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.
A Cold RenewalMake me pure,like today's unmarked snow.Windows are glowing with warmth,soft amber lighting that casts itself instained glass fragments across theseglittering wastes.I want release to color mein that same way,relief washing me out andre-painting me in golden tonesthat only letting go could understand.And so,I unclench my tired hands andtrade bitter sighs for peace.
The TimekeeperI am the hour-counter,collecting time like water caughton the bottom of a glass.The wasted minutes you exchangedfor blue-sky dreaming,the seconds on the porch withyour song-bird smile,they're all here:sand-grain momentsstuck to the sides of my hourglass.The windowsill painthas faded where my elbows rested,my breath-fog a permanent miston the drooping pane.These moments,like the emptiness after snowfall,are bittersweet.They slip through the slatsin my wicker basketas I try to collect them.
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.
Yet You're Still RunningYour feet mimicked your heartbeat;Drumming into the ground, panicked.They reminded you that Earth was turning too fast.You'd be thrown into emptinessif you didn't keep up.If you cared enough,you'd see the blisters on my hands,nail-beds cracked from gripping the dirtas I tried to slow the world for you.
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.
I am Icarus RedeemedEven when every dream had drownedand love left me choking on dustand I felt utterly abandoned byevery aspect of my envisioned life,something in me set on fire.Oh, I know heat risesand I'm lifting off.God knows where it's taking me,heaven has yet to shut me out.Oh, my wings are brokenbut at least I'm falling free.It's the impact,not my plummeting spirit,that will throttle the light in me.
A Slower Way to DrownCry me an ocean crashing,its sultry blues rolling.I am tumbling through the deep,and I've forgotten I can't breathe.Salt in my lungs, rattling.I am buried up to my neck,my head facing the tides thatcome whispering in.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The Last SunsetMy broken shadow stumbled onand left me dragging like the sun.The twisted branches snagged the sky...how skeletal, their fingers stretching.The earth I knew choked on the lastof yesterday's dried and cracking dreams,now I am stumbling through the dustchasing my spirit through withered leaves.
All I Ask (Beseeching the Crows)I want to sing to the crowsthat they might stop theirraucous shouting tocock their heads and listen.Up in the branches,where the wind twists her hair,my voice carries soft andis lost in their black-feathered throats.Were they silent,perhaps God would hearthe heavy note hangingin my soul-twisting calls.
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.
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.
Leaving the NestContemplate the blue skiesand run by the skeleton treeson the horizon of all you knew.This is the part where youspread your arms and pretendyou know how to leave the ground.In my mind, you do,taking off heaven-bound in agraceful ascent while all I dois call for you and try to grab yourankles slim, your shoelaces undone.You laugh despite the cloud-cover chill,and I wrap myself like a rosary around your legwith a hail Mary full of grace,the Lord is with me but so is gravity...we are far above the world andI am terrified of heights buteven more fearful of letting you fly alone.
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.
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
Where the heart isn't--Impossible to hide the liesSo take a breath and shut my eyes"It's where the heart is, home!" she criesShe never saw I'm dead inside.An empty hollow, dug out restA void within my heaving chest"It's where the heart is, home" she stressedBut I haven't one and she never guessed.
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.
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.