4/9/11

Sometimes it's hard to go on,
When no one thinks anything's wrong.
While festering wounds wait to scar,
And nothing seems very far,
You wait and hope for a clue,
Just give you the slightest damn what-to-do.

But things go up and back down,
Those little wounds stick around.
And you're left all alone,
Wanting to go home,
But the way you can't find
You start to feel blind
The words ring false
You can't feel the pulse
Faster and clear
The end so near
Twisted
Conflicted
Hurt
Pained
It won't go away
Troubled
Concerned
Worried
Torn.

But maybe you can be reborn.

April 6

You find me a rhythm,
You bring me a rhyme,
I turn you away,
To twist up my time.

At every new step,
Your way lights up clear,
I screw shut my eyes,
I'm blind when I'm here.

The answers you offer,
They seem to be true,
I won't let them in,
It's all I can do.

And when the morn comes,
My heart so asleep,
You've woken and gone,
Left nothing to reap.

April 5

Stretch
Muscle
Straining against these bizarre twistings of self.
How do you describe this pull?
When you stretch?
And stretch.
Taut and still the days get more and more taut.
Settle in with me.
In a rut.
And I won't want to leave it.
I may want to stand, but it hurts so much more to do so.
I settle in.
Taut.

April 4th, 2011

I'm not fucking around.
I'm not fucking around.

These wound through me.
Threads thinly spread over spaces and chasms and fine cracks.
It is crushing the bits.

Twisted round.
Around. FUCKING these chasms of knowing.
And feeling a tattered presence.
Spin into.

When is it heard?
Let the brain aerate.
Lightening in dizzying moments of freedom.
Wander into joy and heights of consciousness and watch my brain get vertigo.
Sheer breath.

Breathe through in darkness and leaden lips and eyes.
When the ecstasy exists, it follows me down into those moments of my closed eyes.
Fake it
IF EKL:fj;dkasj
that's what it always mean.s
when you look at me.
i can't see without knowing and knowing and fading further into these points of uncertainty felled as nothing but the air between my outstretched hands.
hurting.
when his words move my lips and he asks me for joy. he asks for anything.

and I fall back into it.

the nothing, pt. 1

he wound his way through the wreckage,
settling on a sight afar,
past crumbling buildings torn apart
from long-expected war.

his figure small his pace uneven
the man a shadow only
nothing stirred but canyons howling
sighing, "oh how lonely."

trudging on beyond all land
at the edge of nothing
cause nothing was all was left
the negative space, numbing.

under arching home
spaces that leave the body peace
sensitive pauses

I make plans and I make moves
I make these choices and lose the grooves
Watching her step out to the brink
These tentative spaces let me think
And so it goes that all is here
In moments she stops and waits so near
But fallen not she's just in stride
Comfortably close, by my side.

fluid rains in mental graciousness
were settled further from our legions
plaintive cries chaos rendered motionless
feel trepidation ranking all the higher.

when you fall into places and questions and phases unseen
you'll know where I've been
fleets and fleeting moments pass in stark daylight
wars of existence thrown about with absolute certainty of the sacredness
of life
and it blows by with myriad rains and floods and waves that wash into watercolors
sweet soft memories
that though I'm young
were whispers and tales that I have seen worlds crumble under the worn rubber
of my shoes
in these hours all passes by quickly.
how soon the light rises.
how soon our days begin again.
a day begins
while I sleep and hope that I'm not left too far in its wake.
sometimes I know that it all is a question of unspeakable importance
in this mind I live
this anxious heart and soul
turns and tortures itself
but blankness will do me in shortly.
so what of it?
what of
it?