onymous
stoic minded, red eyed
antipathy in all corners
bitter blood, salted lips
puckering with the acrid air
dull edge against thick skin
pricking, pushing
with no way in
these thin walls keep what's inside
and inside I will watch
with all four eyes.
anopsia
Hello, bird
flailing wings
fire in the cradle
burning, slowly, surely
white to black with seconds time
I am surrounded
it coccoons me. They say,
keeps me sterile. Pure.
Lack of colour, loss of emotion,
Each letter feels like the cure
but these letters, they have life
I am purging;
they consume
Hello, bird
trapped in your cage
and I; in mine.
the last lit candle
It was only time before
the world
devoured the sun
and left us
in a blanket of darkness
I was left alone
like a long
forgotten doll
in the heart of
the wilderness
with only
the last hint of light
the wick burning slowly
slowly, the breeze teasing
to sweep away the flame
and leave me here
to vanish
that last flame
was like the last hint of fire
inside of my soul
longing to burn
but still trapped by the candle
slowly growing weaker, melting
beads of wax streaming from the flame
teardrops falling
but I refused to leave
as only an ember
and let the flame burn on
igniting the earth around me
feeding the forest to the fire
as the flames tasted the dusky sky
and my soul was an inferno
as I let the smoke
consume me
a. awareness
If colours could dance,
and sing notes, they would
they'd draw across the page, revenously
they would turn to red,
as red as the blood in my lungs as--
I am mute /
It is blinding,
the lights, the cacophony of empty colour
letting out to staring eyes
I should not see this, every stitch
fragile skin held tight by sutures
I am imperfect. A tear in the vinyl;
a flaw in the music.
Look in my eyes.
Tend to my veins.
Let me sleep.
ditheism
Girl,
you think I love you, but I do not
you are wrong. You love the expensive dishes
and fine wine;
those many faces and the bottle which you
might as well drown yourself in
and the diamonds and gold, they won't buy you a soul
Girl,
I don't like it when you argue with me
I don't want another hour. One more minute
is too long;
I can't listen any longer. These faces,
all made up like the fallen queens that died
for you to become;
they're vomiting their illness on these
white tablecloths
and it's headed straight for me
Girl, I hate you,
why do you keep me here?
You kiss me with those cherry red lips
and tell me to hush up,
and keep quiet. That it won't hurt for long.
But girl,
I'm following the white horse
and if it takes me
it will take you too.
hunger pains
The forest was home
and I was the mother
inside of the shadows
as the rain melted down
and my prints
left traces
of the simplest kind;
yet the ache
was greater
and stronger
than my will;
so I tasted red
they were certain
I would defray
for my instinct
so I stayed hiding
in my skin
but the needle hit my skin
so I slept
and my sun
is now fluorescent
theriodic
Writhing hate
fear of pulling back the vinyl, staring eyes
into the glass, pale white
fixed on like an animal behind it
maybe it's what I've become
Clenched teeth. Blank eyes
one body, but the mind and soul
wandering,
through the desolate forest,
to the bottom of the lake,
drenched in gray
I am not, not, not
stricken by the moon, tortured by 28
the peace will leave, and with it,
it drags in anguish
like the animal drags in a fresh kill
Rancid, leaving a trail
to follow if I am lost
one day, I will take you with me.
insomnia
42.
The dreaming hour, wandering about
these two black holes won't suture shut
I hold on tight; my skin is sinking
words spoken to me from all four walls
Seeping, peering down on me
I am a statue;
my body is stone
Cold, silent
life is moving on while I am standing still
and these words don't speak to me;
they scream, and blame, and criticize
They walk off the page
and laugh at me from through the glass
I am translucent - a gossamer
there is no place to hide
43.
I need a coma.
ambivalence
I will paint myself
and spread the colour
on the walls
of the thoughts
inside the hole
inside my head;
let the colour flow freely
upon the blank pages;
itching skin
and aching muscles
altering reality
to the view
outside my window,
skeptic thoughts
that fill the glass;
the door is open
to uncertainty
and fabrication
feeds the senses
so the world becomes
my canvas,
those around me
are the subject,
and my thoughts
become abstract;
one more day
to make the deadline
just in time
to stitch the wound.
lachrymose
I an an error.
I was supposedly going to write, or paint
my way out of this
but the lines kept flowing
and I followed them
21 rotten years later
I sit, counting numbers on a screen
picking away at what holds the seams
from tearing
aching to tear the voicebox from those who scream
I've been conquered by a sales pitch;
I'm devoured by the hordes.