Every Page

I let the beast tear to shreds
the sheets of pure white on my bed.
The snow fell in tangent
and spilled through the attic
and froze like soft beads on my head.
And I dreamed that there were ghosts in his eyes
as conspicuous as the sun in rainy skies.
And they haunted some shadow
that filled the well until overflown
and the rims of his lids swelled as he cried.

I stole a glance from my book,
and pondered some thought that he took.
I forget what I knew
and forsake lowering my view,
I’m stolen by that sweet, broken look.
And I watched the sun flicker out
and the butterflies flittered around,
before a fleet to the sky
to become the stars in his eyes
with wings beating soft without sound.

And I saw a harp by the place
where the fire burned bright and erased
the things he threw in,
every nightmare, every dream,
every part of his past, every page.

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Running Out of Words

How do I say this?
I am a poet,
a writer.
I have no lack for words.
No lack for lexicon.
And yet here I am.
A hypocrite?

I’ve run astray.
Some road in some other direction
some other way.
How have I come upon a pitfall?

How can I say
that

I am blind.
You have the eyes,
my hands reach out ceaselessly
catch on your arm, your waist, your chest.
And I stumble as I follow after.
You have my eyes.
They see the sunsets, the rises,
the dewdrops on petals
a thousand miles away
and yet they ignore anything they might have seen
elsewise caught upon you.

And should it matter
that I am deaf beyond your voice.
All of the songs sound like your song,
I’ve listened so long,
I don’t hear all the other words.
All the things that you cannot say,
that you do not,
are somehow filtered.
An oblivion awaits them,
the graveyard in my mind
of all of the things I never cared to remember.

And if I do not have your scent
somewhere on my clothes,
they do not feel like mine.
As if I stole those of some prisoner
and will not return them,
because this is a row on the lane of death
and he has been executed
for his monopolizing effect.
A crime you committed him to.
And yet you remain
unattended,
predisposed
as innocent
for a crime you commit to my heart
every damn day.
Am I guilty too?

And you have my taste.
It is a venom
coating my tongue,
a taste is but a poison,
unless placed by your lips.
Your kiss…
It has caught my guard.
Shattered what I thought I knew.
What I was supposed to know.
All logic. All concentration.
Everything that matters,
washed away,
to bleed into some eternity
beneath some misty abyss.
I didn’t think… I never thought…
Kiss me, love. Kiss me until
my lips are so worn
that they only fit to yours.

And touch? Should I mention touch?
Have I the words to describe
a thousand bolts of lightning
shooting through my veins
every second of every day
that you hold me in that way,
until my nerves are so frayed
that they are numb.
Numb to the pain, the blood.
The scars have started healing,
it seems every place your lips touch me,
your hands grace…
it is as if you’re skin is a salve.
I cannot erase the past,
but you can.
And I don’t understand it.

And I don’t understand,
how I cannot rhyme,
it is a poem,
and mine always rhyme,
whether for you or myself,
they always rhyme.

But I’m running out of words
and I’m reaching at the bottom of the barrels
grasping for the silver, flourescent fish
that escape me.
Because the words just don’t come
the way they once did.

The End

I spied a smile on the bay,
it broke and it spoke, and looked away.
I saw the eyes silver-blue
with flecks of sweet velvet and dew.
The green of the grass bled into the sky
and the world was repainted anew.

I feigned some sort of thought in my heart
even though the thought tore me apart.
The man in my arms
was long-lost from sweet charms
and this was my twenty-fifth start.

And another that I whispered away
I secreted myself to the page.
I floated on clouds
but fell through to the ground
when I couldn’t convince him to stay.

And I spied a hole in my soul
opening wider with every new blow,
every day he was gone,
I felt that lost and alone
and there was nothing new that I didn’t know.

And I followed no beaten path,
I’d lost what I had never had.
My heart and my life,
and I could have lied
to keep him away from my past.

And I woke in the morning just one more time
and saw his arms intertwined with mine.
Our home here before me,
a nightmare had plagued me
and scared me more than the end of my life.

I’ll go ahead and apologize for this now. My mind is frayed. I’m worrying myself over the last few days of school and I still have to get everything packed up to move out Thursday. It’s just taking a little bit of toll on my, so my writing my feel a little stunted for the next few days or so until I can finally relax again.

Wish Upon a Star

In morning’s dawn, across the sky,
a tiny light, no stranger to my eyes.
A silly-spun monopoly
of all the wishes denied to me.
And the chariots of silver veil
sputter behind a still-sun hail
where might a moment be built to last
that wishes are wished upon a broken past.

And stolen a kiss upon my lips
that mattered more than this.
As if this night is more than before,
but how could I wish for more?

I cannot fall to plea of heart; nor that which could give by no true star.

Woven Tapestry

What tapestry on some crumbling wall
had that sad misfortune
to steal its threads from my repertoire
and weave into unsatisfaction.
And spill upon it blood and ink
of those that I’d forgotten,
and wipe away what stains I left
when I had still been broken?

And why should seamstress continue working
on an artwork solely done
and forsake that which she reprimanded herself
to walk dark the side of sun.
And weave ribbons of silver
into her once youthful hair,
why should she scar every finger
with needles that don’t care?

And then pass blind to some weak soul
as if I had some clue
how to rescue my small part of this world
with needle, thread, and rue.
And use that which enslaves my tender
heart beneath a womb
to believe that this sweet tapestry sanctuary
will someday become my tomb.

And the sun stops tanning pale, burned shoulders
and my face so gray beneath,
I fear that I shall meet this woman,
as sparsely as I believe.
And should I have that audacity
to believe that I cannot serve;
well what course shall Karma serve to me?
Something less than I deserve.

And should I stop weaving, stop spilling blood and ink
and erasing my own stains,
surely the beasts of otherworldly hells
will shoot poison through my veins.
But I have aged, as others in youth
have never in their time.
I’ve no ill will, no broken past,
so I replace those pains for mine.

I reweave every strand of hope,
recleanse every heart,
but when did I become this guardian
that is tearing me apart?

Burning the Shards

I swore,
beyond my hastened, stoic belief–
bereft that I might stand some motive
to mirror that girl I see in the glass
of silver, that she might someday be me.

I promised
that I would shatter every last piece
of every past insecurity,
that had stolen some sweet identity
that cursed ill into my name.

And I knew,
beyond doubt, or power too strong,
that I would not shatter my life.
The moments captured beneath glass and bone,
the scars I etched into piece of stone,
the names I carved, that guilt I own
that she is who I cannot be.

I swore,
that I would burn every last shard
silver, golden, or intangible.
That I would sever every stitch
that held me too close
to the things that I wish
I had never known.
Once, I was ignorant–and pure.

I promised,
that I could let it go.
That I could watch the flames and smile;
that this would disappear,
that nothing would remain of me
before him.
But everything remains.
It is who I am.

And I cannot vow
or tell tale true;
I’ll pretend I never knew.
As if, I never once stopped to care,
but that treacherous book of words
is still there
and as much as I do not want it to be,
those words were once what defined me.

He was not my life.
Once.

Beauty Chained by Beast

We stand on some corner somewhere,
the aroma of your spells in the air.
The mist settles upon stones,
every evening, every morn’
and the phantoms continue to stare.

Your hand is in mine and I dream
fantastical, miraculous things.
What God has my favor
that I might have that which I savor?
What karma has misplaced its laced seams?
That life in my heart blooms and spills,
but my fear wells and burns that I’ll wilt.
I feel as I if am that woman
too privileged.
I am chained in this silvery silt.

I fear more than death a repeal,
that I’ll lose what I’ve had this past year.
A whispery veil
fell as sharply as hail
guiding views rosy blue of so dear.

I hold his hand in a grasp
reliving every moment thrice before it’s past.
A prince on his steed, and I am but lesser breed.
Little more than a maid of outcast.
The beauty held chained by a beast,
or girl scarred by scalpel, at least.
He cannot see
that girl others know of me,
but I see what I must in this sea.

I temper no blade to shimmer bright
that he may not see mirror in respite.
I fear I may never be
that woman he sees in me.
Just some rose born of shadow rather than light.

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