Pins and Needles.

My fingertips are pins and needles,
That tuck the hospital corners of your world,
and smooth the blankets of your mind,
It’s chaos, come to adjust the pillows ’round your heart,
Anxiety, come to massage your broken hands,
See my sparkling, salt encrusted crown of worry,
Ever thickening with hardness,
Never weakening with softness,
My fingertips are ten tiny doorways,
That seek you out, thus desperately
It’s a welcome party sporting shotguns,
It’s death, come to holler in the deafened ears,
Life, come to go away again,
See my hate-infused senses trying so hard to love,
Ever faltering with drunkenness,
Ever drinking in this emptiness.

Blown-Out Knees.

It’s been:
the ugliest,
of epiphanies;
it’s been:
hard as Hell,
to swallow,
such realities;
it’s been:
likened to both,
blown-out knees;
it’s been:
anything but,
thoughts of,
a recovery;
I am:
overwhelmed,
by the notions,
I’ve denied,
admittedly;
I am:
undertaken,
by the actions,
others aim,
at me;
I am:
what I am,
just a woman,
no hidden,
secrecy;
I am:
out of the race,
came in last place;
I am done:
now,
out they come,
to bury,
such burden as me.

Most Hated of Them All.

I hate her.
I hate the way her face displays,
all the things she hides from me;
I hate every breath that she takes.
I curse her smiles;
I make it rain all over her parades,
I saturate her blankets,
and every clothesline that she hangs.
I feel sick;
every time her victory banner is waved,
those with hearts as dark as hers,
do not deserve such good days.
I cast catching nets;
to halt the successes she’s made,
all the good she’s accomplished;
from within a questionable Human state.
I hunt her;
track marks in the mud from her chains,
her pace has picked up now,
but her attempts to escape are in vain.
I watch her;
watch each line appear in her face,
along the tip-toes of the crow’s feet,
so I step away from the mirror again.

Resting Place.

We slept without breaths –
underneath six feet of topsoil,
bathed in the heavy suffocation,
of loosely strung illumination –
another silent burial site’s
flimsy paper lantern lights,
among the beloved already beneath,
primordial soup of bones and teeth –
a headstone lain down too heavily,
granite secrets kept steadily,
a lifetimes of anchors: dropped deep –
chained to my chains for all eternity,
a fate bound to a rabid Mammoth,
chained to both well-traveled,
and yellow, daisy-kicking feet,
we dreamed without darkness –
under the same stars,
that together, we once betrayed,
in a match’s quickly stricken,
enticing phosphoric display,
we struck fire to the paths –
from which we just had strayed,
never looked back, admittedly,
we ran until it all faded away,
into one, never-ending and exhausting –
ill-fated, suffocated final resting place.

Identify.

I told you
didn’t I?
you know
I had to try…
to hold onto
my own
hell-bent
detriment…
so indeed
and, earnestly
I let the
arrows fly…
loosed carelessly
to describe
my over-tired
and broken mind
there it was…
no doubt
all laid out
to scale
and personalized
to the very
best ability
of me –
personified…
yet, it’s trifling,
a novel compound
like your loyalty
unwieldy…
weighing down
wrought-iron-bound
an anchor  
drowning me…
I tried
early on,
to say why
spelled out
in bold lettering…
to emphasize
with clarity
such shortcomings
like to mine…

 

Loosed Arrows.

A remastering,
of such forgotten arts,
as those of loosed arrows,
leaving holes in my heart.

The rekindling,
of old smoldered flames,
as those of loosed arrows,
shooting darts at my name.

The reawakening,
of long-sleeping eyes,
as those of loosed arrows,
blowing through all the lies.

A reacquainting,
with the shadows left behind,
as those of loosed arrows,
become lodged in my mind.

A reintroduction,
to all I escaped from hopefully,
as those of loosed arrows,
are shot through both knees.

Walk, Talk and Breathe.

Friends that refuse to respect of me,
the smallest of ways that I ask to be,
excused from their own stupidity,
yet – they choose to abuse,
and they find these things funny…
A family turned to the judge and jury,
no hand extended in my times of need,
the after-burn of that first, initial sting,
the day I noticed they were on an opposing team…
Others play the friendly role all too regularly,
to the point it’s obvious there’s no true identity,
behind any of the faces in the places close to me,
just life-sized puppets that walk, talk and breathe…