AcheIt comes and goeslike an unwelcome houseguest,leaving me with messes I don't need,and it never shuts the doorto keep the cold out.I tried shutting off the lightsand closing the blinds,twisting the key in the padlockand boarding the windows,but as long as light canseep through the cracks,this shadow will followand dig its fingers into my shoulders.I bruise easily, it knows,and it revels in watchingme shift in discomfortwhile it grips me.Like a ghost,it won't let go.
EasyWas there ever a girl so strange?Smoky hearted, grabbed at the waistby the next passing breeze.She keeps one foot stuck inthe wrong side of her conscience,the other grounded in nothing.She replaces men like lipstick, shewears her promiscuity likelast night's perfume.
Strung OutConsider me hanging on the line,a dress without a body waiting for the sun,vibrant when she's not heavy, waterlogged.As a child, I enjoyed making orange smiles,while wondering why we didn't havea clothesline stretching from tree to treelike I'd seen on the television.I admired the way skirts became birds,picked up by the wind they adored,while sheets grabbed the wind like a sail,and the clouds were always made of cotton,and the denim sat like lead.Now every time I put myself out to dry,the sky gets heavy and breaks on me.I am halfway towards being ready,and then the rain rips me down again.Maybe that's why we bought a machineto wring the water from our clothes,because there was no risk of bad weather inside.
Honorary Sun SpotI'm going to tie a stringaround the new dawnand make the sun my balloon.I won't let go as it keeps rising,I just need warmth and this seemslike the best way to find it,the day taking me with itround the world.Take a picture of your rooftop,and I'll wave as I go by.
Blink and You'll Miss ItThe wind reminds me ofthe empty space to my left,which I swear you filledonly minutes ago.But if I rested my handwhere you were sitting,it would be just as cold asthe realization that you're gone.
HeavyWhen you let me goby the side of the road,please remember the stringthat you tied to my soul.I'm the balloon you inflatedjust to let go;the night is too coldand I'm sinking so slowly down.Why'd you have to cut thisdelicate cord,the thin wire trailingfrom my heartbeat to yours?Remember the science ofthe desolate sky,because the night is too coldand I'm sinking so slowly down.
SleeplessBack pressed against the wall,I stare into three o'clock nothings.Left with watered-down thoughts,exhausted, mumbled musings,I have little more to do thanmutter myself down fromwhatever fight I'm losing against myselfas the stars grow all the dimmer.What about sleepless exhaustiondestroys the barrier betweenstream of consciousness and thestructured mind?
GodGod is in her rocking chair,wood creaking as she hums back and forth.I want to climb onto her sun-warmed lap,breathe in the smell of air dried dresses,May breezes caught in her floral-print skirt.Her hands are gentle as they stroke my hair,her knitting going still when I rest my headon her knees where her yarn was.She holds me as I cry.
SeparateYou are on the opposite sideof this window.Press your palm against the pane,against mine.The heat of our fingers willfog the glass,and in this mist we create,we will finally meet.
It's Not So Bad When The Ceiling Stares BackIt's almost five andwhen the sun takes herolympic strides towardsthe westernmost curve in the horizon,I find myself lonely.But I know my shadow will hold my handas long as it doesn't get dark again.So I brighten my room with an electric click,shut the shades to keep out the night,and search for myself to the tune ofnobody sitting next to me whenI harmonize with an empty bed.I can almost feel our mutual heartbreakwhen I stare into the ceiling cracks.
Burning HeartWe built a beautiful pyre,and in my heart,I'm holding your hand as it burns.The sparks could become the stars,jewels in Orion's belt.I'd lace my fingers through yoursin a final act of faithwhile we stare down the smokecradling the moon,and each piece of kindlingthat crumbles in on itselfleaves me a little less broken.The light flickers,so do the corners of your lips.We needed this.
Papercuts and RecollectionsI had forgotten your love lettersuntil they cut my finger when Igrazed the bottom of my drawer.Folded crisp and neat,some of the ink had smudged likethe crimson filling the whorls of my thumb.I could hear your voice clearly,saturated in the scrawling script.You promised me forever,now forever's gone.Lost in that rush of reanimated feeling,I could almost rememberthe way your cheek felt restingwarm against my hair,how you smelled like home.The traces of you lingered likethe last hours of yesterdaybefore turning to the smell of dustand the feel of paper too dryto write on again.
MeltI prayed for rain becauseonce you told methat it was your favorite thing.The sound of it,the way it smelled on the concrete cracked,how it felt on your skinif you were to step outside andlet it soak into your tired shirt.I told you that I liked the snow,and for me it was becausenothing was more symbolicfor how cold I am when compared to you,how rain fights with itself when itraces down the window,but snow is distant, aloof,floating easy.And if I shared that thought with you,I know you'd tell me thatI'm just the clear sky, a blessing,because you love me in waysthat I want to love you...but can't.So you call me fair now butgive it time and I know thatyou will cloud, and grow tohate the snowfall, while Ibegin to wish I could melt for you.
And Call Me in the MorningJust past twenty-one,and my liquid luck has drained.In the shuffle to the doctors,I stare through the concreteand analyze patternson the waiting room carpet.From one landmark to the next,first drinks and live jazz tochecking off symptoms on a listand describing my historyin the same tearful monotoneI've learned to adoptafter the seventeenth telling.Maybe the burden slips from here,having finally accepted thatlike I can't ignore aging Icouldn't meditate this away.Like the tableted reliefI hope to receive,these feelings and alcoholshouldn't mix.
BrevityMy mind is buta house of cards,its contents wildly flung;and if madness isa monster's mouth,I'm caught upon its tongue.
AwakenedPaint me silver,to contrast the dawn,and open my eyes to the twilight.In this moment, I am the hills.I am the mountain with hiswhite-brimmed hat cocked just so.I am the breathy mist on the lake.With the sun framingmy westward-pointing shadow,the morning is my vestment,and new warmth makes my crown.I shiver with the bristling pines,shaking off last night's frost,creaking as we stretch into the wind.
I AmI am the dreamer at the window,and my face is in the daylight stars,untraceable, unreachable, invisible,but unquestionably there.I am the last castle in the sandbox,left with the shovel pointing outwards,towards the third rock from the sunset.I am the wake of the steamboat running,churning up the river likea landlocked hurricane.If you try to be the force that breaks me now,the swingset push after I said "stop,"then watch yourself close when I jump off,because even the devil will hear mewhen I land with both feet.
Nevermind the WinterTrack the robins through the cloud-cover,and tell me where they're going.Would you follow them?Spring rests in their talons,and I reach for it.I rise like the crocus,glowing like an afternoonof laying in the daffodils.Find my footprints in the April mud,because I am hopeand I follow the robin.
Everything I Want To BeI want to write something poignant and moving.It will make you cry and make you laugh.It will win awards and give me prestige.It will change someone's life.I want to write something hilarious and heart-wrenching.It will make and break relationships because of realizations of truth.It will make you think differently than before you cracked open the first page.It will make you want to read it again and again and again.I want to write something that means something.It will be translated into language after language, copy after copy published.It will be read in schools, but the kids will actually enjoy it. Even after the thing is analyzed to death.It will make them stop to think.I want to write something real.But don't we all, I suppose?
Cheating FateSherlock isn't sure what he thinks when he sees a man in a brown coat and suit walking alone on an empty Baker street from his window. He wonders why the other is alone during the holiday season. He looks like he'd be the type to have a girlfriend or spend Christmas with his family.He tries to read the other; he tries to deduce at least something from the man's life, as he has piqued Sherlock's interest.Sherlock flees the party in order to get a better look at the stranger. He's an odd man. Sherlock can't read anything from him, and he feels disturbed. There have been very few people he cannot read, and he dislikes letting the number rise above oneor two, actually, if he counts a certain time travelling alien.The man is pacing across the street, muttering to himself and making gestures to the air. It's like he's talking to someone, but Sherlock is sure the man knows there's no one to talk to. Then he spots Sherlock, and Sherlock gazes at him impassively. The man is tall, with
ContradictionsMother Nature dreamed ofLife, cool and glowing,Vibrant strains of ethereal, caramelised melody.And she wanted to wear life,Cover herself in it,Embalm herself until she glowed too.And so she clothed herself in flower petals,Ripped leaves off of trees to makeBurning dresses.She tore the wings off of butterflies andLaced them through her hair,Pinning iridescent beetles to her collar andPlucking spring buds to wind around her wrists likeBlushing tourniquets.She suffocated her skin in that which had been living.Mother Nature dreamed of life,And in her quest to find itShe ignored Death,Forgetting that even the mostDelicate, coloured butterfliesMust cast shadows with their wings.And so Death did not exist in her mindAs she killed and killed in her quest to find beauty,Until she and it were the same.
Awake (Art trade with LSTU)Those who know Dr John Watson know that he's recovered well from his best friend's death. They know that after a two-month slump, the man went back to work at a surgery, that, a year and a half later, he puts in hard hours and lives a normal life. That he has moved on, because he is strong and that is what he needed to do, and Sherlock Holmes remains a fond but fading memory.Sometimes he even thinks so, too.But everything changes when he falls asleep, something no one else could know and something he could never tell them. His subconscious hasn't forgotten how much missing Sherlock Holmes hurts. When he first returned from Afghanistan, it was the nightmares that made even his days a living Hell. This is something much, much more painful.The day had been bright in that autumn way, with cold pale light and wind hammering against the windows. Now it was twilight, and John was on his way up the stairs to the flat. He could hear something- the soft wailing of a violin. It couldn't be.
The SnakeBoredom was universal.Temptation was only felt by a selected few.Eve, for example, was tempted by an apple and the voice of a handsome snake. So persuasive that snake: so sly and silky, picking the angel Eve from her sweet Eden as easy as plucking a blackberry off of a thorn-less bush. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.Moriarty could relate to the snake. It was a wonderful creature; he'd taken notes, pretending to be on the side of the angels when really it still had a toe in the devil's parlour, keeping its place at the head of the table in time for tea. As he sat in his hideout, Moriarty smile to himself. How foolish people can be, he thought. How quaint. Aren't they funny?The computer that perched at his fingertips glowed, the screen still active. It was uploading something. A series of zeroes and ones streamed like a waterfall: green on a black screen. They reflected in Moriarty's eyes. It was a key. A key that didn't even exist. He smirked to himself again, delighted with
If You're the Bird Today while I was driving home, I looked out the window and saw two birds, a hawk and a smaller bird, of whose type I was unsure. The two of them were flying together, the smaller one above the hawk. It was interesting to see, the small bird flapped and flapped its wings frantically, but in that way it was able to go just as high, if not higher, than the hawk. It was also able to fly just as fast. The hawk, on the other hand, flew in lazy circle, hardly flapping its wings and gliding for most of the way. It was interesting. I wondered about it for a while. Birds of a feather flock together. Or do they?
BaptismFollow you down to the red oak tree
As the air moves thick through the hollow reeds
I will wait for you there until someone comes
To carry me, carry me downThird star to the right,straight on 'til morning,Follow not weeping violinsnor crooning of angels' voicesbut the breeze's whisperto the bayto die and rise again
Payne's Grey IPayne's Greydolphins take refuge as theocean is whipped up into a frenzy beneathhulking thunderheads.Gulls' screams join in choruswith the howling windas the waves collapse upon themselves.The salt spray andsmoke from the sinking galleonare suffocating.Fallen sailors find their clothes suddenly heavyas icy torrents drag them beneath the roiling surface.The air tingles with the electricity ofa lightning bolt waiting to strike.
LogicLike living without airOr water, I'll beGrowing older by the second, becoming a corpse before your very eyes on this sofa as theIndecipherable cells in my head will crumble and rot and decay without its sweet satisfaction. Please, ICrave your logic, your puzzles, your ideas, and I'll drink them like the vampire's Sunday wine.
AdriftRun headlong into the wind with me.We are only ships on this endless blue,without anchor, north star, or compass spinning.Find me as I lose myself with you.