The knives hide behind thin fabric
The hem of the summer skirt
tickle smooth calves
False smiles and pleasantries
Fragile and followed
by eyes young and old
Calculating the weak spots
She limps a tad
eyes zero in.
Night wraps around her
as she rushes down the deserted street
heavy footsteps behind
sound louder and louder
her smile grows wider and wider.
Rough hands grab her arm
she fails fruitlessly
she's pulled down a side alley
Her shriek is cut off by a rough hand
She wriggles like a fish out of water
His laughter tickles her ear
Then the knives appear
She whirls in his grasp
gutting him like a pig
His labored breathing echoes in the night.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Friday, May 9, 2014
Little Words
Little words don't always say much
when they do
they leave
so much more than their
physical presence.
What to say?
What to create.
Oh so many doors
with white walled entry ways.
when they do
they leave
so much more than their
physical presence.
What to say?
What to create.
Oh so many doors
with white walled entry ways.
Dream
Epic poetry.
Let me tell you a secret.
Or perhaps it is the dream of an imaginer.
I dream of creating stories
Of paying the bills by letting my imagination go wild.
Yet, the wings of imagination are bound tightly to my back.
I cannot seem to cut the leather cords
I am falling and falling.
I dream of writing stories.
Of happily ever after
yet, I laugh at those beliefs.
Why do I believe that happily ever after isn't for me?
Why do I believe that miracles don't exist.
Will never exist.
How I dream of chance meetings.
Of having an agent seem me writing in this library
and of having someone say
you have talent.
You have potential.
Let me hone your skills.
Let me show you the way to finding your dreams
Instead I muddle through a peat bog
Swallow the stagnant water
and gag as a corpse stares up at me
The corpse is me.
Let me tell you a secret.
Or perhaps it is the dream of an imaginer.
I dream of creating stories
Of paying the bills by letting my imagination go wild.
Yet, the wings of imagination are bound tightly to my back.
I cannot seem to cut the leather cords
I am falling and falling.
I dream of writing stories.
Of happily ever after
yet, I laugh at those beliefs.
Why do I believe that happily ever after isn't for me?
Why do I believe that miracles don't exist.
Will never exist.
How I dream of chance meetings.
Of having an agent seem me writing in this library
and of having someone say
you have talent.
You have potential.
Let me hone your skills.
Let me show you the way to finding your dreams
Instead I muddle through a peat bog
Swallow the stagnant water
and gag as a corpse stares up at me
The corpse is me.
Seasons
Hide behind the truth
Let the moments of your hope
Fall into nothingness.
Introvert.
Not good enough.
How I write and write and write only
to have nothing to show.
A folder on my laptop
labelled writing portfolio
Truth is none of it is good enough.
I am trapped by the beginning-
the end refuses to surface.
No rhyme scheme.
No source of happiness.
Only the shadowed death
of this hope of new beginnings
A chameleon that wants to stay
one color.
One being.
The seasons change
and so does her skin.
Let the moments of your hope
Fall into nothingness.
Introvert.
Not good enough.
How I write and write and write only
to have nothing to show.
A folder on my laptop
labelled writing portfolio
Truth is none of it is good enough.
I am trapped by the beginning-
the end refuses to surface.
No rhyme scheme.
No source of happiness.
Only the shadowed death
of this hope of new beginnings
A chameleon that wants to stay
one color.
One being.
The seasons change
and so does her skin.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Cards
Free formed words created instead of letting go.
Rejection is this palatable sourness in my mouth.
It rolls up my throat and traps all of what I want to say.
Oh how I wish these thoughts would fade away.
Rejection-
Not good enough.
No one would ever like you.
No, you are ugly.
All float in my head.
They are rotting water
full of diseased flesh.
The remnants of memories covered
by ill formed scars.
Rub the wound just a bit
the blood is foul
and smells of death.
Still it will not heal.
Rejection is a noose around my neck.
Choking me; I am four years old again.
Only ugly girls have this happen to them.
Shhh...
I cannot begin to explain the confusion I am standing in.
The house of cards is not cards
but mirrors that reflect a thousand faces and none of them are mine.
Who am I?
When did I disappear?
Rejection is this palatable sourness in my mouth.
It rolls up my throat and traps all of what I want to say.
Oh how I wish these thoughts would fade away.
Rejection-
Not good enough.
No one would ever like you.
No, you are ugly.
All float in my head.
They are rotting water
full of diseased flesh.
The remnants of memories covered
by ill formed scars.
Rub the wound just a bit
the blood is foul
and smells of death.
Still it will not heal.
Rejection is a noose around my neck.
Choking me; I am four years old again.
Only ugly girls have this happen to them.
Shhh...
I cannot begin to explain the confusion I am standing in.
The house of cards is not cards
but mirrors that reflect a thousand faces and none of them are mine.
Who am I?
When did I disappear?
Gossamer
Little did I know that this hope dies
Faster than it can be renewed.
Oh, how I dream of things
better left unthought.
Can you unthink something?
Can you erase a belief, a hope?
Nay, in truth
thou is nothing but a ragwort
of pain and suffering
doth not thou see what thou hath done?
Created gossamer hope
wisps of yesteryear
only to destroy it all
with that one memory
Rejection.
Faster than it can be renewed.
Oh, how I dream of things
better left unthought.
Can you unthink something?
Can you erase a belief, a hope?
Nay, in truth
thou is nothing but a ragwort
of pain and suffering
doth not thou see what thou hath done?
Created gossamer hope
wisps of yesteryear
only to destroy it all
with that one memory
Rejection.
Focus
Focus or not
The question is well,,
maybe it is an answer.
Memories rush up and swallow me
like an ancient octopus.
Immortal and unknown it wraps
around my neck, choking.
The question is well,,
maybe it is an answer.
Memories rush up and swallow me
like an ancient octopus.
Immortal and unknown it wraps
around my neck, choking.
Shakespeare
Shakespeare
Oh where for out thou Shakespeare.
Thee who doth writ so plainly
Or doth thou laugh at my platry attempts
to appease the muses that sent you
to the maddness
Called creativity.
I attempt to create beauty
yet beauty is imperfection and flaws
I do not change what was writ
For I dream of creating sonnets,
works of fiction that
bring forth what was once lost.
Oh where for out thou Shakespeare.
Thee who doth writ so plainly
Or doth thou laugh at my platry attempts
to appease the muses that sent you
to the maddness
Called creativity.
I attempt to create beauty
yet beauty is imperfection and flaws
I do not change what was writ
For I dream of creating sonnets,
works of fiction that
bring forth what was once lost.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Stability
Slam Poetry
it is wrought with emotion and fine lines full of fantastical fond-lings of words
Yet, what I think of, need more than that-
Is stability.
When someone asks me
do you think person Y is good looking
My reaction: No.
Yes makes the tenuous stability of my life
fall down to the ground
shredded into pieces I cannot pick up.
The truth is
I think person Y is attractive
Off limits-
because of the certain connections.
the fact is that if things fall apart
I am left knowing-
blood is thicker than water
and I cannot chance that water turning sour.
When asked the question I say-
No.
it is wrought with emotion and fine lines full of fantastical fond-lings of words
Yet, what I think of, need more than that-
Is stability.
When someone asks me
do you think person Y is good looking
My reaction: No.
Yes makes the tenuous stability of my life
fall down to the ground
shredded into pieces I cannot pick up.
The truth is
I think person Y is attractive
Off limits-
because of the certain connections.
the fact is that if things fall apart
I am left knowing-
blood is thicker than water
and I cannot chance that water turning sour.
When asked the question I say-
No.
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