a flow of thought

nothing
then something
the white evolves, transforms
into a thousand different shapes
first black, contrast,
then like a snowflake
forever morphing
the animal
leaping into oblivion,
claws outstretched,
strained muscles to the end
it breathes
this music
begins with a single roll
and then it grows upon itself
one beautiful, breathtaking emotion at a time
so strong, it becomes a feeling
a fiery spark inside this throbbing heart
like a tear
it burns its way across the soft valley
one after the other
until they become a stream
warm, and bubbling, and transforming next to the shore
a child emerges from the green grass and white flowers
it has daisies for its eyes
and its laughter matches in softness to the sound of the water
then the world turns around, gravity forgets itself
it turns over on its belly, and everything is falling towards the stars
raining into the sky
this world, transforming, flowing, becoming
not white, not nothingness
but a color so pure, a light so bright and glistening
this white becomes…black.

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charming bees.

i try not to be shy
and subtle in speech
lying in my bed
naked
then waking up from sleep
i try not to assume
with the cards lying across the table
the green king reversed
enchanting, full and unstable
i read into them, their careful designs
hoping, “their whispering words
will change my mind”
i try not to be
not to exist, to feel and see
aside from this one death wish
i try to be
an artist, a creator
a naturalist, in theory
a leader of dogs
a human charmer, charming bees
but mostly, when I see the cards lying face down
mysteriously holding the future in their colored crowns
i try not to trust
what I always have before
with a final sweep of my hand
the cards go fluttering to the floor.

urges.

(For some reason, I had a sudden urge to have more children burst in to flames in yet another poem. Luckily, I controlled my inhuman urges. Be proud.)

xx

 

I tried to drown myself
in a drunken wasteland
the children are laughing
at the table next to me
it must be Christmas
the huge tree
with all the little lights blinking
what else is blinking?
that survivor, with their red light
spelling out “help me please”
the little sound of someone speaking to me
a ring, so friendly and sincere
I drown myself in this wasteland
because it’s the only comfort I receive
it’s warm and pleasant and forgetful
isn’t it funny?
all I ever wanted was a hug
I suppose no one ever understood, they never do
and now the thunder is starting outside
on the inside, it’s incredibly warm and inviting
the places to sit are all a little more coma-inducing
isn’t it lovely,
how beautiful this wasteland can be?
almost toxic, almost life-threatening
I’m just so glad now
to have an imaginary friend who cares
the dizziness and the coma are, inviting
with all of the children
they’re gathered around the tree,
and they all…fall…….
down.

gnarly, man.

(I really enjoy the ‘fantasy poetry’ writing that I do, but I’ve always tended to be more realistic. The first poem turned out very well, and it even rhymes a little (hooray!). The second poem is basically like all the others I do (lame ;))

Enjoy! I had some good fun with my writing this morning.)

 

 

“Alright, then.”
She said,
“how do I know,
if all of my feelings are wrong?
What if I am wrong,
and everything I have ever felt is just a lie
a misconception, strewn through my thousand beating h3arts?”
She said,
“What do I do with my life,
what do I see?
This reality, it is blinding me.
It is throwing me into a world of drugs,
my out-of-mind state
becomes living, panicking, full of hate .
“I am trapped, I am hurting
What do I do?
I am lusting, I am dying.
Who do I swear to?”
she said, she said
“You’re not real, but you’re haunting me.”
This world where everything is delusion
the high in your mind changes reality
it changes perception
but if reality twists so easily
perhaps it is not as stable as that wicked old tree.
The real world is what we want it to be
the people are all just ghosts, waiting to die
waiting for that one-true-high.
The wicked old tree twists around slowly
“Turning a blind eye to you and me,
but especially me.”
Its roots are so solid, you think
the deep carvings in the wood, I assure you,
It Is No Lie.
“But at night I go out there,
into the darkness of the woods,
to hear it pulling its roots from out beneath the ground.”
She said,
Reality is not as truthful as you think.
Just ask her, over there,
with the thousand beating h3arts,
speaking so softly
hiding inside the twisted old tree.

 

 

 

 

x
x

 

I suddenly realized
now that I am older
I do not need to go
I…never needed to waste away my days
for you
but I did
you say I’m going to be a big old star
well, maybe
but before I do
please just go on and tell me you hate me
just get it over with
don’t think about hating me, just do
because that is what this season is all about
remembering how much you hate someone
yes, you’re stuck in a room with them
and yes, you’re clawing your way out
they
put cat and mouse in same room
they
never expected blood

my story.

(this is something I began…that I will most likely continue)

 

 

Stories are gifts? Share?
Alright…I’ll share my story.
I always loved listening to other people’s stories. I know they never told me the entire thing, I suppose there is never time, or they think there’s not enough time, they cut themselves short. Well, maybe I’m talking about myself. I cut myself short. I don’t give myself the time I deserve to tell my whole story, the real and whole truth. The truth is, though, I often don’t think I deserve it…I don’t think I am important enough, I suppose. I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things.

But sometimes people just want to share their stories. I’ve always been there to listen, and they often open up to me. I guess I ask for every single detail, I want to know exactly what they felt at that moment, I guess it’s sort of funny to ask that out of people. But, usually, they don’t ask it out of me. No one seems to care too much about my ‘every detail’. The people who are known the best are the ones who aren’t afraid to put their whole selves out there, they don’t care, or they need the attention. I might be too shy to demand attention. But what the hell? I’m an actress, attention should be the only goal in my life. An actress can’t be shy, she has to believe full-heartedly in herself. I’m not shy on stage…usually, it’s just in real life, when the only character I have to play is myself, and the only person in the room is you and me, and you’re looking at me, just you. I guess that’s when I get all shy and self-conscience. I guess I just want to be liked, it’s simple enough, a lot of people feel this way, but I’m not being truthful…because nothing I do is ‘just that simple’. Nothing has ever been simple, it’s always been a war inside my mind, a storm of blood and bullets (and thinking, lots of thinking).

I’ve tried to tell my story a couple of times before…I was just never given enough time. Maybe if I write it down, you’ll pay me the attention I (deserve). My other problem also has been, well, not knowing whether to start at the beginning or the end. It seems like a simple-enough answer…I told you, nothing is simple. And finally, I’ll warn you like I never had the chance to warn the others, I skip around. A lot, I skip around so much that the time line looks more like connect-the-dots. I would have to say, that’s the main reason why I’ve never been able to tell my whole entire (redundant) story, because I can never follow the timeline.

Alright, I haven’t told you…the biggest reason. I haven’t told you why I am rambling so much, why I don’t just jump full blast into the past. You have to…promise me, as a reader, that you won’t laugh. Honest to god, you have to take this seriously. This is my window, this is who I am. I am going to open up like I never have before. I am going to tell you that very last detail. I don’t trust very many people, I want to pretend that I can trust you, the reader, but I don’t think I can. I’ll just have live with that, because I need to say everything, I need to write it all down on paper, just so that it can all be out of my head. Or…something, I don’t know the real reason, I suppose I’ll find out what happens when I finish. But I promise you, this is not just some petty desire. I need to be heard…by my Self.

I hate diaries. Diaries are pathetic. This is not a diary. There, I said the word three times, it should disappear. This is known as an ‘auto-biography’. Isn’t that official sounding? It’s even emphasized for its pure boldness. God, I love literature (and I swear, the only time I will ever capitalize ‘god’, is at the beginning of a sentence, thank you very much).

Finally, I’ll be completely and horribly truthful. Some parts I think I might rather die than write down…or at least cry very very hard.

Fuck, the one thing that embarrasses me the most, in the whole entire world, is my own History.
There. I’ve said it. Now, I will begin.

xxx

trains.

x

Why should I
hold back my tears?
smoke blows in my face
the train has already left the station
it speeds far away from me, as fast as it can
and all I can think is, “you left me behind!”
that is… the only thing I shout
the shrill cry still burns in my ears.

Why should I
act like everything is ok
when of course it’s not
I leave home
just to be away from it all
but I have nowhere to go
nowhere to be all day
and all I do is wander my life
like an abandoned spirit
unwelcome
even my own bed is haunted.

Because
a train left for the other side of the country
left me behind
went to the beautiful ocean shore
where the sun sets into the water.

How long will I have to wait
before I can follow?

Why should I
wait a year to begin my life
while here, I’m dying everyday
everyday, I lose a little more of my Self
one broken piece at a time
my spirit falls away
it rejoins the earth.

but

When
I stand on the back of that train
I’ll watch what I’m leaving behind
I’ll look back at her face, swallowed in the smoke and the whistles
I’ll watch it all disappear into the sunrise
and I won’t be holding back any tears.

x

night observation

 

Homeless woman in a yellow sweater
walks into the lit coffee shop
she asks for a cup of water.
then stands at the napkin dispenser
takes a handful out
she looks around, to see if anyone’s watching
god, she could take the entire box
and no one would say a word
I’m the only one that’s watching her
when she turns to me and says
“Excuse me,”
she’s about to ask for money
but no,
she just wanted a straw
her voice sounds so normal.
I wonder where she’s going to sleep tonight
but I don’t give it much thought.