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.
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.
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
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.
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.
The Day The World Went AwayThe world went awaywild and untetheredfrom now-loose neurons -Oh how it flewfor that blind momentbefore the lacework brokeand flung serotoninagainst baroque wallpaper.
Goodnight MoonThe battered sky bloomsas the dark teabag stainunder her weary eyes.Like the coupletstrung around her necklaceand embeddedwith teeth marks -jewels impressed intothe vast expansive skyof her laden shoulderbones.The bruise darkensand the stars seem impossible.Too far awayand smiling a long dead smile.But somewhere a pomegranate lip,swollen with the disdainthat he made her swallow -somewhere, those lipsfind the courage to sayGoodnight.
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.
The LoversLovers with chins cupped togetherlike the opened heart of a mussel shell,cracked to expose the vulnerable partsprotected from all else,oblivious to all else.Lovers with mouths that conduct togetheran exploration into the open heart muscle,slackened through over using vulnerable parts,they will reject all elsethey resurrect themselvesin the hazel-drenched eyes of their lovewith their faces pressed tight in the sunand the future glittering in their mouths.
The PlaylistA group of us lying on the floorin a too-small apartmentthat can’t hold a fraction of our disorderssyndromes and symptomstucked under the kitchen sinkand in between self help booksand in the pages of love poetryonly half meant.A group of us lying on the floorwishing we could see the stars.but thats not how the architecturehas been set up for uswe have to live our lives blinkeredfrom the celestialbut at least we have each other.A group of us lying on the floorletting music replace our immune systemsnot caring if a misspent lyric saves us,not caring if a dropped note kills uswe don’t care about anything but the floor,these walls, these chains,that sound so familiar in an acoustic’s voice.A group of us lying on the floorcaring about nothing but the ceilingthats blocking out the light.
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.
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.
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.
In the interests of transparencyIt's clear to seethat I'm as fragileas glass -and every timethat you look through me;I crack up.
A Train Station at ChristmasA hasty surge,an impatient tidal groaningas the waves growand flow over roads and bridges -such eager kinesis.Tossing brik-a-brackenover fluid shoulder spikes,they set their jaws firmand hurry to-fro-to-
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
To Be ThinYour eyelashes fallon tablecloth cheekbones;fine, white linen,heavily pressedto an unsustainable point.Your tears spilland stain the cloth,cheetah spotsof grey, of grey,spoiling that unattainable dream.
Slow, LoveI am a box of bones; attic-drenched,mildew-hearted remnantsgathered in the grief of storms.I am a catalogueof failures, listed alphabeticallyfor ease of use; God knowswhy, since no one ever looksbeneath the covers.
Tips on Getting Me Through a CrisisLove me.Remember I am stillthe woman you know.I am still foundin every partof this body's rhythm--I am in the ka-thump, ka-thumpof my heartbeat,the steady flowof blood that courses riverson its way to these limbs.Remember that. Even when I seem gone,I am still here.ii.Do not promise to never leave.People leave. Hearts grow oldand heavy; I do not wantto be a burden you carry--I do not want to be an obligationto a promise.If you need to leave,leave, but be honestif you tell meyou're coming back.iii.Ignore the voice in your headlying to you. I am tired. I am weary,but my heart has not goneand I still appreciate you.Forgive me for not singingmy usual songs. I have not forgottenor moved on without you,but the plover nestled behind my tonsilsswoops, swoops. She believesshe protects me, even as her beaksplits my throat.iv.Remember and remind me.I may be hidingbeneath the covers,tucking myself into a cupboardlike a skeleton,or scratching through walls
A Conglomeration of Beautyi. My father is a hurricane making love to the ocean. When I am in love I need someone who lies below the waves, ever swirling and present, who knows I am a tag along skiff - small, but still significant. I need someone who is willing to guide me along the deepest parts of life, water coiling around my bow to pull me to safety. That is you.ii. With summer washed words I will tell you of my past and how falling in love is a terrible way to describe the feeling. You don't settle either, you make a journey, you create something. It is something entirely too complex to find a phrase that suits it and I will cry for days over this thought. Please let me embrace this short-term sadness.iii. In many ways I am still broken. I am not where I want to be, but be patient, I am working to get there.iv. You don't fill all the holes in your heart, I understand that now. There will be parts of you that always need to be open because they are more than just holes. They ar
Astrali'm the seraphicromanticist,a hallowed bodyswallowing galaxieslike i am hellbent onself-deterioration
bulletproof loneliness, at best can you hear my muted, mutant screams? it is in a form of cry shriveling up my lungs leaking foam from my parted lips and panting tongue drying up my eyes and making me collapse (in the coal mines of my mind, all the goddamn time) you once said that you had heard my voice being whispered in the evening winds carried by the cooing doves like my name was your song (forever calling to lost loves) until the last stretch of its infinitely looped three-minute play i held unto false hope, every step of the way
He Comes with the RainRain slides down Yesteryear Antiques' cheap stained-glass windows in lazy swirls and spirals. Tracking a drop with narrowed green eyes, Shay wrinkles her nose and steps around a haphazard stack of Life magazines. A sheaf of her thick auburn hair falls across the right half of her face. Pulling a hair tie from her wrist, she scoops the locks into a messy bun. The lights flicker, thunder rumbling. Shay glances again at the rain's path on the windows. Turning to a set of dresser drawers, she rifles through pens, paper clips, and crayola markers. A wad of teal tissue paper crinkles under her fingers and Shay pulls it from the drawer, unwrapping its contents. A pair of hand-carved bamboo chopsticks, topped with snarling dragons, roll onto her palm. She pokes them through her bun before diving back into the drawer."I could have sworn there was a--" A flashlight skips across the debris and Shay snatches it up. Grinning, she clicks the button. Clicks it again. Frustrated, her grin fading, she
In Dark Silencea pile of exiled leavesand a grief-stricken moonsetcapturethe secrets of fireflies.A stranger to gravity, sometimestrees know how to be brave,standing tallwhere the stars collide.
Untitled I spend my sleepless nightsdeconstructing her suicideand gnawing on regret--because I always told her she was a star-childborn for better worlds and quiet daysalive at night and in the rain.And as I lay on summer grass, damp with dew,with only the moon to witness, andwith her head on my chest,her breathing even and slow with the whisper of sleep,I promised her that she would be fine. But I am a liar--white words turn black in time,as she was no fool, no child, no blessed angel.She was the girl who had demons in her veinsraking her wrists, pulling at her throatbleeding in her eyes and staining her heartshe had storms that gave no warning,screaming of death and despair;some of which would last a day or a week,and others which never ceased. When I held her in my armsshe would always tremble for a momentand then collapse and exhale sorrowand breathe.And when I kis
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
Who Are You - II - KathrynODriscollI am gallbladder andthe rubber taste of my own tongue -I am a kidney stone,a heart murmurand a half digested ball of dust.I am, in sum,every part of methat I couldn't give awayto help someone else.
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