Damaged Goods.

You say you’d never want to be
part of the darkness that envelopes me
You announce in your full capacity
How you’d hate to make me a memory

You mark up my skin with your teeth
You freeze time to sit with me silently
You say you’d never want to see
A future now, if it’s without our thing

And the closeness leaves a sting
My face burns and my ears scream
that future flashes in dashes and smoke rings
another party self-crashes to ashes, smoldering

Ordained.

When you take
the number
and divide it by
women and men;
each number’s
representative
shackled to the next
there is no turning back again;
Each of the numbers
write from behind a face
and a name only known
by the remaining of the eight;
stationed, they form a natural loop
around a cauldron, boiling hot
they each impart upon the brew
the best of what they brought;
with words heavy as a ton of sand
and fire embers burning old as time
they concoct a wondrous trail of smoke
that creates a beacon above their firelight;
With every flavorful addition tossed in
the fire blazes and pot steams and steeps
the froth that simply forms along the surface
is potent enough to put a crackhead to sleep;
The reason being for this magick
is the formation of a dangerous clan
a legion of literary sword mimes
was how the strange brew began;
This group is threaded by invisible strings
a need to release all of the past happenings
and create from them something…
to counter, with some kind of solid meaning;
each dark, smoky tendril that vaporizes
from the brewing force into the Universe
another gladiator slain by an Arena Beast
another burial of a memory’s curse;
they evade beneath the canopy’s shade
a sword dug in the soil by each’s side
for they have forged the smallest army
hell-bent on turning the compliant tides.

Continental Story Books.

She wrote for me,
a book of recipes,
filled page upon page –
with the ingredients I’d need,
and, day after day –
it’s a book I still read;
detailing poisons –
in her own handwriting,
pressed in between –
old weathered binding,
soft leather skin,
full of soul, and divinity;
a handbook,
to guide through,
the dark days ahead –
written in a language,
spoken to and by the dead,
and it should be clear –
why I hold so dear,
the words that I have read;
she drew a picture-book,
and dedicated it me –
filled it with her paintings,
and photos of the beach,
chained it,
with a padlock,
beneath iron lock and key…
and the only person,
on this Earth,
who can open it –
is ME.

Banners High.

I want to sleep so that I can dream…
And be there with him once again;

My fingers intertwined like vines,
Inside of his fingers, gripping strong,

Inside of the safety,
To which I know I belong…

So many signs, banners flying high,
Snapping tight;

His voice carries over the wind to my ear…
Reminding me again, I have nothing to fear;

My memories have faded some,
Inside my mind, slipping away,

From my recollections,
Of days like yesterday…
So much time, years slipping right on by,
Stacking upright;

But the memory within the entrusted heart…
That its heavy beats cannot break apart;

Keeps his fingers intertwined with mine,
Locked within a Love-Forged tomb, eternally,

Inside of an impenetrable vault,
Residing deeply within me…

So many words of mine and yours, they were not lies,
Frozen airtight.
Just listen to your heart, my Dear…

I assure you it’s my promise you will hear;
I have held your hand always, this way,

Inside of mine, unrelenting over time,
Through the tribulations,
Combined, at least ten digits, intertwined…

So many fires burned, to dry up every fallen tear,
Tonight.

Continental Story Books.

She wrote for me,
a book of recipes,
filled page upon page –
with the ingredients I’d need,
and, day after day –
it’s a book that I still read;
it’s detailed poison –
in her own handwriting,
blood-lettered in –
old weathered binding,
soft leather skin,
full of soul, and divinity;
a handbook,
to guide through,
the darkness ahead –
written in a language,
deciphered by dead,
and it’s clear –
why I hold so dear,
the words that I have read;
she drew a picture-book,
and dedicated it me –
filled it with her paintings,
and photos of the beach,
chained it,
with a padlock,
beneath iron lock and key…
and the only person,
in the world,
that the book opens for –
is ME.

Boxcars on Fire.

The stars could not capture that flash from your soulful eyes;
The Gods could not have chiseled such perfection, if they tried;
The nights could not grow longer, without you at my side;
The desire could not get any stronger, by the time our lips collide.

The moon could not hang any lower than how close you need to come;
The sun could not shine any brighter than this thing we’ve gone and done;
The days could not be any better, unless you found them in my home;
The senses could not fire any faster; the bonds are set within my bones.

The clouds could not move anymore quickly by, over our heads;
The clothes could not look any better than they do under the bed;
The hand could not fit any more perfectly around my upper leg;
The Spirit could not be fooled or replaced by another one, instead.

The darkness could not have foreseen you strike a match-light;
The winds could not blow out the glowing embers through the night;
The storms could not come wash our dreams away during the daylight;
The promises could not be broken by the trivial wrong or right.

The memories could not be sold or bought for any price;
The tears could not be wiped away with sugar-coated lies;
The smiles could not be faked by either of us, no matter how we tried;
The grip could not feel any better as it tightens on either thigh.

The authors could not write a better Epic Tale than this;
The composers could not compose music better to my ear than his;
The horns could not trumpet a sound more profound than our kiss;
The girl could not believe that the boy finally turned up like this.

The years could not pass any faster between your heart and mine;
The blood could not bleed any richer than the color of My Valentine;
The skin could not feel any smoother, like the fruit pulled from a thistle vine;

The kisses could not be any sweeter, like candy every time.

 

Let’s Go Home.

lets go home

My “Misery” Doesn’t Love Anything.

A Gauge of My Levels of Combustion at Present.

Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.

Misery Loves Company, No?

I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.

Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he never pushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…

I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:

“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”

A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,

I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;

I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;

Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if  I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…

I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.

So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.

 

Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.