Saturday, May 26, 2012

Just a woman talking with unclear words,
sitting on the floor in the corner of the room.
Just a woman with a blurry face in the dark.
And suddenly unconscious, she is gone.
Just as soon, light fills the room again.
There she sits again, in the corner.
I lean in to see her face.
Instead now is a figure,
skin black and scaly,
and eyes burning coals.
His voice rough and shrill,
As he tells me who he is.
I feel only blank.

Simple and Terrifying.

Another deflected encounter,
familiar affliction.
Vagabond eyes
found home
in parallels, 
for just 
a second.


Thursday, May 10, 2012

This is how I felt a year ago.

Thought consumes most of my day. Thought prompted by social expectation. I despise being awakened from a controlled lull of thought at the sound of a bell. Focus on english, oh wait now math. Don't stray, health, now french, then chemistry. Ok breathe, just art. Finally history followed quickly by gym. The transition between these constrained thoughts is the worst infringement upon my sanity. A three minute, undesirable rush teeming with jabbing elbows, apathetic gaits, administrators herding the crowd, and a distinct pungent odor. After the final transition I can feel my own thoughts starting to surface and shake free from this dictatorship. We are the champions. But that's just it, that is only what we are led to believe. We're not champions. We are the epitome of the contrary. We're herded for the three minutes that we're on this earth and then we're gone. We are the losers. We are the sheep.

Your words kill me, Love


Tonight
I find myself alone.
Pen, paper, words.
Pen- between finger and thumb
Paper- deep indents filled with ink,
Words.
Pen- dragging and cutting in,
bleeding.
Paper- white and blue,
a line of red.
Reflects you,
White flesh holds blue veins
holds red blood.
Blue lines on white paper
a line of red.
Bleeding.
I try to save you, but you're already dead.
Just words on paper,
I'm alone
Tonight.

March 2007

Air polluted with polyurethane filled my lungs as I consumed what little oxygen was left in the basement. I set my brush down in the tray and turned to sit on the step. I looked up and dark marble eyes stuffed inside the sockets of a mounted deer glowered down at me menacingly. My asthma, lack of red blood cells, and the thick chemical smell in the air made his face appear to tilt towards mine repeatedly. I copied his motions, swaying my head back and forth to the rhythm of the deer. A ringing jolted me out of my daze. I could hear my mom talking upstairs. I tried to think who would call on a weekday so early in the morning, but my brain was not able to process whole thoughts. I continued rocking my head along with the deer. I heard footsteps above me and a moment later my mom opened the door. Oxygen. Why didn't I think of that? I leaned back so the crown of my head rested on the step behind me and my mother was upside down. That was a weird smile... but not a smile. I sat up and turned so she was the right way again. She looked distressed and as if she had been crying. "Where's dad?" I pointed to the closed door that led to the other room of the basement. She called him and a few seconds later the door opened and there he was. I could tell he was annoyed because he hates to be bothered when he's building something. However, he saw the look on my mom's face and his expression completely changed. "What's wrong?" She looked at the ground for a while and then looked up to inform us that J was killed. J? From school? The one in dad's class? The one who stayed over for dinner the other night after working with my dad? No... I knew my dad wouldn't be able to, so I asked her how. She went on to tell a chilling story of a fire and a boy trapped in the basement. Our location seemed morbidly coincidental. She finished the explanation and I looked behind me to see my dad standing at the bottom of the steps, looking very small. Despite the fact that in the past two weeks we had attended two other funerals, right there in the basement (just like the one that J died in) I saw my dad cry for the first time. "I knew death always comes in threes," he said. Then he turned, went into the other room with his workbench, and shut the door.

September 2nd, where are you?

He processes everything like a typical contemporary zombie who runs on what society grants him. He fuels his thoughts with caffeine and all the radical bullshit that he reads online.
And yelling, always yelling.

Let me die here.


Devils' eyes cut deeply
tear across the plane of desire and uncertainty
target the innocent, the weak
break the bonds of balance
left in solitude
fire burns quickly
filling full and whole
slipping, falling taunts
intelligence is nothing,
only left to mock
deny the necessary,
be locked away
consequences mingle
burn this paper of importance
or this rope I hang from
choices collide
as results tangle
disappointment lurks in every decision
what lover to beguile

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Own

To call it own
After decision-less hours
of opting into the
slow paced drudgery
of letting go to fate and spinning
and now here it is for you to own
boxed and shipped
confined to cardboard walls,
to call it own.
After sifting through
scattered sheets of charred paper,
host to smudged gray numbers.
To reach into the ruins
and hold your decision
to call it own.
But as your fingertips
claim the edges,
what was owned,
falls to ash.