ButcherMeat before your knifeSkinned and waiting to be slicedLeft danglingHoping you will cut me down instead of up.With strokes both careless and preciseThe blood - the blood that stains your knife
I would have given you my life,But you have taken more.
Rosemary For RemembranceHer hands in the waterShe re members the freck le s o n hisAs th e wo r d s d ra g h e rD ow n D O w nDOW nGet t he e to a n u n n er y
G E T T H E E T O A N U N N E R Y
BelovedI should be stronger for you Dear,Not dieing in the darkness here,Rotting from the inside outDevoured by my fear.I'de be a shining star for you,A broken satelliteBurning off her energyTo guide you through the night,But all I do is gaurd the gateAnd keep its doors thrown wideIn hopes you will return to meWhile darkness slips inside.And how it storms the parapetsAnd shakes my every stoneand echoes through my hallways,Child, you are so alone.You are waiting for a ghostthat will not come again.Nothing is outside your walls,And Nothings coming in.Are you a prisoner or a foolWho stays yet trembles so,Cloistered in these crubling wallsUnable to let go?For cowardice we mock you.Upon your strength we feed,And if you hear his cries outsideYou should not pay them heed,For they are nothing but the windThat whistles in the still,And if your house is empty,Then we are here to fill.And if your heart is heavy,Then we can take that too.There's lots of things
HindsiteDear- in the headlightsWe stood in the road unflinching.It's too late to pass the buck.
P.S.Swan feathers brushingPink lemonade stratosphere,Pallid moon mirroringA smeared staring sun,As Fenrir snarls and stretches,Slinking silently skyward.
CampsiteI do not mind the feeling of icy waterIn the morning on dry, chapped hands,The scrubbing of bowls and pots with sandIn the pale autumn light.These are the clean discomforts of life lived,And sun warmed stones and star soaked nights can make amends Say amen to the prayers that such days could last forever.But I am answered never never again.And there the knife sinks deepAs the past is waked from sleep,Defiant and pounding its fists in anger But the leaves of today leave concern from their color,As bright with me as without they do not dignify my dolorWith pity for the memoryOf what makes one day full and one day empty."Fool," they say "All things must die in time,"And so I stand stripped bare beneath the sky,Inhaling wood smoke wafting in the wind,And feel all Nature's life come to an end.
here's to society1all those doctors who constantly measure mesay i'm "1.59... And 5mm - that's almost 1.60"because they can't look at my sad face(everyone's so high above me)and tell me this body's too small to evercontain anything great2i avoid those numbersbecause 5 too much mean sittingin the fat kids' corner all weekwatching the others eat puddingand 1 kilo still means mockeryfriends patting my stomachguys telling me I shouldn't eatand "i'll always have these curvesbecause i'm a lady" is no excuse,"french of the 16th centurywould've admired these hips" is no argumentnow i'm starting to feel like i fit myselfelven girl, steps of dusti could dance up there in the cloudswith my mindthey're gonna weigh me on the 30thmother says she knows it's too littlebut i still have my wasp waistand rococo hipsand all the wrong kinds of beauty(but someone's gotta love them, huh)crazy girl, i don't like butterfliesbut me in my striped tights3last year i stopped dyingmy hair, i
i. my little pigeon,you walk the line betweenreality and imagination, strayinginto the unknown and bringingback little pieces of wonderwith you when you return.ink drips from your fingers asyou smear words onto pages,breathing life into stiff piecesof paper torn from your notebook.coffee may be where i foundmy home, but it's tea that runsthrough my veins. i could braidyour hair for hours, letting the silkystrands run through my fingers likeyour words run through my heart.we can walk into the sunrise together,holding hands and laughing. i will sharethe sunsets i hold in my tiny palms,and you can share the stories you lockin your heart. i want to travel the worldwith you, pointing out the little quirksthat make up people and stumblinginto adventures behind little shopsand backwards alley ways. i hopeyou remember your handkerchief,or we might end up flying there andback again in the blink of an eye.
Call it Fallthere's a soft kiss ofmedium-rare sunlightin the barelybroken bonesof this October dayjust warm enoughto think that summermay have stasheda day or twoin our pocketsbut each tomorrowreminds us morethat it didn'tthat this autumnknows little lifeoutside its barrelof choking appleswhere yellowjacketsbore, conquer and,still sweet,curl into a coolslow sleepof frozen dreamspaused in dawn'sblanket of frostthese short daysunder long nightscount down toa new beginningof the enda dark springof bright blushand angerthat will burn this forestnot down, but nakedand we call it Fallas if there's a misstepor slip involvedas if we make a choiceor skip the chanceto not veerfrom daylight's trailonto these our printsso well worn and re-worninto timetwo human sets enterand where it goesfrom theregets lost in thecrunch of leavesbeneath usour moon stays lowgiving trees new lifeand wind carries crieslike song, for miles
decodei pinedunequivocallyfor the quillin soft shadows:the swallow's smileand toothyflightthe curveof treebowsrotting-freshto planta buduphigh andhemlocking-mebetween a dreamand sleepand sleepand sleepyou musn't worryI have foundan ink-sourcethus:a quibblingcreek -my soul!It willblossomlike poppieson the pagebefore me,myfingertipthe pen
ten.why don't we sit underthe hangmans noose;contemplate lifefor a bit.watch the crows hustle aroundthesefrayed ropes, and listen to thewind rustle dirt'sleaves.there's a cool breeze comingthrough,almost too cold, its...bitter.so let's just walk away and seek thewarmthunder these charcoalfeathers.[its a comforting feeling to have life, anddeath in your control. ]
people don't listen (you've just too much to say)we fell asleep in hotel rooms filled with stars, the leaky faucet in the kitchenette dripping galaxiesinto oblivion. they might have faded by the morning, butthey were beautiful while theylasted, drifting inand out of f o c u s with the ebbingof a neon-light tide -it reminded me that beautyfades with ageno matter how brightyou may shine . (black holes are so cliche, but they're some kind of nothing made from something and that's beautiful enough for me)
Huh?Cracked booksand open handspoint the wayto martyrdomwaiting to happen,but somethings are worse than death.Yes. Somethings are worse than death.