Bruises and Rocks
I punch bruises and kick rocks through windows
Combing through the thicken brush and flowers
Thorns cut slivers into my skin
I punch bruises and kick rocks through windows
Climbing up the rusted brackets
Sore callouses forming on soft hands
I punch bruises and kick rocks through windows
Tip-toeing down the sullen hallway
small feet leaving no tracks in their wake
Leaning against the darkened doorway
I stunt my breath against the marbled wood
Frost turns my fingers into ice and my eyes
into gold
I punch bruises and kick rocks into windows.
smoke
Cold fingers prickle the sides of my face.
The touch is gentle, and it almost feels warm.
I grasp the hands, rubbing them with my own,
hoping to lend my own heat.
I blow soft gasps of hot air, the chilling cold never quite going away.
Smoky air making art of faeries before dissipating into nothing.
Warm tears trickle down my face.
I whisk them away, but I cannot feel the touch.
I grasp at nothing, no one is here but my own
being.
Sifts of smoke sink gently into me.
This Cruel Book.
Desolate living in ever moving time.
There's not enough for me to latch onto, my grip on the edge slipping quicker than ever before.
I doubt my every movement, my every thought leaving a residue within my heart.
I chew the end of my words into pieces, swallowing them whole.
Hugging my body as it shivers and trembles in remorse for its own existence.
Hope and despair mix in a cruel display of complacency.
Tugging at my insides, I force my will to no end.
Everything feels wrong.
The pages in my book become more fragile as I turn each one.
The numbers along the border blur into dark puddles of ink.
How I wish to set aside the troublesome book for even one moment.
Paranoia?
Left and right the clock arrows tick, driven by the unknowing.
Garnering unforeseen thoughts, I seldom leave my bedding.
Setting my words on a shelf, I take my place in my isolation.
What horrors lie beyond my solitude?
What terrible mess may sit itself before me?
I do not want to know.
It frightens my being to its very core.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
The very memory of my being will create my manifestation in the future.
I will be there. When you're sleeping. I will watch over you. Others will not see that I am there. But you will. You'll see me. You'll hear me. Trumpets will mark the day of my rebirth. A fanfare of miracles.
I will be there.
there.
with you.
no whe re to look
Obsession overwhelms my being as I glare into the brightness of the screen.
The room is dark.
The air is warm.
My eyes itch with salinity, pouring out my heart and soul in trickling madness.
Unable to suffer the illness no longer, I force my face away.
There is nowhere to look.
Only the misshapen inflections of noir melt my retinas.
They shift and squirm, never quite taking shape.
What lay beyond there before no longer was.
My presence disappears into my mattress,
my heart sinking in the falls of miasma.
Out.
The crackling of fires singe the back of my eyes.
I cover the truth that lies before me, digging into what never was.
The mind drifts to sacredness, islands afar.
Red paints the body and soul, leaning arrows against my chest.
Unwilling to believe myself unworthy,
I unravel.
Brevity marks the soul, chains shackle untrained minds.
Driven by an unseen being, I lay my hands across my shoulders.
Unshaken by the afterthoughts of childishness.
A living creature needs no passion where gentle warmth comforts in their solitude.
The fruits of labor have no meaning without a burn in the heart.
The flames die out.
Motivation
I glare into the dark, as it morphs and changes its shape.
It beckons me forward, an ode to pleasantries in soft daylight.
Being as it may, it injures my being.
Following my head, I carry on aimlessly.
Neither am I here nor there, as this box leaves me stifled.
Gazing at an eternity I cut apart myself like felt.
It falls away such as flower petals drop like flies.
I stare at my un-moving self.
l’ automne
Gold sunlight flashes against auburn skin.
The fall air sends a shiver down my spine, my fingers growing cold.
You grasp your hand in mine, my chill hands making you jump.
As you let go my hand feels colder than it did before,
an aching feeling that has me in a stupor.
I walk inside my shaken heart, asking them why they have shown themselves before me.
A soft laugh rumbles throughout the space.
The frost melts within my chest, but dread occupies my thoughts.
What ever shall I do?