Closed chaos.

Pandemonium,
sounds like silence,
honeyed tones of purple.
Whisper words of nothing
and sing me to sleep.
I'll lose you
in the music,
just to find
myself in mid air.
Dreams of drawing
faces in the mist
and dancing in the dark.

Emerald eyes

Emptiness. As ink
glides across white.
Just how much nothing
can fill a page? 
Clear as crystal,
the dust, 
in a mud pie of emotion.
Poems about poetry,
words within words.
Imagine all the clouds
we’d float on,
just to see the world.
Open arms embrace
the blade, to
bury in my chest.
How much hurt can
emerald eyes hide?

Untitled

Unpainted fingernails
breaking skin,
lines of parallel freedom
brought with blood price.

Each breath whispers
a certain failure.
Each stroke of the pen,
a blackened thought,
with no message.

Through a haze
of cigarette smoke and
empty thoughts I see,
with blank eyes;
a broken mind.

Burn it to the ground

All to nothing,
ashes for all,
dust to share.
Souls touched by the mist
of the fireman's hose
"Save me!"
my voice screaming,
while I light
another match and whisper
"Burn it to the ground."

Old friend

Your hips jutted
more than mine did,
as you traced lines
from my bellybutton to my belt.

Spontaneous combustion of my core
when we used to sit
on you bed in silence,
with nothing to say,
words weren't needed.

You were my addiction:
a drug of flesh and blood,
lust and passion,
enveloped in cigarette smoke

I'll never forget you
gave me that gift...
A dangerous boy
that made me feel safe.

I saw you across the car park today
Old friend...
would you even know
my face in a crowd?

Movement in the air

A feathered symphony of floating.
Wish upon a breaking mind,
I'll lend you a piece,
and dare me to prove sanity.
Let them caress your soul
with wings of softest night;
the harshest notes of their ‘caw’
strike a melody in mine.
Winging their cursive on
an ever darkening sky, of feathered breasts
and unfettered floating

Wall flower

Often I find myself
standing somewhere at the back of a room
and watching you.
Just the way you move.

So I lay myself bare to you,
a blank canvas,
a landscape of emotion
just waiting to be painted

Because you just have this way,
of making me feel so small
and building me up.
But you just don’t see me
as you pass on by.

So I'll stand here and wait
and hope you don’t see my tears.

Soul mates

I could lose myself
in your gaze.
That bright blue stare
right down to my soul.
A twin in yours.
Our masks match,
a soft skin of clay
fixed with crooked smiles
and sparkling eyes.

 

And you watch her

Through hooded eyes,
while smoke trickles through her lips.
She looks like heaven
but nothing like an angel.
Your lady in red,
with lily skin and raven hair.
All a little surreal,
if you could just reach out
and touch her
you're sure she wouldn't be there.
Chemistry never was this fun
as each glance feels electric

Paint by numbers

Black, teal and purple
a splash of green
add a touch of white
and the spectrum is complete

Gliding, liquid silk
over hips and thighs.
Straps falling from shoulders
and bare collarbones, teasing.
Alluding to broken promises,
never intended to be kept

Before my eyes,
a rainforest scene in the dark,
of climbing vines
unmown grass and budding flowers.
A vibrant euphoria in polyester

In my dreams

I’d run and scream and not say a thing.
I’d spend days in silence,
not uttering a word
and never once hear my own name.

I’d bleed just for the hell of it,
just to see the bright red hit the ground,
and never once wipe it away.

I’d live naked in a cave behind the waterfall
with just my ghosts for company.
And at night I’d spend hours
entranced by the feel of my pelvis under my fingertips.

My body would be free and naught but my own,
as daily I would bathe in the pool that was my doorstep.

And under a full moon I would lie,
with one had in the water and watch my reflection,
muddied by a purpose long forgotten.

Content to be
perfectly out of control.

Five Minute Free Write.

Some people would call me crazy

But I find labels make me itch.

Often they don’t fit anyway,

like a small knit jumper, clinging in all the wrong places.

 

A friend said spoke of dreams today,

of holding on when nothing else is left.

Mine are content to slip away

flashing at me teasingly, like collarbones in winter,

displayed only when a scarf slips.

Strong Motion

In the background a voice croons softly along with an acoustic guitar, singing about memories, photographs and regrets. This afternoon the caravan seems suspiciously small and for once the yellow was just don't seem right. I just won’t think and immerse my self in the black and white melody that spills across the pages of my book.

An advancing warm front had begun to curdle the clear blue of the sky.In the North End, a slender neon boot named ITALIA kicked a monstrous neon boulder named SICILIA. It was impossible to escape the words MEAT MARKET. The Italians that lived here- old women who stalled on the sidewalks like irrationally pausing insects, their print dresses gaping at the neck; young car owners with hairstyles resembling sable pelts -seemed harried by a wind the tourists and moneyed intruders couldn’t feel, a sociological wind laden with the dank dust of renovation, as cold as society’s interest in heavy red sauces with oregano and Frank Sinatra, as keen as Boston’s hunger for real estate in convenient white neighbourhoods.

My friend with the soothing voice is still singing. The tune has changed but the song is still the same. The theme seems to be regret, before it was past; now its love, but all the time regret. Its what makes us what we are. That little six letter word and its consequences. Its a little like bacon really. Optional, but it adds a whole new dimension to the flavours of our existential cheeseburgers. I guess its what makes us human. After all isn’t everything defined by how its broken?

MEAT MARKET. MEAT MARKET. Midwestern tourists surged up the hill. A pair of Japanese youths sprinted past Louis, their fingers in Michelin guides, as he approached the Old North Church whose actual setting immediately and quietly obliterated the more wooded picture in his mind that had formed before he saw it. He skirted and ancient cemetery, thinking of Houston, where summer had already arrived, where downtown smelled of cypress swamps and the live oaks shed green leaves, remembering a conversation from a humid night there- You’ll be lucky next time. I swear you will.

We had an oak tree at school when I was kid. They pulled it down after a storm, when it nearly fell on the library.

**excerpts from Jonathan Franzen’s Strong Motion

Touch my soul.

Midnight. A migraine of senses and if I just lie still enough I can begin to separate them.

The crashing hum of the pedestal fan as it seeps, like water, through the pillow I have so desperately wrapped around my head, drowning me in a single sensation. Round and round it goes, happily buzzing as it constantly completes its purpose. A single journey of endless rotation.

And if I lie really still I can feel the very atmosphere of the room moving. The air is cool as it whispers across my skin. While it touches my arms, it moves against something deeper, touching me in places I never want a lover to reach. A hard part amongst the softness, questioning. Asking me how I got like this and why something so cold and numb can feel so much. Reminding me that the scars on my skin are so much deeper.

Strange how a breeze can make you feel so exposed.

Creating Destruction

I discovered something today, an escape if you will.

I was fired the other day. She asked me what I wanted to do with my life. I told her photography, I never mention my writing. Its my secret, whisperings of and empty face from behind anonymous keystrokes. She smiled then, like she knew me. It was the second time we met. “You’re creative then”. I treated her to another blank smile and responded with a small: “I guess so”.

I drove home in a daze, not a good way to be in the rain. The tracks of rubber on the old back road were a testament to that fact, pulling off the road I glanced down at my hands out of curiosity and took stock. Steady, nothing was different, not heartbeat, hands, nothing. Not even a hint of adrenaline. For the amount of rubber my tires had just left on the road I was emotionless. Continuing home I remained in the same state, empty.

All my life I’ve been destructive, destroying and scarring everything that I brush past, and now there was a new word. One that more people were starting to refer to me as ‘creative’. Tracing the scars on my hand, I pondered this for a while and began to create. Pen touched paper and blue ink began to outline my creation. And this I created: A character, a beautiful woman. For a while I immersed myself in her and reality faded. Her soft skin was mine, her eyes became my window to her world and I became her. My escape became her existential journey and, as one, we continued to create.

A man and woman’s voice became the soundtrack for my madness as something else faded into my creation. A buzz. A tinny vibration began once again inside my head reminding me that I wasn’t filling this created woman, but instead empty myself.  But within that emptiness was an irritation, not painful it was simply that an irritation. Maybe I was overstimulated, under-motivated, something.

Still nothing.

Take No Prisoners

It’s one of those days when there is music in the silence, when every sound is a dissonant chord somehow fitting into the tune. Cars rush by and I am out of sync with the world. I felt good about myself this morning, my hair was brushed and my boots clicked on the pavement. An appointment in an office, what a way to start my day.

He looked like a crazy, shaggy grey hair and a shirt not fully buttoned, but for some reason we clicked. Maybe it was the strength in his grip, or the way he never once said my name. “An Aquarian!” he said as he read my file, “My stepdaughter’s an Aquarian, she takes no prisoners.” Somehow, this made sense. We talked nothings for a while and he filled out his forms, every now and then looking up and appraising me deeply. There was nothing uncomfortable about the way his grey eyes took me in, right down to my soul, every millimetre. I had known him 45 minutes and was completely at ease. As I left the office, he gripped my hand once more.

“Don’t forget to enjoy your life” he said.

I felt good this morning...

...Until I thought of you.

Over the edge

I stand on the edge, between somewhere and nowhere in my mind, gazing of into the dark. Silently the falling tears surround me, flowing freely, a sparkle of diamonds in the moonlight. It was one of those times, where pain hit like a car crash and left no visible marks. When I just wanted to retreat, stay hidden inside myself. Out of everyone’s reach and away from the chaos of reality. Maybe in there I can be untouchable. When all i needed was the nothing that was just over that edge. Yet you held me, and tightly you held. There were no sweet nothings to be whispered here. Just a simple “Don’t be stupid!” as your embrace never wavered. We both knew what would happen is it did. Strength was available only as buckets of weakness and i couldn’t continue to hold my feet. If you ever dared to release me…

I just might fall.

Mask

Lying here, a voice begins to tell me.
You’re not good enough.
Never have been strong enough.
I won’t let you fix me I'll tell you I'm not broken.

Can you tell now I'm not breathing, alive but not living.
All smiles but not believing.
Soon I realise I cannot wake from these nightmares.
All along I was alone.
Suddenly you'll see through this

My mask has slipped at last, my tortured soul revealed. The makeup removed revealing the scars. And all my cover-ups disappear.....

Inside my mind a voice continues its  painful monologue:
you’re not good enough.
Never have been strong enough.
Hello I’m your world come back into me and continue your lie.
Pretend you don’t need fixing, your not broken.
Scorn the hand that only wants to save you.
It’s transparent anyway.
You couldn’t survive this reality
So why not create your own, hide in it where they can’t see you

So I’ll redo my makeup and find that smile to hide behind
its amazing how under that, all scars are invisible.
And I’m safe once more behind the mask.
I’ll freeze inside myself

And convince myself this pains dreaming and that I won’t wake alone.
This world and mine are blurring. Which is the one that’s real?
Now I cannot survive in either. While in both I live a lie.
Bathed in regret but still not clean.
Pouring out my sanity
I realise my mask cannot hide me from dying alone

Good Times Gone

My hate burns brightly this afternoon. I sit here alone on my bed and think of you. I still miss you. Even after all you did. All you put me through. I can’t even wish you dead anymore. All I can feel is a dull sadness. A single what if. Maybe we could have been lovers. Maybe friends.Or maybe we just weren’t meant to be. Part of me wants to thank you. Through all of your torture,I’ve emerged the other end stronger. And you don’t matter anymore. It’s just a pity I can’t think of you and remember the good times.

The little girl

I've found the missing piece at last. And brought myself to finally let the mask go. After taping back together my heart,any hope at cover-up now is useless. You’ve seen the true me anyway.

I know its not always pretty. A soul covered in scars. Maybe the facade served a reason. Protecting the little girl that survives, hidden behind the cynic. Behind the bitter twisted views on life, that for me is the norm, is the one that dares to hope. Maybe if i just stay strong, i can keep her alive for you and me to share.

So I’ll make a wish on a shooting star, I'll dare to dream and start all over. Try again,and this time i know you'll be, patiently waiting, always by my side. To catch me when i trip and fall. You wont let me self destruct and you help me heal a little, when i want to.

So now I’ll thank you for when you took apart my disguise. Piece by piece, till you uncovered what i had forgotten:
that little girl inside...
Me.

Ghosts

A shattered heart and broken smile I own, worlds of confusion and haunted eyes. Empty words with hollow meaning and floods of regret drowning everything.

While your hate cuts deeper than knife and regret twists the blade, I don't know how this got so hopeless. Or why I continually try to live a lie. Through trying to keep above the tides of sorrow, I am putting myself through hell.  

My struggle to sleep proves this no nightmare, while I fight to remain alive. Knowing it won’t be easy to put back all these pieces. And so I sit alone and wonder awhile. Questioning how long will I remain, still waiting for you to stop hating me

Broken hearted from my collapsed dreams as I realise how useless it all is. You’ve given me an introduction to pain. A lesson in hatred and all I have to show is scars.

I don't know where to go from here, or where to turn to now. But I'll send you this message if you’re not deafened by your scorn:

“Although leaving this is painful I'll learn to survive alone”

These ghosts, though, shall remain with me, showing in my eyes and always will there be a sadness weighing down my heart.
The four loneliest words..... ‘It might have been’

Suicide Note

Bent me to your will til I was crying tears of blood, made me out of scars and force me to my place until you'll see nothing in my eyes. Blank, cold and dead inside, I’ll bring you down with me. Until you fight to know you’re alive.

There’s crazed fire in my eyes and ice in my heart. The heat of passion shall be my shield. Hiding the hole inside.

Finding myself alone, becoming more desolate. To the transparent crowds; do I cry out in vain? Now I know I can never be the same and so, losing my mind I take a leap from the edge. Holding tight to the empty hope that you'll be there to break my fall

Grounded in an instant, it’s over as no longer I hope to find you here. I gave my all but t’was not enough, when all I wanted was a chance to melt the ice inside. So now the fire fades, drowned by the blood on the pavement.

Burnt out, is the fire in my eyes, still with ice in my heart. My skin is cold to any touch, no longer heated by passion; to hide the hole inside.

I leave a part of me with you, on the day I die.

A tangled web

Now I have given away my innocence, to become bitter and twisted; not even you see through this facade. These false smiles, this amused laughter. If only they knew what I really laugh at.

If even you could see this would you want to know me? Still ask of me that which you know I cannot give. Do you really even know me? You thought you did, and I let you believe falsity. 'cause I was done with your promises. Lying had come back in style and I'd decided for once to be fashionable - figured I wouldn't lose to you this time. And now I'm never letting you see the truth.

Can you deal with that fact that, this time darling it’s you. Losing because of your ignorance. An ignorance you share with most. You’ll accept me as you think I am, but would you if you really knew?

Is it worth it at all?

What is actually out there?

Anything worth having or seeking?

Or after that now I've discovered there is nothing left for me to give. Is there anything left for me to be given?

You say you love me. And believe it too, but answer me this: does this love of which you speak exist or are we all duped into believing in something that is lust skilfully disguised? To this we've both become victim, losing to this fiction we call love and kindness, tangled and crossed with the facts of lust, broken promises and falsity. A tangled web we all weave.

My Ocean

The ocean. My ocean. Some days calm, others tempestuous, it contains a hidden piece, a strength and power, invisible. Those qualities must be felt. Absorbed through the very pores of ones skin. It’s song heard in the very crash of the waves. It’s very essence tasted in the salty air.
This is my peace, my passion, my power. It is the very waves that crash against the rocks only metres from my feet. It is the wind that ruffles my hair and caresses my body. The rain that licks my skin and mingles with my tears. I am part of this. I am the very rock on which i sit. The air that i breathe. I am not complete or incomplete. Neither piece nor whole. Like the ocean, I simply am.

Old Bones.

The waves crash loudly as they hit the rocks. The night air is cool, refreshing with a slight taste of salt. Above the beach a young woman stands, almost perfectly still, gazing down at the constantly moving water. Every now and then a mist of salt water caresses her skin delicately, tiny droplets catching in her hair and eyelashes.

That woman is me.

The sound of the ocean is soothing, leaving me feeling almost at peace. Whole, something I have not been for quite some time. While I remain here I can forget, allow myself to imagine. Escape to a place where my bones no longer ache like that of an old woman. My face remembers how to smile and my heart sings for no reason. I am complete, perfect in my imperfections.

Alas this place is temporary as I trudge back to the car. The peace, quickly fading, flees at the close of the car door and all that is left is emptiness. An ache that begins nowhere in particular and quickly spreads. Once again I become an old woman. My bones ache, my smile fades and my soul weeps. Emptiness permeates my entire being and once again I am in pieces, disjointed. Together, but falling apart.