Death doesn't like his job,
anymore than some of us like ours,
and when he calls forth the gentle flowers,
to answer for their lives,
he hides his tears.
WoundsWords used to drip from my tongue like,
blood from the seeping wounds,
staunched only by time and never by the gauze,
people tried to cover me with.
Now, the wound has healed over,
and I sit in silence.
KudzuLife is sticky,
blood, semen, sweat, all of it,
clings to skin like vines twisting to encircle,
the necks of those who have it upon them,
and whispers gently into their ear whatever horror they've wrought,
injury, childbirth, surviving,
sticky messes clinging to broken hearts,
like iris vines signaling winter's breath is over,
until the flowers die and the vines are left where they were,
the stickiness still there and still clinging.
Like kudzu it reminds people that somethings should be left where they were
left to rot in the foul gutters where life has left them,
but the will to leave something is hard,
when it clings to you like a babe just born,
and cries so pitifully for food,
for nourishment, sugar, life....
Life clings to us like vines from another life,
and reminds people that it's hard to escape something,
Life's messI read a book the other day,
to remind myself that I could still get lost in the world of fantasy,
with my mind at ease and my body relaxed,
as I recognized that life wasn't easy and sometimes,
I could relax enough the harshness around me might soften.
Do I Dare?How....
Am I even allowed to ask?
Because it feels as if I'm not supposed to.
How do I live with this depression,
when it's caused by the very people,
who call me friend?
The QuietI'm not a loud person.
I laugh and cry and smile,
and I am happy and I am sad.
But I'm not loud.
I hold my emotions close and I deal them out like cards,
only when someone asks and never....
never when I think they aren't ready.
Though I'm a terrible judge.
I'm not loud, not really,
I curl up in a corner every afternoon to do my homework,
and it's loud sometimes,
and I can't stand it.
I love silence.
The stillness that isn't broken
by the roaring noises of sisters,
I've never been loud.
But I learned to be,
I used to be the quietest of my siblings,
so quiet and so observant,
I was so observant that I observed
that people didn't notice me.
They didn't see me or pay attention,
I was a wall flower and I didn't want to be.
I was sick of being pushed aside and
treated like I didn't exist so I became loud.
I learned to be loud.
I learned to be loud,
in life and in love and in saying,
I learned that people don't listen very well,
and they don't have good hearing,
Brace for ImpactIt is not the fall that hurts,
or the dive.
It is when you hit the bottom,
the bottom of the ocean or the dry
hard, brick of land.
Everyone knows this,
in their hearts and minds,
but who prepares us?
Who tells us?
Instead they say,
rather than telling us just...
how to put our bones back.
How to stitch our skin over
the holes that have been created from
splattering against a hard surface,
or how to empty our lungs of the water,
that has filled them this entire time.
There are two kinds of falling as well,
through water and through air,
one slow and sinking and you cannot escape,
no matter how hard you want to.
The other is quick, like a dive,
and at maximum velocity,
it all depends on how high up you were when you fell,
on how hard the landing hurts.
As the fall happens,
some don't realize it.
They only know not to fall and haven't been prepared,
to fall or to dive or to live with what has happened.
They weren't told how to brace for impact,
or how to think.
Things ChangeThings evolve,
they change and look different,
even though they are essentially the same,
and each time they look a little different,
fewer people notice.
It's like we're used to change,
the ever twisting fate that is our bodies,
and as time goes on we see only little things.
If you look ten or fifteen years,
down the road and past the time,
it turns out that you see all the differences.
Like the difference between your baby picture,
and the picture you take at the end of high-school,
when you're not quite an adult but you're not quite anything more...
and college rears its ugly head and things turn different than before.
It's weird looking back even just six months,
because six months is all it took,
to take away my happiness,
and now I'm just a gaunt version of myself,
fatter in some ways but dead in others.
tea.hot steam pours itself
into the cup
dense with the seasons
inhaled by the morning
as the city wakes
itself to a brightness
of milk and honey.
I smile and bring the
sun's fragrant warmth
to my lips.
our fathers' sinsand this is where we end.
all cities built of dust this is
death travelling in the wind crossing
the borders we forgot
he's like cartography.
sometimes you feel them swaying
(there are cries at night there are
things we don't believe in now)
and your teeth sing of misery
roots settled into poisoned land while
you breathe holy
i am only grasping at air.
my head is what you don't know.
if there was time i would tell you of it.
i would invent stories (we have
forgotten) and write in scars
on your skin because these
words they burn on my fingertips.
at night we move only
in the rhythm of carriages
and i can whisper louder than
they ever cry do they
ever cry? maybe they won't
if we stop burying the past
(it is still breathing it is ugly
it will come back to haunt us all)
and i can whisper louder than they cry.
once upon a world a time was young
still carried by the wind held warm
by death's embrace and
there were girls locked in towers.
locked in towers and now i know
It won't lastOne day, it will end
I know we're not a trend
But you and I, we're so different
I find you the best there is
But what do you find in me..?
I know you always tell me I'm 'the one'
Somehow I don't quite grasp that
Am I really the one you've always longed for?
With all my imperfections
With all my complications
With all my conflicts
I'm not a simple person, you know
I'm not as amazing as you are
I don't have answers
I don't give advices
I'm not as experienced
If you ever stumble and fall I can't pick you up, like you pick me up
You're the one that I love
And I'm scared, scared you'll ever say goodbye
I'm not ready for you to leave
I'll never be ready
Even though it's unfair for you
I wish to wake up everyday beside you
Wake you up with a morning kiss
Be with you, because you're simply the best
But I'm not sure if I'm the same for you
Suicide BirthFate sets the day you’re born,
The beloved gods mourn,
Since they know it will be rough,
And hope you don’t get torn.
Forced to grow up, and be tough
Just a ghetto boy-
No father, struggling mother
Wonder where the love resides.
Doesn’t know where his household
So he sticks to the streets,
Where it all unfolds,
Looking for quick bucks,
And fast friends.
But it’s cold in these streets,
Fair weather friends
Are the only ones he could meet.
He was thirsty and low on coke,
But kept them around,
They made sure he kept sporting,
And they love to smoke.
He hated his 9 to 5,
But was tired of him and mom
Being church mice.
Stayed geeked up,
So his mom
Could go to church nice,
Now he stays with money,
It should feel good right?
This a game of dice,
Born to fail,
Or was born from hell?
Hearing those daily shots
He could never tell.
(break)fast for dinnerim sitting in the cafe where you left me
and the chatter is gnawing at my cochlea -
growing louder and louder and louder and
your yellow kisses are pooling in my mouth, too much to contain.
little people cant eat big words
because once they choke they'll die
so they try to fit the way your eyes blink and
the color of your cheeks when you sigh and the twitch of your fingers when youre brushing snow off your shoulder into sonnets - comets rushing
in the sky like reindeer - jingle jingle
in my rib cage. you are a religion and i try to be faithful but im scared -- save me.
the french toast on my plate is gone and
syrup sticks to my fingers the way your hands held onto mine. im missing you but you changed your status from jake to janet
and now im sitting in a cafe with an empty plate and black coffee and it's 6:42 but it feels like midnight --
out of ideasscrambled the words are
structured sentences unfold
to convey nothing but a
throwing his 100th blank page
to the bin
Ode to the artistColours dance
Just out of reach
Of her grasping fingers,
Her lips tipped up
And her violet eyes
Glistening with wonder.
So many years later,
When her eyes have settled
And their colour dimmed,
When the curls in new hair
Have fallen flat,
Those colours dance
Just out of her reach.
She slashes at canvas
With wide brushes
And dripping paints,
Trying to capture
Those perfect blends,
Those perfect tones,
That perfect feeling.
Her works are masterpieces,
Acclaimed by all who see,
But not a single one
By the mother who cannot cherish
And so she starts again
With new brushes
And brighter paints.
And she screams
Into her brushstrokes,
Into the glaze,
With the easel,
Because that is what
Not a blending of colours,
Not the recreation of a scene,
Not the likeness of a figure.
Pain and joy
Mixed together on the same palette.
Art is the reminiscence on a place
And the worship of a face.
Art is life
XXIVJ'ai laissé mon corps à l'entrée du jardin,
les oiseaux s'en occuperont, dit-elle
Alors aveugle et sans frissons
libre et donc muette
son éther au sien se mêle
Des fibres de désir affleurent à
la surface de leurs âmes
et conscients d'avoir perdu
leur chair d'étoile
leurs esprits, sans âge, s'emmêlent
Confiants dans l'invisible
ils s'aimaginent ailleurs
unis et dispersés ainsi la pluie
Et lui de dire, après ce moment,
de penser, arrêtons-nous