
Ricocheting throughout my skull
The forceful emotion scalds my guts
My heart bruises my bones
These words, clamoring to escape me
Are clamped down by my teeth
And beaten by my tongue
And swallowed back down my throat
Back to the void from whence they came.

I'll say it with every ardent stare
Hoping to telepathically imprint the message on your mind
I'll mean it with every frenzied touch
Believing the graze of my fingertips transmits my meaning
I'll whisper it between the curtains
Praying the sentiment of my breath reaches your heart

Stone

Grasping and flailing and burning for air
The brown tinges of decay frosting the fabric
Muted vibrations and diluted colors
Leak with disdain where they once poured free
Doubting and hating and yearning for warmth
Grayish hued veins crawl upwards and away
Inaccurate and hyperbolic self-accusation
Tear and degenerate the withered flesh

For I am my comfort, I am my seed
The filament, the shade, the throne.
A heart hearkens lightly and tosses its qualm,
And then, I will turn into stone.

True Story

The trouble with making your dreams reality is that

Your dreams

Become

Reality.

They are no longer beautiful, tidy notions of sparkle and wonderment.

They have problems, they get trashed, someone fucks them up.

They're not pretty anymore.

They didn't mean as much as you thought they would.

They ruin everything.

When it's intangible, it's safe from your own erroneous judgement and it's safe from other people's heavy and cutting words and infallible stupidity.
When it's there, when it's real, it's vulnerable.

And it will

Get

Broken.

Eris

The toxic spill
The noxious fumes

The pain, the pestilence

Famine, chaos, discord

Hail Eris, they speak!

Their tongues tripping in jubilation!

The hearts of men held rapt by the furor.

Hail Eris, they cry!

Whoa, for she is merciless!

Her ivory fingers spreading poison throughout the land
And her apple, her golden fruit

Lobbed like a grenade between lovers and foes
Hail Eris, they shout!

Yea, for she is ruthless!

The willows weep and burn

The river runs red and wild

Stones crumble.

Hearts blacken.

Hail Eris, they speak!

Whoa, for she is powerful!

She sees what is good, and she weakens.

She sees what is pure, and she falters.

Within her box of misery, she is unprotected.

She is nothing without the pain of others.

Hail Eris, they shout!

Before castrating themselves for her sake

So she may thrive another day.

Untitled

I'm not mad that I'm late

I'm not mad that I'm inconvenienced

I'm not mad that I've lost a day

I'm not mad that all plans have been rearranged

I'm mad that I have to wait an additional 12 hours to see a face I've not seen in three weeks.

AND THAT... Is what makes it so strange.

Unknowing

Steeped with angels who softly fly

On browning, withered wings

The voice, the helm, the bitter taste

Of disputes

Of beauty

Of lies

For that planned encounter of chance

I wait within the pale discourse

On floors of ashen memory

We sing

We love

We dance

Clouded skies of wasted greens

Rain of wine, rain of guilt

Wires, codes, keys, and coins

For them

For you

For me

Summer Roads

Summer roads,

Warm winds.

Warm smiles.

Think I'll stay here for a while.

Remember me by light and fire

Overnight, I'm yours and tired

Morning comes for human beings

Water first, but then its wings

Messanger between the gods

Weaker stable

Weaker lies

'Nother moon we miss eclipsed.

I know.

The tide is high,

Oh things...

They are in a box or car

They are knees and lips and scars

But not things, they grow so fonder.

Place in heart,

The mountains.

Thunder.

-The Ghost Writer

Loosely, Tightly

The air heavy, lost at night

Suffering from the day's defeat

Kisses of black and drinks of white

Salty skin on violent sheets

A touch of yearning, yet to please

Pressed deeply into your spine

Sitting there on burned knees

I decided then I'd call you mine

Mirrored

Eight years have elapsed since I've stood on that side of the mirror, staring in, hopelessly dying to know who I would be when I stepped through the glass.

Now, looking back, I can see another girl standing on that side of the mirror, not knowing it's me she's looking at on the other side. She's hurting, she's lonely. The world is small and in her hands, and the idea that tiny decisions today shatter the rest of your life haunt her.

She cannot hear my voice, and if she could, would she understand it?

If she did hear me, understand my words, what would I say to her?

Nothing.

It's not that I don't care, because I do.

It's not that I am bitter that no one helped me, because I'm not.

It's not that she needs my help, because she doesn't.

Her breath fogs up the glass and she writes letters to someone.

Begging for someone to swoop in and save her and tell her what she wants to hear.

I won't say anything to her, for fear of tainting what would be an otherwise perfectly uninhibited, uninfluenced, unguided growth into an unknown direction. She is beginning her embarkation on what she thinks is a seemingly fruitless, futile journey into becoming something amazing.

She is smart, she is strong, she is beautiful.

She has the capacity to be better than anything that ever was before her.

So I will maintain my seat, the priestess before the veil, and let her travel her own way to the moon.

I Am The Hunter

Walk through the trees, little deer

Daintily step over the underbrush

And nose through the leaves and grass

Your ears are quite capable to discern the sound of predators

Occasionally you perk up and swivel your head around

Looking for something that might have seen you

Gingerly you meander about in and out of danger.

But you know you do, and you try to be careful

But you never quite had your wits about you.

If you hadn't wandered into my garden that day,

Maybe if you hadn't trashed my flowers.

I wouldn't be here, stalking.

And waiting.

Oh, little deer. I need not trap you.

You end up in open clearings and places

And box yourself in.

Maybe it was I who lied to you.

You weren't aware of who I am

Or what I'm capable of...

And

Did I make a mistake and

Jump out the wrong window?

I'm falling and falling and

I have yet to hit the ground.

Unless I have already landed and

I have absolutely no idea.

I've not felt the impact and

The aftershocks that come.

Nor is there the stability and

The solidarity of earth beneath my feet.

I feel sad and lost and

Somehow, quite content.

Like I've cut my losses and

Now I'm floating, but I don't know where.

But I see it falling down beneath me and

I cannot save it.

I see it moving away and

I cannot retrieve it.

I see it getting lost and

I will never find it again.

The Irishman and the Sea

He stood on the rocks, and stared down below
At her writhing, tumultuous watery throes.

His thoughts were all quarreling about his disgrace

While the sea spat and sighed in his hardened face.

He lowered himself to perch on a stone
That had been weathered and beaten for years unknown.
He thought out loud, "How can it be,"
"That the woman I love will never love me?"
As soon as he said it, the tides started to rise.

Her billowing surf shown in his lost eyes.
"I've loved her through all of my musings and pain.
By pulling her in, I've forced her away."

The water was high, the storm drawing near.
Inside rolling fog, the world disappeared.
He howled in agony, his soul torn asunder.
The sky cracked apart with a peal of thunder.
Her waves and his fists both beat on the shore.
For his heart and her slumber both were now torn.
White caps erupted as she suddenly awoke
And at last, after silence, the sea finally spoke.
Who are you, she pondered in her salty breath.
That looks to his life as if he lives it in death?

"It is I," moaned the Irishman, he rose to his feet.
"Without the woman I love, why does my heart still beat?"
She robbed all my senses, so why do I feel?
If I cannot live with her, then why bother to heal?"

The sea rolled about in her turbulent fashion

With love and anger and misguided passion.
She rose from her bed of rocky, black shoals

And with one fell swoop, she swallowed him whole.
He kicked and he flailed but was still pulled down
As the sea held him tight, he knew he would drown.
Surrender, my darling, for you will not go free.

Stay with me now, succumb to me.
He clamored for air, but to no avail.
Her grip was too strong, his attempts were too frail.

Look at yourself, all the hurt you've sustained
You're broken and battered and lost in your pain.

With a twinge of regret in the face of his death,

He released his final and miserable breath.

Now you are mine, she whispered to he.
I can give you something if you listen to me.

I cannot give you kindness, for it will hide it on a shelf.

I cannot give you strength, you must earn it yourself.

I cannot give you joy, for it will be hollow.
I cannot give back yesterday, or find your tomorrow.

I cannot give you courage, nor honor, nor grace.
What you've openly surrendered, I cannot replace.
But I can give you something for your journey above,

I can give you my wisdom, some hope, and my love.

Never ask for something you can't find on your own.

Your path in this life is yours alone.

Be what you are, but don't stay where you're at.
Most things are ephemeral, you cannot change that.
You're wasting yourself, by ignoring your thirst,

No one will love you, unless you love you first.

With a wild furor, the sea violently churned.
She thrashed in her turmoil like a woman spurned.

Waves broke with wrath over the jagged rocks

And she ravaged the shore in ill aftershocks.

When the Irishman opened his green-hued eyes,
He saw a pinkish dawn with cloudless skies.
The world was dusted with early morning chill,
The sun tipped the horizon and the sea was still.

He was flat on his back on the old, weathered stone.

And for the first time in his life, he did not feel alone.

The Meaning

What do you love? How do you seek it? And why do you love it in the first place?

This morning, I was on my way to work. I stopped at the 7-11 in Grandin to pick up Diet Cokes like I do every morning. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed an elderly man in a white and red cardigan, with reflective sunglasses, sporting a long white cane that he was using to sweep the ground in front of him. I got out of my car, grabbed my bank card, and as I approached the front of 7-11, so did he. He found the curb, stepped on it, and made his way away from the door. So I watched for a second, as he found a trashcan, and then I made my way to him.

As I reached the man, another person behind me called out, "Are you looking for the door?" but the blind man didn't hear. So I put my hand on his shoulder and he swung around. "Do you need any help, sir?" I asked. "Where is the door to the McDonald's?" "McDonald's?" I repeated just to be sure. "Oh no, not the McDonald's." He laughed. "I mean 7-11." I laughed with him. "It's right over here, sir." I linked my arm with his and slowly guided him towards the door, where the other helpful citizen stood, holding the door open. He said, "Thank you, young lady," and we parted ways.

I've done little things like this numerous times in my life. I bought a tube of lip gloss for a little girl in Bath and Body Works. I gave twenty bucks to two kids who I witnessed returning a lost cellphone they had found. I helped a broke, and possibly deranged, man who was living in a hotel. I've listened to people talk for hours about what pains them or about their ideas and notions they cannot keep locked away inside them anymore. I've given money to the homeless. I've held open doors, picked up dropped wallets, and let people pass me on the interstate.

I love making people happy. If I can't make the entire world happy forever, I would love to make one person feel slightly better than they had before I came along for at least a few minutes. You cannot predict when someone needs something; it just sort of happens. And a lot of the time, these people didn't even ask for any kindness to begin with. I just see someone that needs something, and I do what I can in that moment to help.

Why, though? Why do I love making people happy?
Is it for some selfish reason, that making others happy makes them like me more? Because I'll receive that little bit of validation when someone turns around to say thank you? Because I want that little pat on the head from my peers? Because my church and my bible and my God have told me so? Because karma exists, and I know I will be rewarded ten-fold down the road?

I think I do it simply because it's the right thing to do. And I believe that everyone should do it, regardless of his or her motivations. Kindness is a kindness, no matter what spawned it. And oh sure, if everyone did it "the world would be a happier, more beautiful place," but that's not why. I cannot change and improve the world, but I can improve me to help you, so we can change now.

Hope, She Calls It

If only, I sigh, with the wind of desperation that escapes me loosely. Staring into a tiny dot on my computer screen, knowing that perhaps, you feel I'm looking at you.

It's terrifying. Joyful and terrifying. To be so connected with someone so intangible. You hardly exist, in a realistic sense.

What I would give to feel you, for at least one moment. To hold you inside of me. To know that your pulsating heart does so next to mine. To feel those hands, those beautiful hands, as they firmly grip my hips. To feel your breath, moist and warm, on my neck, condensing with sweat and heat. The roughness of your facial hair grazing my collarbone.

Two lips, meeting mine, in a rushed flurry of tongues and passion. I'd whisper to you, and allow my words to fall inside of you. I'd pray they leapt across your heartstrings in the same fashion your words leap across mine. How I long for that one blessed moment when my skin can touch yours.

Instead I take solace in the sole fact that you are alive and breathing every day. Knowing that you traipse across the surface of this earth, the same as I, is enough. If only for now.

Do you think of me when you stare at the expansive cyan sky and know that I, just like you, stand below its vast greatness thinking of you?

Do you think of me when you stand amidst a blossoming forest and wish that I can be there with you?

Do you think of me when you are alone, and just as I do, do you long for that day when we can at least be in the same room as one another?
I cannot see you, I cannot touch you. Within the deepest chambers of my heart and within the very breadth of my soul, I do believe I can still feel you moving about. Restless and longing, just like me.

I miss you.

And I don't even know who you are.

My Favorite Things

Blueberry incense and warm summer nights
Card games with friends and bright Christmas lights
Open windows and books and old cocktail rings
These are a few of my favorite things

Visiting the zoo and big, white full moons
Bonfires and brush fires and watching cartoons
Learning weird facts and untangling string
These are a few of my favorite things

Being on stage and taking pictures of flowers
New pencils and cats and laughing for hours
Dancing with people and trying to sing
These are a few of my favorite things

When I'm left alone
When my heart swings
When I'm feeling sad
I simply remember my favorite things
And then I don't feel so bad

Nyquil High

The rush of the earth impinges upon you such a sluggish display, and the room around you becomes festive and boring all at the same time.

Tomorrow's troubles seem like distant nuclear wars.

The waste of dread bears down on you like thick, gray chains.

Tear at you like starved bloodhounds.

The hot, steely lips of that broken-down devil swears and makes poems.

He leans against his liquid black car. The tears of his past pool and ripple around his ankles.

He hides his sly grin in the sleeve of his brown mole skin coat.

The epitome of empathy and compassion is letting those who will harm you win.

When you close your eyes, you can feel his voice settling in your ears. You can feel the room and all the world melting into a thick damp fog. When you close your eyes you spin like a dainty water lily traipsing around the glass-top pond. Consciousness flows out of you like a forgotten dream and you are at peace once more.

Treading Water

Kicking will only do so much for so long. You won't drown, but you won't get anywhere either. You'll tire out eventually. The treading, the waiting for a rescue, seems futile and fruitless. Allowing yourself to live, yet in such stressed circumstances, becomes an argument of quality of life over its quantity. So, you let yourself succumb to the water. And below its transparent surface, you dip.

This is another moment.

Another situation entirely.

You are now faced with the imminent prospect of death. Up above the surface, death seemed peaceful and like a good idea, but now... The water is filling up your nose and mouth, pressing in on your chest. Death is rushing in on you fast and from all sides. The great unknown yawns beneath you, ready to swallow you up as soon as you surrender, but the overwhelming fear of it all rushes to your limbs, causing you to kick and swim.

Your face breaks the surface.

You take a big gulp of air.

Your heart, hammering wildly beneath your sternum, courses the now dissipating adrenaline through your arteries. And you curse yourself for being a coward.

Too scared to live.

But too scared to die.

So you continue to tread water.

The Ghost

Sometimes I wish I can fade in and out like some sort of ghost. That little phantom that creeps up unexpectedly then disappears into nothing when you thought you were sure you saw something.

That presence that merely is, but doesn't matter. I like being noticed, don't get me wrong, but for some strange reason, I have a hard time being appreciated. It's almost as if I don't like it.

It feels like someone's attachment brings me into existence again, and I try to slip back through the wall the way I came in, but instead I slam into it because I'm suddenly solid. And I have to use a door to leave. And I hate using doors.

I begin to feel trapped, because I'm not who I was anymore. I'm not the mysterious mist that can reason and speak and can disappear and reappear. I'm a person again, with scars and baggage and the fear of using the goddamn door. I have no reason to use the door, other than I know that if I do get out of the room, I get to become a ghost again, which is both cowardly and rude.

I'm not pretending when I say I know how you feel. It's something like this:

Mumford and Sons: White Blank Page

I cried when I heard that song for the first time, because I feel like such an asshole.

Just know, that I'd much rather be in your shoes than in my own.

Mine give me blisters, and I'm not allowed to bitch about it.