There is no why. There only is.
Emotion. Raw, uncensored, untethered.
Unadulterated tumult wreaking havoc upon our sensibilities,
evoking fat, anxious slugs to race down my cheeks,
peak on my nose and fall to their deaths, nestled in my chest.
Opaque truths turning, churning in my mind.
My tongue fumbling to form sounds out of feeling,
attempting to assign language to the chaos that is my consciousness.
But as soon as the effort is exerted, a suffocating and painful silence
blankets the world behind my eyes.
Nothing comes to surface, but the war is just beginning.
My infantry -- infantile, infinite rows of secretive explosives
excreting indignance in a vain attempt to unveil the insecurities that dare to rage on
in the fringes of my heart. One after another, shots are fired --
fearful of the future, my lips tremble.
Once the dust settles, only inquisitions are freely fired.
Is there enough love for me? Is it real? Am I good enough to receive this?
Malingering in the demons, I evade the true fears that elicit these tears --
Yes there is. Yes it is. Yes.
I am.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Until There is Nothing Left
I want you to consume me.
Swallow me whole --
I will contort my self to fit within your gaping stomach.
I want you to annihilate me.
Shatter my glass body
into a million suffering shards
so that I may sliver into your foot,
burrow into your skin, violating my home.
I want you to dominate me.
Make me your miniscule slave girl,
only good for washing and groveling,
groveling at your feet, O my Master.
If I dare to disappoint, unleash a thousand leather lashes
upon my fair, quivering flesh.
I want, I want, I want.
There is nothing left to say.
I want, I want, I want.
Death.
To be a translucent appartion dislodged into oblivion.
Silence.
To be your dream, your nightmare,
the poison luring you into sin.
The weakness in your knees and the hard knot in your stomach.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing left to say.
Make me yours until there is nothing left of me.
Swallow me whole --
I will contort my self to fit within your gaping stomach.
I want you to annihilate me.
Shatter my glass body
into a million suffering shards
so that I may sliver into your foot,
burrow into your skin, violating my home.
I want you to dominate me.
Make me your miniscule slave girl,
only good for washing and groveling,
groveling at your feet, O my Master.
If I dare to disappoint, unleash a thousand leather lashes
upon my fair, quivering flesh.
I want, I want, I want.
There is nothing left to say.
I want, I want, I want.
Death.
To be a translucent appartion dislodged into oblivion.
Silence.
To be your dream, your nightmare,
the poison luring you into sin.
The weakness in your knees and the hard knot in your stomach.
There is nothing, nothing, nothing left to say.
Make me yours until there is nothing left of me.
An untitled older skeleton of a poem....
My tongue is now empty
of all the promises that I would have begged --
gone forever now...
and of all the bait that I would have licked,
I now know that they are poison.
I finally see through your disguise,
I am only waiting for you to see through mine.
of all the promises that I would have begged --
gone forever now...
and of all the bait that I would have licked,
I now know that they are poison.
I finally see through your disguise,
I am only waiting for you to see through mine.
A poem by Dylan Thomas
In My Craft or Sullen Art
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in the arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lowers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in the arms,
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.
Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lowers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Impropmtu Exorcism
I'm a dark and brooding little girl
stuck in the intimate memory
of that cold February afternoon.
Alone.
The deepest, darkest, most romantic of all colors
racing down my fair, quivering thighs.
For a moment, I was proud.
The suffocating blackness of my little, lonesome world
is constantly closing in around me.
I'm clawing at my eyes;
my clumsy, ugly hands are clawing at my flesh;
I want to get back that excitement,
the romance that was my own blood.
Flowing just as though it were some natural cycle
but in reality freed by the hungry, sharp jaws
of small scissors speckled with rust spots.
I am not a woman.
I am not a child of God.
I am a monster.
And no one sees me.
No one ever really sees me.
stuck in the intimate memory
of that cold February afternoon.
Alone.
The deepest, darkest, most romantic of all colors
racing down my fair, quivering thighs.
For a moment, I was proud.
The suffocating blackness of my little, lonesome world
is constantly closing in around me.
I'm clawing at my eyes;
my clumsy, ugly hands are clawing at my flesh;
I want to get back that excitement,
the romance that was my own blood.
Flowing just as though it were some natural cycle
but in reality freed by the hungry, sharp jaws
of small scissors speckled with rust spots.
I am not a woman.
I am not a child of God.
I am a monster.
And no one sees me.
No one ever really sees me.
Prisoner of the Night
Sleep will not grace the guilty body.
I have been left to toil and turn
isolated by the dark of a new moon.
Ice cold creeps up my legs,
striking and biting at my flesh.
Fat salt tears feed my limp tongue.
All night long, insomniac.
Too many possibilities rise like bright balloons in my mind,
while the world around me sleeps in a warm, lover's embrace.
Instead my frail body writhes in painful boredom.
How come sleep's sweet touch
will not rescue me from this ceaseless existence?
All night long, insomniac.
I could die and not be aware.
My eyes could shut, rippled blankets of flesh
and I would not know when.
The black silence suffocates me.
While all bodies are still, quiet mistresses of sleep
a haunting loss crawls into bed with me.
All night long, insomniac.
And when I finally disappear my spirit may wander free,
following the bleeding trail back to this bed, this prison.
Torturous night, never-ending cuts through me with razor-sharp teeth,
my black mind a cruel jailer, strapping, stripping, strangling,
ravaging my soul with sour regret again and again.
No mercy ever granted.
All night long, insomniac.
I have been left to toil and turn
isolated by the dark of a new moon.
Ice cold creeps up my legs,
striking and biting at my flesh.
Fat salt tears feed my limp tongue.
All night long, insomniac.
Too many possibilities rise like bright balloons in my mind,
while the world around me sleeps in a warm, lover's embrace.
Instead my frail body writhes in painful boredom.
How come sleep's sweet touch
will not rescue me from this ceaseless existence?
All night long, insomniac.
I could die and not be aware.
My eyes could shut, rippled blankets of flesh
and I would not know when.
The black silence suffocates me.
While all bodies are still, quiet mistresses of sleep
a haunting loss crawls into bed with me.
All night long, insomniac.
And when I finally disappear my spirit may wander free,
following the bleeding trail back to this bed, this prison.
Torturous night, never-ending cuts through me with razor-sharp teeth,
my black mind a cruel jailer, strapping, stripping, strangling,
ravaging my soul with sour regret again and again.
No mercy ever granted.
All night long, insomniac.
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