Mescalene.

Try I do, to do the right thing,
Suck it up and bite the bean,
Keep it honest, keep it clean,
Oil the gears in this here machine;
Profound lessons learned on mescalene,
While at school all they see are mass shootings,
A universe stealthily winding up to spring,
As we build bombs and don’t suspect a thing;
Life must take pleasure in shaping misery,
While mutated versions of my fellow human being,
Clueless and empty like a fuzzy TV screen,
Get go on thinking they got anything on me.

Barbarian.

I can’t wash the blood from my hands,

The basin is stained with red that expands,

The mirror reflects a perfect barbarian,

As I desperately scrub off layers of skin.

The stars in the sky oddly cease to shine,

I gather up all of the lies that are mine,

Sewn into my mouth one last time,

To be spewed at someone down the line.

My feet refuse to step anew,

And the streetlights cast a yellow hue,

My mind is burning a hole right through,

To ease the pressure I’ve turned into.

A Butterfly’s Wings.

I spent all of this miserable time,
With an eye ever watching what’s mine,
Oh, how these strong emotional walls,
Break to bits when they finally fall,
Watch as my own wrecking ball,
Bitterly destroys it all in due time.

Wildly employing harsh strategies,
Idly killjoying my fantasies,
See how the peace is so far gone?
The why and how, the right and wrong,
Unsevered ties to my tragedies,

No bottom to the darkened depths,
no solidity beneath my many missteps,
Hear how my world is death rattling?
See my walls of glass as they’re shattering,
Around the feet that the mirror reflects?

Like a fluttering paper in a wayward breeze,
Screaming answers to queries whispered silenty,
A blessing disguised as an atomic bomb,
To explode and expose what our oaths have become,
The violent detachment of a butterfly’s wings.

Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

your eyes used to follow my eyes,

As they darted about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

Down the trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I don’t want you to see as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you’ve come to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

to pick up, dust off, and carry on,

Past all the times that your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

you must finally stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Introspectivity.

It always starts out with,
that involuntary twitch,
eyes popping,
nervous rocking,
hard to catch my breath;

This much accursed gift,
heart haywire, mind adrift,
engine sputter,
pulse aflutter,
can’t run away from it;

A sand that’s too fine to sift,
these hands: too broken to lift,
no motivation,
slow salvation,
beyond a dark, longstanding rift;

Steaming piles of shit,
line my pathway to its pit,
a one way road,
on the map I hold,
of a soul that’s counterfeit.

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.

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.