Requiem for a Blackbird

Mourning in the loss of God.

2009-07-10T00:32:00.000-07:00

please
let me never forget
this night i lie awake crying and waiting
this night i lie alone dreaming and dying
this night i spent alone wishing and waiting
for our god who doesn't exist
for our lover who doesn't love
and for our sleep that never heals

vanquished in me
soon will be
the light,
where in the presence of mortality
we mourned the loss of God to our hearts.

BREAKING NEWS

2009-05-05T21:58:00.001-07:00

WE ARE SAVED
WE ARE DUST

Birdmonster [Stolen Title]

2009-05-05T21:55:00.001-07:00

Your eyes are corrupted
By something you've pushed away.
Your anxious fallacious body
Bid you look down in shame.

Under neon feathers
You're naked -- full of holes
Where all your lies took root
In neat organized rows.
They helped you fly away
They tear your flesh apart.

This is Not A Religious Poem.

2009-05-05T21:53:00.000-07:00

I have seen the shadows
Bear the fruits of fallacy
And draw fatherless children away--
Like moths from their open moon.

[no really, its not.]

A Thousand Fresh Eyes

2009-05-05T21:48:00.000-07:00

A thousand fresh eyes peered
Out from under the table
I wished they stay safe,
Stay, hidden
The hawk will plot your death.
But they knew nothing of a sincere warning
One, by two, by one
Flit away, faded into the world
Needing more than a fluorescent classroom.

I'm sorry.

2009-04-20T03:17:00.000-07:00

I understand you can't walk for me
But will you hold my hand?
Two steps was a long journey
When I'm still learning to stand.

My Insanity

2009-03-15T00:04:00.000-07:00

The low buzz of a tv.
The cassette tape set to rewind itself and play the same side over and over in a language you don't understand
The remix of your favorite song that reminds you of a horror movie
An itch that never subsides
The dirt on your hands that doesn't come off
The ease of which you step in and out of reality
Now you don't know where the boundaries are.

How do I get out
Of the place between my ears
When my ears won't stop ringing
And now its dark and the day is over
And the undercurrent of all the sounds and words we've heard
Have stopped on their moment, teetered
But I turn out the lights
And my mind
Won't stop ringing.
And now its dark and the day is over and its time to end
But all I hear is
ringing in the silence.

We Are Named After Them

2009-02-06T23:50:00.000-08:00

All the names in the past
Passed their faces over oblivion
Feeling the breeze of Chaos.
We are named after them
They know greater triumph,
They have finished
Been vanquished finally by her mortality.

Roots II

2009-02-06T23:37:00.000-08:00

One kind of love births itself
With encouragement
From young, unknowing parents
Of which one will abandon, most likely
The end of the flowers season.
Of whose only choice is to dig deep
Into the heart of the true lover
Who will never leave.
Love, whose roots receive little nourishment
- one lover is not enough -
Slowly suffocates.

I am harboring a slowly sinking ship
A dying pure bloom
The colors of autumn are beautiful
Tinged with death
And all her royal glory.
A parade of the glittering
Flags of soft sweaters
and sharpie'd shoes
Confetti from willing trees
Whose roots dig deep and live
from the past.

The trees line the streets in quiet
Whispering council
The wind sweeping the streets for next season
When new lovers will partake in the spectacle.

Roots I

2009-02-06T23:36:00.000-08:00

Pain has grown in my heart like the roots of a plant since ripped out. Fertile soil can become sour in love, so have I yet little to offer?

Epilogue of Adolescence

2009-02-06T23:33:00.000-08:00

These are the years
The moments
In agony, before we stop
Breathing, or rather
Feeling

Society will break most of us
Out of youthful vitality
Into selfish service.

The Present

2009-02-06T23:31:00.000-08:00

Every moment
Ambiguous and immeasurable
Hangs on my horizon
A heavy planet
Shining
Burning
Exploding
Dying

Little snip to someone

2009-02-06T23:30:00.000-08:00

Where do you find
Your memory of that day...
Does it feel warm?
Does the wind still kiss your face?

Time

2009-02-06T23:21:00.000-08:00

River
I went under and was carried
But I didn't feel free.
There was no water.

Alone
I tread and observe things
Above me, and I see
I see backwards and forwards.

Close my eyes
Pretending its not there
I move faster, missing scenery
When its ugly there's nothing to see.

Tell me
Am I free
Am I washed
Constantly
Of the sunburn
Or I am I still -

Bound
My entrails dragging along the ground
- no sound -
But the beep, beep, beep
Making every unit of measurement
On an x/y plane but its more than that
I am the line.

The most beautiful...

2009-01-13T21:58:00.000-08:00

The most beautiful worlds are the small ones.

No Requiem: Fire

2009-01-09T22:10:00.000-08:00

I built you a vessel
My love, or past
It leaks just a little
But you'll appreciate it just the same.

Inside me there is a river
And on it, very soon
I will set your gift out without me
Floating on water which will someday, someday-
Wash us of this.

Its been awhile
There's some things you should know
I can't touch you
And you can't see me

You dreamed of blood
Your own or mine
In the abandoned, cold rooms within us
And just down the street

So it is, now. Forever done.
We birthed this dream and in fall it bloomed.
Our dreams, shrouded in reds golds and greens
And in spring they withered and tore us apart

Then the summer burned us
And you were dying
Our desperate measures
Yielded one last, one final, one simple memory.
I will never forget.

I heard only your voice, we were resurrecting but stuck in between
I felt the ocean and it moved within me
To feel pain was happiness,
One summer night
Towards the end
I couldn't come back from hell I couldn't see you in front of me
Transformed, you were gone forever.
On that final night of the burning season you announced your
...Final betrayal.

This is how it happened, because you didn't see it.
This is our story, full circle.
When you left the darkness inside you did all these things.
I bled our daughter out and I never got to touch her face
I wished her away on a faerie seed in an empty field
Where no one goes anymore and she stuck in the grass and I
Walked away crying still, burying her name.
I don't know if you ever loved me really,
But I loved you. " I loved you first."

So I built you this,
This way to end us
If I could ask one thing its that you don't turn away as I
Give a shove to you and watch you float away

I'm a murderer of a breathing dream
But it will never die if not this way
This is how we dreamed: tragedy.
Stand with me forever
But Stay on the river

Only water can wash us
We don't need the word goodbye.
I lit the match that killed the phoenix
Maybe the fire will warm me
Maybe the flames will licks the bottom of my feet
Make me itch in the dead of night
Your presence I will destroy
What you did deserves no requiem - I will burn you.

With fire, transformed.
Forever indebted to the masters of terminal, fated passion
For you: Forever silence, ashes in the water
For me: One more fire to warm the night.
For us: One story that should never be forgotten.

HOUSE I

2008-12-24T10:08:00.000-08:00

I went to the house where our blood was supposed to be spilled all over the walls but there was only red paint. The walls were gutted out the back. There was one lonely tree in the back yard under the bright open moon. Walls were torn and broken in places. The wind blew right through the house and me...it was so cold. There was a huge black hole in the floor of the front room. It seemed to fall like a bottomless well...empty.

Concrete Wasteland

2008-12-23T14:38:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I just wanted to lay down and open wide on the concrete to be swallowed by the sky around me. I wanted to be as flat as possible, like the miles and miles of nothing all around me. No plants were growing tall, car or buildings interrupting the expanse of concrete wasteland. I imagined and there was, only sky.

The distant picking of an acoustic guitar rings somewhere inside me, warped and faded by the wind tearing through my ears. My brain can't even make a sentence let alone a musical phrase without stuttering. So I picked apart the layers white above me. Seeing an entire spectrum of mind, I saw my fingers above me as important. My soul stopped burning to recognize the quiet. I was young and undeveloped. I was floating and alone. I was old and dead. I was anchored on the ground and never getting up. The world never stopped turning me under the open sky. I was the ground, the concrete ground. There was, only sky.

Reflection; Chaos

2008-12-19T17:13:00.000-08:00

Small day
A rare one in autumn
The ones I wait for but it
Ended slowly though
Where the sky was big
The clouds got lost.

I looked and I saw
The sun shred the white clouds like cotton and
The storm piled the white masses over each other and
They reached and were tall
Reflecting sunshine like
The background of an epic
Reflecting the subjects in underdeveloped painting
Reaching for truth

The black sent the rain but
The sun sent his color.
Ever changing contradictions which
Burned and cried and sang and painted frivolously with marvelous color.
I looked and I saw

There were wind of chaos
Tearing the tops of the white banks apart
Change; and then
It rained with no black
Over my head and
Now it is also a dream.

The sun warmed the tips of my fingers but
The storm rose deftly on the horizon
Looming, gathering, alive....
Staring at the orange and breaking sunset
I looked and I saw

I stood in the middle of the small empty world
The middle of the street
The leaves whisking around my feet
Dead and leaving like the season and
I breathed the world and felt small
I looked and I saw

The wind used my street as a passage the two mountains which seemed
To have voices of electricity
White and darkness
Black and light
Pushing my fingers to be outstretched
I looked up
I looked up and I saw

My reflection.

You Are Sleep

2008-12-16T19:51:00.000-08:00

Sleepless nights, short naps and bad aftertaste.
Oily hair and unbrushed teeth
The skin around my eyes stretching
from tears.
Tossing, turning, in silent TV white noise repeating VHS 3:42am agony.

But You Are Sleep.
You come to me and our kisses taste like an ocean.
Your touch over my body soothes my tired yawns
desiring, but not needing, to dream of you.

Our world is perfect
so far away
But here in my messy room.
That we're always cleaning
Sitting on my bed talking about the real world
Outside our shoebox one
Life isn't mine, only in dreams are we honest.
People with tourniquets so far away
Just waiting for my faith
But you don't need faith.

You Are Sleep.
A terminal love.
You Are Sleep
The morning was hours away
And now its only minutes

We can't say goodbye
But we can part bodies
Walking away as two halves of a fading masterpiece
And the embers, burning deep
Warm
Walking away with the taste of you in my mouth
And more ocean.

But the morning, so cold
The worst part of day.
Winter of my life, from a light, late, impersonal Autumn.
I feel the winter morning
Rising on my heart.

Tearing you away from me

My love fight the mourning
But here it comes

So here we stand
Hand in hand
Walking towards sunrise
We wipe away the seas
So they won't cover our smiles.
Tasting salt

You Are Sleep
and I Am Alive.
My hearts hurts from unfinished, untired dreams
But I Love You
Awake, I dream of you.

Environmental Pencil Rubbings on My Desk

2008-12-14T00:38:00.000-08:00

I wanted to relieve the ache and so I tuned them all out. I imagined my world as only the desk I was sitting in. Nothing else exists. It's a dull grey, with pencil lines in the pencil tray, a name rubbed away in the corner. Vestiges of blue ink in the middle and a mysterious grey splotch in the right hemisphere. We have our environmental problems but we're working on it. We're very preoccupied with our world occupations thank you. We'll get those spots all patched up, but it'll take a world effort. Just as soon as we're finished with this very interesting book, our world will change its attention. We'll move together. One world, one quiet voice in our little desk three from the left and four back. No disagreement here. Just me and sleep. So don't bother us with your petty stats questions or social requirements for classroom conduct. We're sleeping and reading here. Soon we'll being sleeping reading and cleaning our desktop environment to preserve the delicate ecosystem. Yes, our world is flat and we have no problem with that. Often we eat erasers, often we turn the page before we're done. Sometimes we lay our head down and it feels good. Sometimes we are alone, and all is quiet.

Yet always, the bell rings.

Time in Relation to Perception

2008-12-04T21:03:00.000-08:00

We spin time in circles
And yet it never really repeats
It spirals down deeper
Down into memories
Carefully archived files that
Aren't meant to be opened.
They don't get heavy or collect dust
They get lighter with age and
The quality of being unacknowledged.

And time is warped
In the wall-less rooms of the mind.
Dragging and skipping associated with
Consciousness and its wavering attention.
And physics is also warped in play
In bounding dreams which parody reality.

What is mind,
What is within our heads
That knows or doesn't.
Equipped with such weapons
As language and physical expression--
Reaching into others' minds so as to probe and tear
At no end.

Who would challenge all that is really known?
That we have the potential to feel,
To perceive.
This is all we know beyond raw data our senses accumulate.

We perceive larger realities when we reach for them
But mostly,
We,
Nature's Machine,
Seek understanding so desperately as to pretend things are as small as they appear.
To fabricate walls just beyond our vision
So that our brains are not weighted
with Boundless Dimension,
Infinite Perception,
or Eternal, Ethereal Bendable Time.

published October 29, 2008

White Noise of the Mind

2008-12-04T21:02:00.000-08:00

In Creativity's stagnant space between human ideas there are foggy moors and with few roads and so much sleep.
My thoughts, born under the surface of a pond in a glade of high swinging trees, string their components together and bob only near the surface.
In this place, the mind displaces incomplete, incongruent, incurable words. Fragments of sentences. Remnants of memories. The slight ghost impressions of past emotions. Whispers, stutters, stammers accidentally float to the surface of the deep green pond and sink back into the bottomless depths. They often flash and gleam and glow close to the surface with the glitter of potential, scales of more spectrum than seen on the surface. Dark dark shackles of fatigue, forgetfulness, and unfaithfulness will pull them back down.
It's empty, healing between battles, sleeping in on a Sunday morning 'til the afternoon. Warm bed with no place to go. In pajamas with no homework and the smell of crackers from a midnight snack, though fresh from a nightmare probably instated by the unfortunate headcold.
It's floating, waiting for a sentence. It's the white noise of the mind between received signals.
Empty fields in the fall of freshly turned dirt. Freshly cut grass. Vivid flashbacks of a traumatic experience, but there are no sentences...in Creativity's stagnant space.

originally published October 19, 2008

A Channel for Creativity

2008-12-04T21:00:00.000-08:00

Music is power, and I possess it. Yet oh music, do you possess me, and let free flowing the deepest evils and highest good like a paralyzing electric current right on through me.

originally published October 15, 2008

Something More.

2008-12-04T20:59:00.000-08:00

Yeah, and I have discovered
By a nick in the shower
That blood is rushing to cover the fact
That I am underneath the same color
As the day I was born.

And yes it must be true
By carnage we've wrought
That earth's sun didn't burn me
Quite so deep as I'd thought
So I have sworn:

That underneath my flesh and my skin
Superseding genetic pools that I lay in
Underneath this cage I won't ignore
I am something more.
Something more.
Something more.

And I am rooted here
To the ground by more than gravity
By generations who looked at this
But not right on through - what did they see?
I'm looking to the sky.

And this empty town
Where kids walk down the street
There's no respite for reality
Broken innocence we cannot treat.
Does your God, does he know why?

originally published September 25, 2008

Keep Looking at Me

2008-12-04T20:57:00.000-08:00

Well we don't know each other at all
and this ***** ***** is a mistake
Yet when I look at you--the reason I cannot recall
So I'll stay and risk this memoric fall.

Well your eyes are all that I know
and a little ugly history on both of our parts
And maybe I'm blind, but your purity shows
Suddenly you've iced my fire with gentle snow.

Since then its been everyday
That our eyes meet--for a moment-- we're so far away
But if you don't like me back, then well thats okay
But since you first looked I haven't looked away.

You're the only shining thing that I see
Through this heavy blanket thrown 'round me
It's a little bit crazy, stupid to believe
You'd be the one to finally make me breathe.

Didn't expect to see you 'til Monday.
And I spotted you while driving by
At the neighboring 7-11, early on Sunday
You didn't know you were on display.

Did something I never did before
I sat near you. You looked at me five times in a minute...
And mentioned to your friend that you kissed around last year
But you didn't wanna be like that anymore.

Well I don't know
Whether we'll ever introduce ourselves quite formally
Who knows what you or I will turn out to be
For now, just keep
Looking at me.

originally published September 14, 2008
written to the cadence of "Land-Locked Blues" by Bright Eyes [Conor Oberst]

Stairs

2008-12-04T20:56:00.000-08:00

We all step down the stairs at some point. We deviate from childhood innocence and "realize" things that can be said in little sentences, but which carry heavy change. They all effect us in different ways. Some stay near heaven as long as they can, and some take one large step early in their lives to "deal". It is an easy deviation from the true moral and ideal of a heart.
Yet, what truly defines a person, is whether at some point they turn around and start walking back up the steps.
Too many born beautiful are turned ugly by the smalls steps they take down on their dignity.
It's so ironic, too.

originally published September 12, 2008

Good Intentions

2008-12-04T20:55:00.000-08:00

Summer is born with good intentions and ended with its own destructive fire.

originally published September 7, 2008

[Unfinished]

2008-12-04T20:54:00.000-08:00

To remember
We stir the embers.
Burn and glow a little more
Nothing about this is reconstruction
This is September.

originally published September 3, 2008

Epilogue of My Fallen Youth

2008-12-04T20:53:00.000-08:00

The following is absolute truth.
This entire summer, I have felt like the walking dead.
I laugh, but my soul is not alight.
I cry, but the flow of sadness does not relieve the pressure of a thousand rivers of pain inside my heart.
I know this sounds emo, and typical of something an adolescent would write,
but maybe there's a reason that the only way I will write it is this way.
I have been hurt, I have been frank, and I have been lost.
I have been suffering, I have caused suffering.
Ultimately this summer, I feel very strongly that I have lost the core of the passion of my heart that makes me the unique person I am. Soon I will become just like them. Soon the dream will end completely.
And
I have seen somethings which may be referred to as visions, though often they are not my own.
I have an urge to visit a place that I have only seen outside a car window
but I know what it looks like inside. Somehow, I know exactly the room I need to be in.
I know what I will write on the walls.
I have imagined it so many times it scares me.
I have imagined the events to happen in it in the most horrible light
but also in the most wonderful light.
I have come to believe it is the place of my final redemption, my final discovery, my final enlightenment.
In essence, the epilogue of my fallen youth.

So
very soon
I am going to go there. End this summer, for good.
Whatever happens, I will follow every whim of my imagination because that is who I am.
I have chosen to be open and honest with you, because I also have a desire to be understood in ways I never will be.

I'm sorry.

originally published August 17, 2008

This, ---

2008-12-04T20:52:00.000-08:00

I must not be silent no longer.

Silence, the empty space of the heart does bid.

No! The words I will make
If even in desperation I
Swallow the ink to
Vomit the words.

This, the blood of my soul
I will spill.

What is a wisp becomes a word.

Memories, the remnants of great
Civilizations of broken dreams
I will confirm, then set free.

My words, like butterfly wings,
Will knock over a tree on the
Other end of the earth.

originally published August 4, 2008

I need the weight.

2008-12-04T20:51:00.000-08:00

You walked on my heart. I needed the wieght. My hope was so light it would have flown away, had you not held it down with the sole of your shoe. It left black rubber junk on it, and it burned a few little holes. Lying has got to be a sin.
You lay on my heart. I needed the weight. My eyes - you held them shut, and I did not understand the fine line between happiness, and ignorance...between pain and shackles. Pity has got to be a sin.
You got up, and you walked away from my heart. The space where you had been was cold. I never knew there was so much space until you no longer filled it. My chest was too light, and I floated. The heart did not beat, I need the weight. I opened my eyes to look for you but it was raining from inside my soul. I still couldn't see the things I was trying not to forget. Forgetting has got to be a sin.
I still couldn't see your heart as you made the decision that is not you. It was bloody and wet and smeared with unGodly distortion that bore down upon by a twisted will to live.
The shard of glass I pulled from you is settling under my veins, where it won't hurt you. You got up and walked away from my heart. I floated. Pity has got to be a sin. Your love had to be a lie.

originally published August 3, 2008

Bloody Ice

2008-12-04T20:50:00.000-08:00

The ice your ocean's turbulent pushed upon me have "torn me asunder". My clothes are so thin they feel like shrouds covering me. Yet, its fading now...the ice thats pierced my soul is also stained with the blood of our innocence.

originally published July 26, 2008

...

2008-12-04T20:49:00.000-08:00

Lover lover
in our last endeavor
you have failed me again.

originally published July 22, 2008

Heaven's an Itch; Hell a Burn

2008-12-04T20:48:00.000-08:00

If hell's a burn, and heaven's an itch...
I'll take the burn.

originally published July 7, 2008

Remnants

2008-12-04T20:47:00.001-08:00

The other day
I walked a long way from home
To an old dirt lot
Under a lonely tree
By the freeway.

Sat for an hour
Thinking about loss.
Decay,

Slowly carving with a crooked stick
"I am a remnant".

Went back yesterday,
It's still there....
No one knows about it
Or my true feelings and hopes...

originally published July 4, 2008 - a day when i was completely alone.

At Least There Are Sunsets - An Old Rant of Pessimism

2008-12-04T20:46:00.000-08:00

I live in a world where the haze sits on the low mountains. A haze that floats to the sea and kills the sea life...it settles in my lungs and creates a black hole of shortened life. A haze so poisonous it kills the lungs. But at least there are sunsets, people say. I see Mother Nature painting a picture of my inevitable death. Her oranges and reds never so bright as the nuclear bomb of fate that waits at the end.
In the end, the haze becomes part of my body and I am the pollution my race created. I am the litter of filth that destroyed a thousand souls. My fathers ran in ignorance and I am here living a punishment I was born to serve. I am here and it is too late to slow the catalyst for our actions. I shan't have the heart to pick up a piece of trash on the ground when it will only sit in another landfill somewhere less strategically placed.
Sadly, I dream of the things in my life that won't affect the future generations . I stress over the things that I worry about for myself. I am so selfish here in this waste...to not sing for my people and save the dying breed so that we can leave a spotless house behind.
I wish dearly I had the conviction to inspire others to live in hope white remembrance. White remembrance being the clean leave of our people...using the earth to haphazardly when it does not belong to us.

So selfish is the human race to think that things will continue to get better. "Technology will rise," man says. "It will better our lives until there is no crime, and no problems, and we can live in peace. And will look cool." Man has neglected the thought that his artificial intelligence will suceed his mind. Hi "robot" will take to weaknesses of man into program.

Oh the silent dread of machine.

A strange chemical reaction, the burning of the hott sun fusing nature to man's pollutant. Oh, but at least there are sunsets. I guess that's all that matters. If the sun sets on our world because of our mistakes - at least there are sunsets.

originally published June 24, 2008 but written more than a year before that...

Heart and Body, Soul and Mind

2008-12-04T20:44:00.002-08:00

The body once lay in a comfortable position, like the position of prayer. An imprint of fetal nature that made ones physical existence small and emotional fulfilling. This position which was filled with giant things - like embodied fantasy.
When tides changed, I found myself thrown over by a hand stronger than my weight which had strongly resisted. A violent turn around: the seeping panic, the sharp jabs of fear, and the throbbing regret of existence.
My body was thrown open, and I onto my back. I remained shut down. On my back, with arms wide open. My mass was unchanged in space but I was forever bent to this place. The position which felt as vulnerability became discovery.
Arms and legs feeling the lapping voids of heat leaving my body. Memories. Making prints like fingers do on the canvas of the mind. Like the touch of another, the gentle touch, which forever changes the skin where is happens. Like the breath, after having breathed with another in time and cadence, never breathes regularly again. The change led breeze to untouched flesh, cold shocks of realization cooled the dying spark.
Then my eyes did open. Above was night sky. All the stars did reach to me and say with beams of existence all their own, you are but a small part, but the most important.
The very mourning of the tragedy did exist as solid, and collected itself in the core of the soul, the heart, and did weigh on me as a being of uncried, undried, unresolved tears. The weight rested on the chest as the heaviest burden, but the most necessary to carry. It couldn't be anything else but nostalgia which harbored this being. A sphere, the perfect shape, it did make....of the purest substance: water. A soft, pillowish sphere of water which became the pure jewel of the heart. The once pure love which began to decay and die too quickly and it gathered in the last safe place for it...the heart. For the heart never evacuates, only buries. The bones of a thousand dreams become dust there, and the dust nevers leaves.
And it rested inside me, as I lay there.
And the hatch of the ship opened to the sky, like an eyelid letting the lashes lift. The air was cold on my bare, naked heart. With lack of covering and protection, my heart was feeling a breeze for the first time. Looking at the stars for the first time. Beating against nothing, so uncomfortable, no wieght to counter its own.

I wondered why I was so placed, and so bonded and reshaped.
Wondered of how similar this could be, to God himself reaching down and pulling the ribcage apart to release the soul, a piece of God. Maybe the only reason life exists is because the soul is born into its cage of physical limits as a journey for God. The heart, the core, the very nightingale.

Does she sing?

Do I sing?

Can you hear my song? For I'm listening elsewhere to hymns outside the body.

originally published June 23, 2008

Walk for Autumn

2008-12-04T20:44:00.001-08:00

It was hot today, but I went for a walk anyways.
I decided to go on this walk in effort to soothe my pain, and my distress.

In the beginning, I crossed a street. I remembered when I ran and pretended to be a gazelle in hopes of appearing elegant. I breathed in once again the feeling of grace, and of air one gets when leaping. Yet the air was harsh today and the sun burned out those cool memories. I know that I run slow, and never appeared as a gazelle to anyone. I have actually been told I look like I'm trying really hard but never really moving. I am no gazelle.

I reached the chain link fence where we walked once. Then, the field and water reserve on the other side was green and lush. Mustard had made the grass greener, and the mushy water pond at the bottom had bugs and birds and life. Spring had just begun. Just the other day I had rode my bike here. The grass had become dead and crunchy, yellow and forgotten. The wind was hot, and the grass was burning before my eyes. That day I pulled the fluff from a thorny thistle and cast it over the metal bounds from which the plant was entwined. The seeds had danced away from me, traveling long and far on the wind to my back.
And today it was the same. The wind was hotter, and the grass deader. But when I reached a patch of thistles along the fence, I saw the little tufts of white under the thorny brush. Even as a slight breeze blew, they danced under the brush, as if trying to get out. Then I looked closer,
and remembered.
When I was moreso a child than I am now, I believed with all my heart in fairy spirits which were white, with delicate hairs of angel hair. When you caught one, she owed you a wish. You wish, let it go, and she flies away. Whether your wish comes true, is her decision. Stupid memories of young boys stepping on fairies as I reached for them brought me sadness. I could never really believe they were plants. They were fairies.
And I really, truly realized the connection between the spirit of youth and magic and hope, and the little seeds. The fairies were those which were relieved of their seeds...
I realized something else important: They come from thorny, ugly, disgraceful thistles.
So I pulled the pods from their host, gently placed them in my palm. So many came out with a gentle pull. So many seeds yet to be given a chance, so many seeds that just needed a little wind.
So I cast them out behind me as I walked. They danced far and close.
One even clung to my clothes, but I had to let her go.
And I walked on.
The sidewalk began to crumble, and my skin was burning. The grass and brush around me was all dead. Pink flowers were too heavy for their branches, kissing each other and the cement.
And another dead field was in sight...
Once there was a building here, and the asphalt was still there, crumbling in the weeds. I could only see weeds everywhere, and a great wall beyond it which blocked the freeway and anything beyond it.
No color but sun.
Only a small walkway was left. You couldn't really even see it unless you walked where I walked,
and it was crumbling slowly down the middle and from the edges, even under my feet as they carried me to the edge. A large dying branch was sprawled out on the end,
it was a seat.
A fairy was there, and I picked her up. I sat there with her in my palm, covering her from the wind.
She was captive. And I thought about all my childish hopes and dreams and requirements which I have been asked to let go of. I thought of all my flaws and how worthless I was to anyone else.
I observed her quiver in my palms, pressing against the edges, though there was no real wind.
And then I let her go. And sat in my place among the rubble of humanity and of nature. Observing the chemistry of the sun, the weeds, people, and God.
She flew away from me.
Drifted down into the brush on the edge of the clearing, and hopped a little on the grass. She seemed to be watching me, then decided to leave...flying away...
I turned to the ever bright sun, burning me, cooking me like an egg.
There was no sight to see,
but I still chose the place to be mine.
Mine, and no one elses. No one could see me there, though I was in the open.
I walked on, dragging my fingers on the wall which had gathered dead autumn leaves at the base.
I imagined the erosion that was happening, under my fingers. Sometimes my fingers would catch and fall behind...then catch up. This erosion is like life, it sometimes erodes to teach us to heal.
Teaching us to be.
To create ourselves.

I felt soothed, though the sun was uncomfortable.
If I hadn't been wearing jeans,
I would have walked abosolutely silently.
I imagined myself as graceful, as light.

Again,
I am no gazelle.

originally published May 18, 2008

Heavy

2008-12-04T20:43:00.001-08:00

Pure blue cover, under the waves
and we can hardly move us
Pure struggle and
our distortion bears upon us

Well can you carry it for me?
no you cannot
Well can you carry me home
cause my memory has rot.

Once we coughed out white sands
threw the pain at the sun
Once we had empty hands
to join as one

Well can you carry this for me?
no you cannot
Well can you carry me home
cause my memory has rot.

Well can you carry it for me?
maybe you could
Baby take us home
I was asleep as you stood

In my protection -
Well can you?

Its-

Heavy in my hands
Heavy like stone
Heavy in my heart
Heavy like decay
Heavy in the head
Now i feel exactly what my thoughts weigh

On you.

originally published April 4, 2008

Warrior of the Heart

2008-12-04T20:42:00.001-08:00

Dear Rain
How I feel so alone
Though I know you are there by my side
My heart feels so weak.

Maybe it's just me
A harmony I can atone
It's breaking down words
In the lonely language that I speak.

Dear Rain
When are you coming home
Yes, I know you are here by my side
You're singing silence that won't subside
But is this really your warm breath on my cheek?

Rain
Never comes the day
No longer the words
-Am I falling apart again?-
In your arms and it hurts.

To miss you
To need you
To mourn for something that feels unreal.

I imagined you an angel
A dark warrior of the heart
Can yet you reach for the sword -
Was this not the start?

originally published March 9, 2008

Playground in the Park

2008-12-04T20:39:00.000-08:00

All the young and old
Near beginning and end and you're waiting to embark
We joined them near sunset
On the playground in the park

Here we are at the beginning
Watching our dreams run around in corduroy Osh Kosh
The world we are born in is winning
Our words tired, wet from the wash.

And I am sitting on the swing
Creaking back and forth
Thinking - why am I a seperate thing
You are there, for what its worth.

I am here, a seperate piece
So we can be together and apart
Gender bound that will break or not and you said
"We are not that different."

I'm staring in the distance
At the swaying eucalyptus
So romantic this idea
You could want me for any of this.

In the air your weight disappeared
Your face and hair lifted up and you were free
Your grace never was quite revered
I prey you will keep me.

I never met a force so gentle
Never heard a word sincere
Never made a love so monumental
As in the woodchips you appear.

Your hands around me stopped the swing
Now I will dream and be the lark
That sings beneath your protective wing
On the playground in the park.

originally published February 17, 2008

2008-12-04T20:38:00.001-08:00

"Falling leaves return to their roots"

Morning

2008-12-04T20:37:00.000-08:00

The mornings now are nothing but quiet intimacy. There is a darkness both within and outside the house. So dark, sometimes it feels like rain. The leaves droop, still with dew, in the silent morning before the sun.
Yet I swear! There was rain not a moment ago. And how my head turned to prove it - there was left no proof. So I pick my steps to the kitchen.
The window above the sink is casting soft light into my eyes but I don't see it. I'm looking for a rain.
It was almost a promise, but I am faulted for believing such a fleeting dream - a whime of the imagination. So I pick carefully my steps down the hallway.
Every room is cast with the soft light. One more step and I expose my face.
I'll look at the light today.

originally published February 6, 2008

The Insight of a Janitor

2008-12-04T20:35:00.000-08:00

I know now how it is possible to be a hermit in a crowded town. Most don't choose it so, but accept it. Those anonymous people who clean hallways and bathrooms at night know something I don't - and I sense it.
Night after night they resurrect from their beds, loping into empty gas stations to buy a cold sandwich and warm coffee. There must be something magical in it, just as there is depressing. Wiping down floors in bright, humming hallways in a haunting silence must cause a ringing in the ears. Maybe that's what the music is for, sounding from his pocket radio, the old familiar tunes from high school days, resonating down the hallways, distorting more around every corner.
Then there's the silent ones. In their own world they seem to not hear my footsteps nearby. To be fully immersed in themselves, to be entirely dedicated to one voice, one could forget how to speak that way. Maybe the secret is obtaining thoughts which execute not like lost paper airplanes but like running water. Thoughts that group together in droplets of completion, gliding to their destination fully and completely, while setting a fresh path for future efficiency.
Such a beautiful gift must be worth knowing oneself and no one else.

originally published December 10, 2007

Emotive Crisis: Definition Essay for AP English Class

2008-12-04T20:34:00.000-08:00

I wrote this essay for my AP English class maybe a month ago. The prompt was to write an essay using definition to support your point. The options were really open-ended...there was no expected structure. My score was 101/105

Emotional Crisis

“NO!” may be a mother‘s final answer, but in the child’s mind the grocery store candy bar may be still in reach. From the child’s perspective, the situation becomes absolutely and irrevocably the end of the world, with tears, begging, and screaming as if in torturous agony. The child whines in between squeals for a change of heart about that bar of chocolate. Yet, any mother would know the importance of saying no when necessary: the essential lesson of how to conduct oneself in the real world - that one cannot and probably should not always get what they want. These small and trivial problems are tolerable by children’s minds via a remarkably resilient attitude. Though not always carried into adulthood, this resiliency allows emotional “strength training” to build tolerance and acceptance of the real world early on. Regardless of common stereotypes of childhood fits, there exists at least some emotional pain involved in the incessant begging.

The pain, crisis, and/or confusion happens in the mind. The type of crisis spoke of is not the fit a child throws, but rather the reason why. Emotional crisis (why the child cries in the grocery store) is a broad, disputable topic but best defined as a fear and insecurity that everything will not be as planned. It can be a horrific feeling due to situation. It is emotional crisis that cracks our immovable porcelain egos into smooth joints made to function in the real world, where tumbles and falls are inevitable for survival. Thus, emotional crisis is necessary for growth as a person, and a huge factor in shaping a personality throughout development and into adulthood. The personality established as a result of the crises is essential to have in order for action and reaction to situations and people.

The mind of a child is innocent. As the stiff porcelain becomes broken, as emotive crisis teaches lessons of life, the memories of these crises grow - even in the subconscious mind. Getting over these crises becomes harder, as they increase in complexity. So is the case of a teenage girl of 16 lies who lies on her floor for three days. Her mother looks in silently and knows the situation all too well. Her daughter has lost her first love, and the feeling is heart wrenching. The emptiness inside becomes an almost physical pain she can feel with every in and exhale. The girl is in a pain we all experience in different ways. Her mother remembers it vividly, but knows something her daughter does not. She knows that her daughter has the strength to stand up again and comb her mangled hair. That when she does, she’ll carry this new independence into her next relationship and the next. That is wasn’t pointless to mourn over that essential break in the porcelain. That this, as the toddler fits previously, will continue to shape what seems like broken pieces to inner beauty. Yes, she will change, and yes it will be difficult, but won’t it always?

From childhood fits, to loss of a lover, to mourning in death. The people in a sterile funeral home, attending for a relative, know it always gets harder. The tragedies always get harder. Needless to say, in events such as death there isn’t a lesson to be learned but rather opportunity to utilize the strength built from all those tangible tears and intangible memories. They will use all the strength they have looking in at the cold, worn, broken face. For death might be the ultimate crisis, the ultimate pain, the ultimate loss. Yet ask the deceased whether life was worth the pain, and they won’t feel a single wrinkle or crack. Experiencing death is one element of the preparation emotional crisis does for the mind.

Without pain, there would be no happiness. Without childhood fits, there would be no good conduct, and without unrequited love, there would exist no internal strength needed for the true, eternal love. Then deem it also true that without death there would be no essence of life. Without the function of emotional crisis, a porcelain doll hasn’t a particular function at all.

originally published December 10, 2007

Boy on the Stairs

2008-12-04T20:31:00.000-08:00

Silence is around him.

He leans into
His arms,
His mind.

Arms folding, bending over
His knees,
Hands hanging -
Resting from an

Unseen pain.
Shoulders still strong.

A soldier in a silent war and
Tomorrow the battle.

Auburn hair curtaining
His eyes.

He glances gently
at me -
Lifting his head

Gives hope,
Then returns to his mind.

originally published November 15, 2007
[the boy in this poem died a few months ago]

Piano's Music of Sanity

2008-12-03T23:08:00.000-08:00

Within the boundaries of logic -
The walls of consciousness
A windowless cell
Within the empty house of solitation

We

Are together

Timeless.

White keys glow in a dim light
Stiff and deliberate -
Not a gentle cooling wind
But the gusty inconsistent gale.
As outside the boundaries of the walls.

Black keys, faded, could bleed into white,
Like I could pollute my memories
Like I could lose innocence.
I hope I don't.

The wind outside howls and rips
The golden leaves from the trees

The piano is angry!
When it heals
The forest in my heart.
When it keeps
The black and white in line.

originally November 15, 2007

From the Scarlet Letter

2008-12-03T23:07:00.000-08:00

"It was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before experienced, that they sat and watched Pearl's slow advance. In her was visible the tie that united them. She had been offered to the world, these seven years past, as the living heiroglyphic, in which was revealed the secret they so darkly sought to hide, - all written in this symbol, - all plainly manifest, - had there been a prophet or magician skilled to read the character of flame! And Pearl was the oneness of their being. Be the foregone evil what it might, how could they doubt that their earthly lives and future destinies were conjoined, when they beheld at once the material union, and the spiritual idea, in whom they met, and were to dwell immortally together? Thoughts like these - and perhaps other thoughts, which they did not acknowledge of define - threw an awe about the child, as she came onward."

originally published November 14, 2007

Sheer Cliffs and Selfish Women

2008-12-03T23:06:00.001-08:00

The fact is, that women are selfish. The adjoining truth to this fact is that men don't want to hear about it.
At least this woman is selfish. If I could be the only one, of which I hope I am not, then accuse me and chain me to a mountain. I deserve the vulture.
For I have destroyed and I have broken in attempts to find balance. Maybe the fact is that I will never be quite balanced again, and that I should just avoid those sheer delightful cliffs we call love. I cannot walk in a straight line, therefore I was doomed from the rebirth to fall off.

There is one more fact to address. He did catch me. Whether he has pulled us up, is a question of the immediate future. What I know is that I haven't hit bottom. I trusted him for a reason.
He promised he would always be there.

He caught me. I fear I can never walk straight...I don't want him to catch me again if it should happen again.

originally published October 21, 2007

Things to Remember

2008-12-03T23:04:00.000-08:00

1.] The things you tell yourself to remember, you will most likely forget.
2.] The things you tell yourself not to remember, become burned into your memory.
3.] The essential people in your life are the easiest to forget.
4.] Likewise, the people you wouldn't expect to mean anything have the most impact.
5.] Finally, what you really do remember is often unexpected.

originally published October 15, 2007

Dumb Title

2008-12-03T23:01:00.000-08:00

Sometimes romance teeters on the edge of darkness, of hell. Which force to listen to, in the lover's embrace? The darkness is actually light and the light is equally angelic. They blend like gaseous smoke, a thick haze that licks and bites at the life force. The skin is sallow and beautiful in the darkness, and the eyes glow. The background noise never ceases: screams, ringing of the ears, loud televisions, glass breaking spreading diamonds across the floor; but we can still hear each other's words. Or can we? The quest for silence, a silence that will never come but be just around the corner at the end of a broken life... edging closer to the cliff. The cliff where another love will fall. Another castle of dreams will slide off the slippery edge. Our love can save us.
We are warmed by other loves burning away, but are we burning too? The edge is so close, but so is the kiss.
And sometimes it isn't a white angel, or a black demon. Sometimes it is a dark angel with the pure intentions, rushing to tear the white demons from their roots. It is sometimes the dark angel which will push his lover away from the darkness.

Sometimes it is the dark angel which will catch a fallen maiden from the sky...
from where the white angels dropped her.

originally published October 1, 2007
and lol some of my old writing is humorous

Personal Comments

2008-12-03T23:00:00.000-08:00

I've been frustrated.
I would like to suppose there is clay, and then porcelain, and finally steel. I would also like to suppose that porcelain was beauty. Yet, I don't know what I'm getting at. I do so want to look empty as a doll on a shelf, a novelty as such. Wouldn't it be lovely? But then there would be no issue as Raggedy-Anne surely has: Her flaming yarn hair will surely not do. I want to do, and do so well! But porcelain always ends up as steel. Sometimes it starts from the outside in, as with me, or it starts from the inside out. Either way is cased entirely by the fact that something is porcelain and needs to be steel. Its just the way it works. If you have porcelain you will have steel. Only dolls escape from this. They're eyes don't blink of their own accord anyway.
Oh, you think I'm trying to be humorous. I'm dreadfully sorry I am not.

My father is in pain. I don't sympathize, even though I probably should.
Speaking of things I probably should...

Go fire your cannons somewhere else. I will discover God on my own accord, and when I do it will not be YOUR God.

originally published August 27, 2007

part of an unfinised novella II

2008-12-03T22:59:00.000-08:00

She quietly opened the door, and shut it behind her. For once, as she slowly picked her steps across my messy room, she did not have the expression of disappointment at it; There was something else on her mind. Gently lowering herself onto my bed I could see her almost mouthing the practiced speech she was to give. I sat beside her.
"_____," she began, fearfully. My mother was a shy and soft spoken woman with a slight body and delicate body language. At every syllable she almost shook with the power of the words to follow. We really hadn't talked in a long time.

Awkward silence.
"I know...I'm sorry," I said.
"It's been almost a month now," she said, almost whispering.
"I don't know okay? There's just been a lot on my mind," I said - almost frustrated.
"You haven't been outside or out with your friends in awhile. Its not-"
"Like me," we both said.
I wasn't the kind of mourner who cried. I haven't cried since - I don't know when, but I don't cry over death. I merely think about it. I don't blame my mother though - I had been even more introverted since her death. I was thinking. A lot.
"Maybe a few laughs would help," she tried to force a smile with this.
Maybe, but I didn't believe it. She didn't know my sneaking suspicions - or small beliefs I was scared to entertain. In fact, I secretly entertained them behind my own back, because every time my thoughts would land on it, it seemed familiar.
A few laughs. Ha, well it would be easy enough to pretend for her.

Easy enough.

What was keeping me from laughing wasn't easy enough. She didn't know. She didn't know! She would never know. It was something even I didn't want to admit knowing.
She doesn't know I was there when it happened. I saw from the sidewalk her car swerve off the road an hit the corner of the building.
It was head-on. I knew everything in an instant - even from the distance from where I was standing.
I knew she was dead. In fact, remembering now, it seems her heart gave up even before she hit.
I knew it was instant. I knew no one else was hurt. I almost knew her car's condition before I got there.
I felt like I was walking - I suppose I was running.
She was slumped over the wheel. Her seat pressed her against it - her hands hung delicately over the wheel.
The blood had stopped coming - it now just blanketed her hands and face.
I could tell her neck was broken.

All this I saw in an one instant.
Somehow, as I came upon the tragedy, I felt responsible.

originally published August 23, 2007

part of an unfinished novella I

2008-12-03T22:56:00.000-08:00

I never thought of myself as really anything. We all have that one event in our life that really changes things. I mean really. Well, she was it.
I still remember the last time I saw her. I remember it vividly, as if after her death my brain dug this little memory out and dusted it off. I'm sure I wouldn't have remembered it otherwise - in fact thats all I do nowadays is wrack my finishbrain for anything remotely of her. Regardless, her hair was smooth, and the sun beat on her face and cast harsh shadow. The lower half of her sunburst blue eyes were illuminated like mirrors in the sun beneath her eyebrows. She stood rather stiff, like something was bothering her. Her voice was smooth like a very well rehearsed play. It was a river, nature, water....Her hand ran to her brow as she looked at me; I don't remember what we talked about. All I know is she turned and almost ran off. I didn't even realize I was watching her almost run to class when she abruptly stopped. She turned and with a very different face than the smile just one moment ago, said:
"Don't forget about what I told you." With that, she was gone. I remember thinking it was strange, for there wasn't any pressing important thing I was supposed to remember. I figured I'd ponder it...hastenly forgot it. Until now that is. I still don't remember what it is I was to remember.

I won't say I hate myself for it. That would be irrational.

Then again, she was irrational.

originally posted August 22, 2007

The Songs You'll Never Hear

2008-12-03T22:53:00.000-08:00

You can't sing a song you never wrote.
If I sang a lyric under my breath,
Oh, look what you've done.
You didn't open up your ear-
And it's all a part of the songs you'll never hear.

The words you thought you'd recognize
They were your own.
I didn't hear them and neither did you
You never spoke them.

Yet the hardest part of this,
You're Tongue-tied
Pull it out from inside...
Let's go back to the start.

You can't sing a song you never wrote,
Even if I sang a lyric under my breath,
Oh, look what you've done.
I couldn't let go of the fear.
It's all a part of the songs you'll never hear.

Back to the disaster,
The unutterable vision itself and in the flesh
This the defining point will change us forever
We can't stop the time
Or make it all rhyme,
We could fall apart.

You still can't sing a song you never wrote.
If I sang a lyric under my breath,
But look what you've done.
It's more miserable year after year.
It's all a part of the songs you'll never hear.

And it's building itself, tier after tier.
It's changes us, tear after tear.
Just one moment -OH- was it sincere?
It's all of the songs I hope you'll never hear.

Well I have a few comments on this,
1.] This one actually expresses my feelings nicely. It expresses correctly and meaningfully.
2.] I use the music them [duh] but I actually DID steal lyrics if you caught that....in almost every stanza. It was all part of the personal message that I don't think people hear those songs the same as I do.
3.] Obviously its about my relationship with my boyfriend, and how difficult its been for me whether he knows it or not....thus the point of "the songs you'll never hear"
4.] I tried to channel the simplistic vocabulary of songwriters who REALLY DO convey a message. Most of the time the most meaningful lyrics are the ones with the simplest words said in new ways. I hope this was a new way.
5.] For those critically analyzing, the lines right above the "It's all part of the songs you'll never hear" is where my uncovered skin really shows.
Thanks for reading.

originally published August 22, 2007

The Experiment

2008-12-03T22:51:00.000-08:00

Now that you're happy with our pain,
You have broken us in, firstly broken, and made a wound to heal.
That teenage dream you wanted to take away.
The song in our hearts of forever youth,
You caged the nightingale and now it won't sing.

Give the blonde back her sunshine -
The arrogant back his voice -
The painter back her creativity -
The college-bound back his books -
The rebel back his cause -

Your experiment

failed.

Give us back the reason.

originally August 12, 2007

"You missed it."

2008-12-03T22:49:00.000-08:00

She'd been worried again. I could tell. Her face melted into Concerned, from something else I really can't recall. We were driving home, again. Always driving. Yet, I'll hardly complain, as Mom's in the car 25 percent of her life.

"I don't know Emily, sometimes I just worry about you."
"About what?"
"I want you to be happy."
"I am happy."
"Really?"
"...Yes I think so."
"I just worry because you never see him. I want to-"
"What?"
"I want you to experience high school while it lasts! I want you to have fun! Go on dates! The movies! While you still can!"
"I know. I want to too."
"See?!"
"Well from what I understand, when Connor's 18, his parents basically turn him loose. We can do all that stuff then."
"Emily! You'll be out of high school! There's no more fun and games! You'll be in the working world!"
"...I know."

A sudden shock of pain. I looked out the window. Tears welled up, and I faltered for about 5 minutes. 5 minutes of unhappiness that he will never know about. 5 minutes of doubt, whether this was all worth it. He's everything, I chose him. And yet, I suffer everyday. What would have happened? Who could I have been? Regret, cold feet, wandering eyes, whatever you want to call it. We call it love. I secretly wonder what else to call it.

"You're gonna miss it all Em. You're going to miss it." She said, almost in tears.
"I know!" I cry.
"Is he worth it Emily?"
"....Yes. Yes he is. He's worth all of it."

She looks forward at the car in front. Her eyes redden just a bit. She rests her hand on my forearm, to comfort me. Blink blink, blinker. Turning left...

"Oh look!" She cries. I'm staring without purpose out the window.
"What?" I reply purposefully delayed. I ignore the importance.
"That house! It was so beautiful! The shutters and windows were really pretty! And the garden... look back there! The yellow one!" I look slowly, and don't really see it.
"I don't see it."
"You missed it."

"Yeah, I did."

originally published July 27, 2007

Sin and Happiness

2008-12-03T22:46:00.000-08:00

Even deep sinners, who are damned to hell, have known happiness.
It is sympathetic, yet necessary for their eternal suffering.

Like one seed of evil can grow into a tree,
A seed of happiness will forever taint it.

originally posted July 24, 2007

Confession of Humanity

2008-12-03T22:45:00.000-08:00

Isn't it true, that all our lives there is life, death, happiness, truth, lies, regret, guilt, fear, possibility, rules, choice, responsibility, and endlessness held before us. One wall after another, one piece at a time. We are forced to tear them down with ideal ease, and limited lasting effects. We cry at first, and always learn to stop. As orphans learn to stop crying, they won't be helped. They sleep in silence.

When you think about it, we are all emotional workhorses. We have to be. It's hard. Everyone has this pain...Am I the only one scared of the endlessness? It's very much the fact I might not be able to take the next wall down....But is it worth it?

In the end it doesn't matter what college you go to, or that you were the coolest in your class. That you dated this many girls. Or got so high you forgot what it was to breathe freely. In the end what matters is the fact that we have the strength to overcome all these feelings that build walls before us, every morning, day and night.

Right now, I'm hurting.
I'm hurting badly. The endlessness is killing me. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

It hurts.

But you're not listening.

It's endless! I am myself and nothing else. I am talent, but not useful. I want to play music and I want to play music.

It hurts.
It hurts!

But you're not listening.

I'm breathing in and I feel the pressure in my body. I feel it. It's so endless.
It is endless. We are on a timer.

Time holds me on a chain, a time bomb. The message is enjoy it while you can,and the tears run down our faces as we smile in all earnest.

We all know pain.
And we all learn to stop crying.

But you're not listening.
Listen to us.

originally posted July 20, 2007

The Saturation that is Summer

2008-12-03T22:41:00.000-08:00

Summer.

The innocence, and the sweet color that is spring, is broken like a green stalk. From the blood of plants comes vivid maxed out visions.
Visions of wind, movement, and heat.

The morning is gentle but strong. Bright and apparent.

The day is warm, bright, and colorful. The saturation of the color heightens to epic levels. The red of eyelids open to nothing but blue. The color is washed with moisture, at the same time, dries of thirst. A filter of pollen falls away to new wings of color.

The night is quiet in the noise of the wind winding through the trees. I wonder what falls behind the shadows, and cats walk under street lamps on empty streets. The warmth is felt on the face, but the eyes see only cold.

Heat brings visions of running. Lulling me to sleep, I can only hope I awake under the shade of the sun.

originally published July 20, 2007

"Sleep."

2008-12-03T22:39:00.000-08:00

From behind I watched him reach over his chest towards the end of existence. It seemed from the very folds of this brink, was born a blade. Sharp as light, and solid like the thundering columns of Olympus. This blade extended from his aura into the thick haze. He turned, one step at a time. To face me, his blade extended.
The creature before me was magnificently dangerous. His auburn hair extended in pieces to his neck and eyes....and his eyes shone through, bold and merciless.
I was trapped and could not pull away from his lock.
The blade moved, instantaneously, to carve my wrist open. Slowly, he released me from his gaze to watch the blood pour down my arm. Weak, I allowed the blood to flow down the smooth valleys and hills of my hand. With a soft plop, the first of the blood touched the floor.
Time slowed dramatically and my vision blurred. I watched and struggled to focus my eyes....and his eyelashes touched his cheek as he leaned in to whisper...

"sleep."

Relaxed, I sank to the floor in an instant. The blood drew a trail where my hand slid to my face.

Then came a silence.

originally published July 20, 2007

Inhale the Universe

2008-12-03T22:37:00.000-08:00

I'm scared someday you'll take a breath and inhale the night sky. All the stars will disappear - there'll be nothing to light our way. Your breaths are so small. Someday you will take that breath. All the stars and planets and life will drift within you. All the sparkle of the constellations and the planets, and all of their stories will float within you. The stars dying, living, and being born. The planets aligning, and disaligning. The black holes and white holes of displaced matter. Within you.
And if Venus herself cannot fill the void in your heart, how can I?
You strike a match and reach into caverns within my soul far away from the outskirts. It's striking warmth in naturally cold places.

When you light the core on fire...

originally published July 20, 2007

Phoenix

2008-12-03T22:36:00.000-08:00

Today dawns a new expected dawn. All at once, art begins. With booming thunder and deadly power, it shakes everything remembered.
From beneath a pile of black inky soot, a small bird rises. It lifts from the back and neck and stretches its neck, shaking long glimmering tail feathers into sight.
With a shake, reveals a strong beak, and blood red plumes. with the grace of God and the power of machine he rises to the sun.

"Will you?"
"Will I what?"
"Go out with me?"
"....Ya."

I am alive.

originally published July 20, 2007

The Story of Our Meeting

2008-12-03T22:34:00.000-08:00

I'm walking along a beach, and there's a sunset. In the colors, there is an ending. Every cloud a story, another side. A sad, ending. In the moment of peace, there is a breath of chaos. My eyes slowly close and I'm overcome with internal fear. A wind kicks up, and I've opened my eyes again. The colors of the sunset swirl together and a dizzy feeling starts from the head down.
I am falling. Somewhere in the fall, as my hair passes over my face....and the sand reaches my hands, I see you there. You're falling too, right there next to me. Your eyes closed, and your heart exposed. Your expression says you can't feel a thing. Not a thing.
And I can't reach you, though you're right there. Your expression, is so quietly desperate, you broke my heart in that moment.
I closed my eyes in hate of the world as a tear ran down my face, you were to hit before I was. Within a moment, I have reached the sand. Blood rushes to my head, and a warmth overcomes my relaxed face, with the impact.
The same part of a song plays in my head. Replay, remix, replay. The same three seconds. The same verse. The same broken piece, I'm never quite complete. A shard of glass stuck in a random organ somewhere. It hurts with every turn, but is needed like an addiction.
In between violent turns, I lay in the sand beneath the vivid colour. I open my eyes wider to the burn of orange meeting emerald. I look softly at you, and yawn in boredom. You sleep anxiously. I wait for you to awaken, for you to see me here. You know I'm here. You are waiting.

It happens, so quickly. Eyes open. Glossy, dark. Widening, quickly. The pain has come.
A gasp,
and it's right in your soft heart.

And you've finally let me see it.
It's horrifyingly beautiful -

As the red red blood on the white dove's feathers.

The other shard of the same window. It's turning within you too. The blue spike juts from your chest, to catch the red light. But you can't take the pain anymore.
You've let me see it. Finally.
And your eyes can focus now, you see me here. Your sigh, anchors us here. One hand of yours opens next to me, and I reach...
Instead, I rip the shard away. I place it between our entwined hands. It cuts us both.

It cuts us both.

originally published July 9, 2007

Promises

2008-12-03T22:32:00.000-08:00

Promises are so easy to make,
So hard to keep,
And constantly tested.

When you give it a chance to be broken,
It mostly will be.

originally published June 20, 2007

Prisoner

2008-12-03T22:31:00.000-08:00

The prisoner needs no binds until he realizes his lack of freedom.

originally published June 18, 2007

Desire

2008-12-03T22:30:00.000-08:00

How does desire so seduce us,
That we warp the clarity of emotions?

Such a line crossed,
Is a line that is lost.

originally published June 17, 2007

Bird

2008-12-03T22:27:00.000-08:00

Normal people just a-walking on by.
I wonder if its worth to try.
To press my palms against the glass
And watch the world silently pass.

My breath fogs up the big window.
A distortion like water, and curled
Around the edges to corners unseen
A peace of mind somewhere inbetween.

My little window goes unnoticed.
I'm not something to be missed.
The snare has tightened on my arm.
Its not like my screams can raise alarm.

Yet, I wonder if its worth to try.

originally published June 14, 2007

The Kitchen

2008-12-03T22:23:00.001-08:00

The child in me has always searched for adventure or mystery. Whichever came first.
Sometimes I would only find it between my imagination and the darkness.
I'd wander out into the kitchen at night, turn on the light, and stand in the quiet.
For some reason, I'd create the notion that a presence was outside the window.
In fact, I'd find presences in many quiet things.

I now don't even stop very often to even notice it. Possibly, it was all in my head. [I can just see my mother saying that now...]
Or possibly, my mindset has changed and I just don't pick up the same things.

It is my belief that in one sense, when you think about it, anything can be said as existing.
A presence I feel becomes real in some place.

I'm talking of parallel universes now.
That means I'm tired.

originally published June 14, 2007

The Ocean

2008-12-03T22:22:00.001-08:00

You can hear it from anywhere now. Forcing tiny pink seashells in your ears, you can suck the sounds and batteries dry. Sit on the rotten curb next to the sound wall, and you can surround yourself in the dull roar of the ocean.
I like to dance across the land and feel it grow smaller with the ice caps' ruling. The ocean roams closer and the noise grows louder. Another one is lost to the flow of traffic to survive. Would it be better if I just didn't? And save the roar the trouble of eliminating the quiet later? That way, the ocean would never miss the land, for the earth wouldn't knwo a dry spot but in memory.
At least Mother Earth will remember me. My bones will become new life beneath the sea. The dear soul will be in numbing nirvana of the clutter that lulls her to sleep.
Float in the ocean, dear child. You will believe in land when the ocean drowns out and blasts itself deaf.

originally published June 14, 2007

What Is Without

2008-12-03T22:19:00.001-08:00

What is love without sacrifice?
What is knowing without fearing?
What is believing without faith?
What is truth without lies?
What is light without shadow?
What is music without noise?
What is peace without chaos?
What is a winner without a loser?
What is a relief without suffering?
What is comparison without something to compare?
What is inanimate without life?
What is colorless without a spectrum?
What is history without a future to worry about?
What is burning without freezing?
What is a thought without a pen?
What is a choice without an option?
What is a heart without blood?
What is resolve without conflict?
What is the wind without the trees?
What is an emotion without a host?
What is authenticity without fake?
What is God without Jesus?
What am I without words ?

Nothing.

originally published May 19, 2007

The Answer

2008-12-03T22:17:00.000-08:00

Disassembled pieces,
Let's lay them out on the table.
Find the reason why-
Why blood is red
And dreams unnotable.

Pull from within yourself,
Tell me why it works.
Tell me why it happened this way.
The music is streaming your memory-
Deep in the fibers of your inner thoughts.
The answer rests in darkness.

Draw diagrams, and detailed charts.
Why clocks turn, and things decay to dust.
If I give you the pen -
Promise me you'll try.

We'll halve things with butter knives
Find things with magnifying glasses.
Someday we'll find what we're looking for.
It's something illusive, yet definently tangible.
Oh friend, we've come so far since we began...
Looking for the things lost and small.
As the ink blurs focus into straight lines,
I hope we find the answer.

I hope we find it, my dear friend.

Monday, April 23, 2007

Hallway

2008-12-03T22:16:00.001-08:00

A couple days ago, I was on the phone. Mom butted into my conversation again making stupid comments. I was tired of it.
"This is my conversation, thank you."
In an instant her attitude changed. Swiftly, and viciously - her voice bit at me and sent me reeling in fear.

I don't know why I'm so damn scared of her.
She sat in the chair in the living room, and looked up at me.
She's so damn apathetic, but I bet she didn't think I was really sorry.

She doesn't say "I forgive you" or "It's okay" anymore. She says "ok".
It's like a gift she doesn't want. Like a selfish queen. She takes it, but isn't thankful.
"I just don't understand why you do that." She said.

Walking back to my room, something happened. The black mirror at the end of the hallway became an altar to which I did not conciously pray with my words, but with my soul.
For that instant I believed in goodness. The tears streamed down my face, and gathered on my neckline. [ I'm not one to wipe away tears. I am too selfish. I always expect someone ese to be there.]
I could smell the dusty floor beneath me, and could only stare thoughtlessly at the legs of a table beneath the black mirror. Sad music in the living room marked the end of the show Mom was watching.
I know she wasn't crying with me.
I sure wish she had though.

Colored Canopy

2008-12-03T22:14:00.000-08:00

Beneath the falling leaves,
It's just that time of year...
you said it didn't matter
These thoughts in my head.

Sometimes i wonder
why you think of me,
why you walk here with me,
Beneath the colored canopy.

You caught a rain drop on your nose
I laugh at the face you make....
I think sometimes you are a story
A fairy, a ghost, something of those.

A ways ahead
The street takes a bend
I don't want to believe
Thats how it ends.

The colors are so saturated,
Your eyes are gleaming
Because you see it too.

The forest has thickened,
You wanted to let me know,
You squeazed my hand
And now you've let it go.

The road is silent
The forest thick with memory
You passed with the seasons.
Here underneath, the colored canopy.