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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 head
on her knees where her yarn was.
She holds me as I cry.
EasyWas there ever a girl so strange?
Smoky hearted, grabbed at the waist
by the next passing breeze.
She keeps one foot stuck in
the wrong side of her conscience,
the other grounded in nothing.
She replaces men like lipstick, she
wears her promiscuity like
last night's perfume.
HeavyWhen you let me go
by the side of the road,
please remember the string
that you tied to my soul.
I'm the balloon you inflated
just to let go;
the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
Why'd you have to cut this
the thin wire trailing
from my heartbeat to yours?
Remember the science of
the desolate sky,
because the night is too cold
and I'm sinking so slowly down.
Papercuts and RecollectionsI had forgotten your love letters
until they cut my finger when I
grazed the bottom of my drawer.
Folded crisp and neat,
some of the ink had smudged like
the 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 remember
the way your cheek felt resting
warm against my hair,
how you smelled like home.
The traces of you lingered like
the last hours of yesterday
before turning to the smell of dust
and the feel of paper too dry
to write on again.
Blink and You'll Miss ItThe wind reminds me of
the empty space to my left,
which I swear you filled
only minutes ago.
But if I rested my hand
where you were sitting,
it would be just as cold as
the realization that you're gone.
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.
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 than
mutter myself down from
whatever fight I'm losing against myself
as the stars grow all the dimmer.
What about sleepless exhaustion
destroys the barrier between
stream of consciousness and the
SeparateYou are on the opposite side
of this window.
Press your palm against the pane,
The heat of our fingers will
fog the glass,
and in this mist we create,
we will finally meet.
AcheIt comes and goes
like an unwelcome houseguest,
leaving me with messes I don't need,
and it never shuts the door
to keep the cold out.
I tried shutting off the lights
and closing the blinds,
twisting the key in the padlock
and boarding the windows,
but as long as light can
seep through the cracks,
this shadow will follow
and dig its fingers into my shoulders.
I bruise easily, it knows,
and it revels in watching
me shift in discomfort
while it grips me.
Like a ghost,
it won't let go.
ArcanaOur tower burned.
When it was coupled with the sun,
we exchanged broken hearts
and said our goodbyes.
Ten swords later
and my memories of you are
rain and snow and leaves,
I will tell the children not to be afraid
of the devil and death,
change is good.
The near future holds two cups.
I say I love you but we have a problem,
we never held the world
in either of our hands.
You burned the eggs and wrote scripture
in the shadows of a lunar eclipse.
I haven't slept for years, but it took the far away
scream of a siren to convince me that
the moon is a liar.
Body bags are filled with better men.
There are rivers of oil where I can't seem to break
The mirrors that flaunt your reflection.
You couldn't dare me to walk across that bridge.
You couldn't ask me to sit through a full sermon
and still remain humble.
I'll never be home before the street lights come on and
you'll never hold my hand in the day time.
We're both clinical fools.
"The only difference between poison and medicine is the dose "
Yet, our intentions were never good.
Lately I can only focus on how many days we have left
before ash blankets the entire sky.
Before my free will is no longer an issue.
I feel the most sympathy for the birds.
The ones who will fly across an ocean to find nothing on the other side.
Just a life boat buried in the sand.
You made those clou
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?
AbrasionsYou cannot say your heart has stopped in your chest, because it is pounding so hard and so fast that your hands clench and unclench to its erratic tempo. So much so that your eyesight blurs and your breaths cross in many wanton attempts to succeed a normal pace. Your chest compresses and all the weight from your knees lifts you seek the floor as a companion, a burial place.
It is here all things unmend. The sweating palm is limp and the phone is unhanded. Your eyes lift. But the words are too heavy to liberate you.
Get to the hospital. There's been an accident
You see, in your mind's eye, myriad accidents, all of them begetting blood and terror. Confusion and mayhem. Loss and still water.
She's in the ER
What has your youngest sister survived? What has she witnessed? What does she now have to overcome?
Who has everyone turned into?
ContradictionsMother Nature dreamed of
Life, 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 make
She tore the wings off of butterflies and
Laced them through her hair,
Pinning iridescent beetles to her collar and
Plucking spring buds to wind around her wrists like
She suffocated her skin in that which had been living.
Mother Nature dreamed of life,
And in her quest to find it
She ignored Death,
Forgetting that even the most
Delicate, coloured butterflies
Must cast shadows with their wings.
And so Death did not exist in her mind
As she killed and killed in her quest to find beauty,
Until she and it were the same.
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?
WriterI am a scientist;
Pinning down ideas
preserving them in
their fragile beauty
as I take away their freedom,
I am a parasite;
sucking the soul out
of music and leaving it
a hollow shell
that plays like
the noisy silence in
I am a thief;
taking what is not mine,
the world around me,
and pouring it into
a mould that
I claim is
I am a blasphemer;
playing God in a
sacred place, changing
the world to my
liking when the orchestra
is not under my
I am a liar;
selling false havens
to lonely runaways,
giving them a glimpse
of a world more glamorous,
more fantastic than their own,
smiling as I snatch it
from under their noses
while they thank me
for my crime.
I am a slave;
hanging in a
with the language I choose,
caving to its rules
when I draw in
smears of its
I am a writer
these are my vices.
Fields of Golden WheatMy fingers travel through your hair, fields of golden wheat
Your lips have the taste of an ancient salty ocean
My childhood dreams of blue birds and their heartbeat
The delicate fragrance coming from eastern lands
The softness of a delighted soul and your sunlight
The black wings of a sad night and my heart in your hands
I listen to you, the language of birds, the mystery tone remains
I hide you, inside my eyelids, between the layers of my heart
Where you choose to live; mixed with every color in my veins
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 down
Third star to the right,
straight on 'til morning,
Follow not weeping violins
nor crooning of angels' voices
but the breeze's whisper
to the bay
to die and rise again
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 have
a clothesline stretching from tree to tree
like 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 machine
to wring the water from our clothes,
because there was no risk of bad weather inside.
All Here For A ReasonI turned onto a shady, well-manicured driveway that, for all intents and purposes, looked harmless enough. Maple trees lined both sides of the street, and a parade of Canadian geese marched across the road to a wide duck pond with a flamboyant fountain. There were blooming crepe myrtles and rose-of-sharons, and as I grew closer to my destination, neatly trimmed gardens with neatly trimmed bushes.
I stopped to let the geese pass. They looked at me; one hissed. I honked my horn and moved around them.
At the end of the road sat a collection of grayish buildings and a number of signs directing me to the appropriate parking lot. "Welcome to Ten Creeks Hospital," said one of them. "Please enjoy your stay." I parked in the visitor's lot. Surely I wouldn't be staying.
I was shaking when I got out of my car. I had spent the morning getting high. One foot in front of the other, flip-flop noises, hot sidewalk. Mulberry and magnolia trees, freshly shaved grass. A bench and pan for smokers. A set o
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