BriefLife is full of fireworks;a brief moment of artimitating the stars -They are not stars.Stars are born, they burn,they die.Fireworks are merelypromises made andnot kept.When a fleeting timeof light and beautypretendsthat the darkness is not so.
The Boy Who Wouldnt EatIf you can flutterI have failed you,for you were not forgedto be so insubstantial as thatYou were writto be an epic fableof endurance,of endings ignored,of outlasting your bodythrough the sheer willof a writers starving heartpumping geniumthrough a broken, bowedbut bravely abiding bodythat fights the soulto comprehend Beauty.
nightmares and lavender owlsdear night-bonesdo not marinade in the melanchorand allow your feeble surfacesto become slippy andelusiveunder the fingertips of sanity -don't become a semblance,a representationof reality, just be.there's no need for lavenderto perfumiae the dusk gardenthat thoughtless flowerdoes not grow here.unobtrusiveafter the broken attempts -of cracked knucklesas they claw a representationof beauty, into soil.oh, to that intrical fluidsludging throughthinly veined cribbagesof capillary and thought,illusive,illusive thought -don't slumber to a stopand leave me destitute and dehydratedof truth, of life.dear sanity,do not betray mewith your sharp and unsoft pricksof the realityintrusiveinto my ribs--don't sharpen my sensesto the point of self harm by thought,of thought,oh bones and sanityand the screeching owlsthat herald in a death-silencethat coos the word;"reclusive"do not ask of me more than i can bare -don't, please, ask meto endure the blade-in-brain
DrewThe man slipped himself onto the chair in front of me and I inhaled the guttural stench of old spice mingled with booze; it reminded me of someone I once knew and my stomach rolled over. I felt guilty for struggling with nausea at the distinct smell because he had smiled so kindly at me. His clothes were clean, his earring was an inoffensive turquoise column, and his reading glasses reflected the external noise of the city in a charming enough way.In all respects he was a perfectly nice seeming fellow (that word suited him with his roughly chopped beard and shiny blue eyes), it wasn't his fault that the stale odour of alcohol made me fold my organs up and compact them tightly in my stomach, braced for emotional impact. My heart throbbed with the sting of that smell and the many hurtful jibes that associated themselves with it.I got off the bus a stop early and walked because "you can't change someone else but you can change how you cope with your feelings about them". His name was Dr
A Rainy Night on 17thGlitter on every surface.I hate the damp way it shines& reminds me of those pretty thingsthat break your heart sometimes.It convolutes my fingerprintsas I lay them on your door,you'll never know that I was hereor what I came here for.It'll shimmer 'til it rains again,then wash down to the groundbut even if I was six feet awayyou wouldn't know I'd been around.The rain purifies this sufferingand washes me clean of crimes& reminds me of those pretty thingsthat break your heart sometimes.
What a terrible thingSometimes life is painful,not for a discernible reason.Not for a route to something betteror a perversive remedyfor a wound long forgotten.Sometimes we drown in it,in the not yet,the not quite,the not at all.Sometimes even our eyelashesare too heavy,and keeping our eyes open enoughto see the truth is asking too much,and other times?Other times the truth isthe bacteria binding in your bloodbeneath your skin- it's inside -and it knows how to feed off of you.It tugs,it wretches,it wriggles until at last -it lets its forceful pair of handsslip tenderly under your ribcageto compress -down,down on your lungsuntil they are flatand stick to themselves,and leave you gasping; oh, oh the truth. What a terrible thing!
Circus: The FunambulanceWalking the tripwirebetween not glorifying suicideand not patronising peoplewith the lie; I would never- I suck in my nausea and fightnot to close my eyes as Ibalance -----/--vulnerable and afraidin front of my tenderhucked audience.Their eyes pluck outand give an attentivestanding ovation as I exhaleand stagger forward - a shout, a cry,a fall -and for a momentI wonder if there isa safety net there for me at all,and if my devoted audiencewould prefer to see myneck//shatter on stage.
Survival of the FittestHear me read itI am crack'd. Open to the pitwith the nub and root exposed.I am silver pierced and puncturedwith holes and protruding piecesof rocked raw wounds rubbed open.I am barely shattering my lungsby inhaling the same air as youeven long after your departure.With a bile-laced smile I paveand fill in crack and crevicesI am more than disfigured limbsand disillusioned heart muscle,scraping a breath down my trachea.More than the mess you have made.I hold in my innards, and survive.
Marinating in the Pervading Loneliness2.37 am sounds likeclenching your jawuntil a crack shoots downinto the nerve endings.The crunch of bonesplitting and separatingand shearing painup into the naive skull,that hoped for something elseto penetrate the malaisecreated by fooling yourselfwith love, with money,with smilesand words.It sounds like biting your tongue -and that flab of meatchunking onto the carpetand violating your chinwith its copperstench syrup,that stains everybodythe same flavour of red -This is what 2.37 am tastes like.Like the only warmth is fromthat cyaniatic bouillabaissecreated by swallowing yourself:your blood, and teeth,and tears,and words.
The WallI punched the wall.The paper broke, a split lipped frown.That was the thin veneer of joy you painted over my cracks with.I punched the wall.The paper bloomed into a paprika tulip.That was the rusting screw in your jaw swinging off its hinge with your lies.I punched the wall.The paint broke into a smileand I chipped out its teeth. They were the over polished hopes of our future.I punched the wall.The plaster spluttered out a storm.Smooth and sleepy; I scratched at its eyes for promising to look out for me.I punched the wall.The plaster coughed hard again.My anger was a consumption and its tendrils spasmed out from the source.I punched the wall.The plaster caved into a hole,reminding me of all I'd given you and would never get back.I didn't punch the wallWhen the dust settled and its small red brick heart lay exposed, vulnerable, afraid,I couldn't.You punched the wall.
The Death of Sweet WilliamDug deep into the subcutaneous terrainbeneath the bracken and the basal,far below where even follicles dare to founderand where the warmth of keratinocytesseems but a distant, stale dream in the dark,beyond that and the sisters of that,where wood lymphs and fairies pulseyou will find the broadhead of our problems,stabbed straight through Sweet William;the remnants of our love.
Road SideI want to have an impactthat lasts longer than the lifeof those petrol seeped flowersplaced ad memoriam at the road side.Let my memory last longerthan the roses.
Who Are You - I - KaniahliesWhen asked who she was,she panicked -her heart blurred;a humming pressurebehind the strikes of her ribs.She dissolvedinto the fizzling of anxiety.Who am I? Who am I?- 'Something wicked'she replied.
Unwilling AwakenessThe sea never falls asleepit shuffles, half drowningin its own unspent dreams,trying desperately to stay afloatits glittering eyes reflecting starsas it shudders and groansunder the weight of another day,as the sun turns to treacleand spreads itself thinlyacross its ridge-d-back.It tumbles and trips over,clumsy in its deprivation state,and tosses its limbs, its head,over and again. It stays awake.It can't afford to dream of raindrumming upon its lonely doorto accompany it for eternity,No. The sea can never fall asleep.
Giving up on Giving UpI'm just a guest -this old house belongs to youand if you choose to let it crumbleI will watch / I can't watch.your floorboards still creak lovelike the last time I was hereand you won't let me speak lovebut I can't just disappearI know I'm just a guest -but you asked me to comeyou asked me to stay with you,asked me to watch you (but I can't).the wallpaper's too thin loveI can hear the violinsthis isn't why I came, love,decoupage and violenceI could be just a guest hereamid the statues and the stonebut if the dust settles on youI can't watch, I can't watch -the kitchen tap, it leaks love,it stains the counters brown,I've never seen you eat, loveever since I came aroundand I am just a guestand the doorbell doesn't work,if you choose to live in silenceI will wait, I can't waitI will wait, I can't watchI can't watch, I can't watch your wilting eyes cry againand your Cain and Abel lips lie againso don't, don'tdon't say
Chow MeinFor me the turning pointwas standing in a Chinese takeawaystaring listlessly at the advertswhilst my mother chose between Chow Meins.The little card reading"Industrial cleaning, including suicides"I remember gulping back tearswhen I looked at my mum and wonderedshould I take the card for her?
Circus: The Bearded WomanI do not conform,this is not by choice but by condition.When people look at methey see a freak, a travestya mistake.As do Ibut not for the same reasons as them.Those who gawpand gape and gruntgruesome words at me.They see my wiry beardaffixed to my delicate jaw and cheeks;they laugh and laughand laugh-laugh,and laugh at The Bearded Lady.They see imperfectionon such a superficial irrelevant levelas they spin me in my cageto get a better lookat my flaws.Hair growing on my facedoesn't make me broken, or damaged.The cysts do;popping tiny kernels in my ovariesand flushing hormones through methese are the things I worry aboutwhile others mock me for my features -and take photos for mementosof their time at the circus.I don't care about the beardI care about the children,bearded or otherwise, I'll never have,and the ache for their limbsentangled in my arms,their breath on my skin.Who cares about a preconceived --( unable to conceive ? )- notion of beautya
Chalk OutlineA chalk outline waits for mesometimes it slips into bed with my shadowand I can do nothing but roll my eyeslike a mis=abused and weary parent,but every night when my shadowmerges with the edges of the day's pageand blurs into a dirty midnight orangeI lie in bed and shudder;without my shadow's protection I feel it,a chalk outline waits for me.
Ear(drums)Ear(drums) “silence is a (needed) serenity but the music brings me home again”The clank-clicking, pen-pattering, the beat of it,Only the perfection of flawless instrumentation,Leave lyrics of moot matter to me. Just let the rhythm hit ‘em,And the synths carry thee to my safe haven.The beauty of music leaves dreams lucid,Visions serendipitous,I never knew that music could take me to this place.Where I lay in my bed,But still not quite in the perfect space.Until a flawless concoction of rhythmi
ShellsShells Shells of hideousness conceal shattered beauty.
WithdrawnI paint my fingerprints red,for courage; panics coalesce,and regret stains my handshake.
Looking To The SkyLooking To The Sky:Sweet yearning from the depths of my soul.Blessed is my mind that drinks of this knowledge.Though stubborn at first, rejecting its hand.I have learned to accept it as my only salvation.From the streets which have long been my home.I look to the skies and the clouds above.Through my skills I shall rise, so I may catch the stars.Even if the journey might be as heavy as stone.-Chen Yuan Wen, 16th September 2013, posted by Co-Captain Hayes
OppositesShe was rich with poor ideas.
I wish...I’ve been sitting on your doorstep for three days.Here are the nothings I left under the mat:i.I do not feel like a lion anymore,an alpha wolf, a hyena orany other strong-willed beast.ii. Today,I want to take my scarsout to lunch,feed them your eyes,& your tongueuntil it bleeds sorrow,and “please forgive me’s”.iii. You wish I never existedas you grind those wordsinto my wrists like they arered hibiscus blossoms.& I’ll have you knowI am a flower, bloomed,rooted deep into the soil.You are just a combinationof 26 letters-an “I wish…”
Over(dose).she chews onlive wires in the hopesof kick-starting her tired heart.
Tragedy"A tragedy...." They whisper. I survived.
BeginWaitingIt’s all I’ve done all my lifeI’m tired of itLet’s do something we might regret.
In the interests of transparencyIt's clear to seethat I'm as fragileas glass -and every timethat you look through me;I crack up.
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