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.

Unstable

Needles stand like the pikes on a fence, tidied into sweet little lines
and above them I stand on the pricks of their peaks as still as the statue I have been all night.

And caged not in bars but by sheets of frozen rain, tipped over the edge of the sky,
a thousand sheets, more, ten thousand more than before, of that cold and impenetrable ice.

And I have room to breath, to walk, run, and fight; without chain or shackles holding me down.
But the more that I speak, the more that I breathe, the faster the rain falls until I drown.

And the more that I dare, the farther I venture, the less certain that I am,
that in this shade of the avalanche above, I am safe where I stand.

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.

Thief of the Moon

I whispered soft to the night, and came upon a thief of the moon;
he had in his hands all his loot, each pink blossom that could bloom.
His fingers were bleeding and scarred, white stripes that had been there too long,
the seared teeth of the thorns and the burrs, and the shards of petals still hanging on.

The man held his hands out to me, asking what he could not say.
His eyes shone the moon and the stars, his lips formed the words, “don’t turn away.”
The streetlamp flickered above us, the crickets sang some sweet chirp,
the grasses whistled with the breeze, and the silence haunted some unspoken words.

I fell to my knees on the ground, took his broken hands into mine,
blew away every petal, plucked away every thorn, washed the blood away with red wine.
The blood and the wine seeped into the mud, and saturated the homes of the small.
The autumn spilled into the colorless leaves, and as days passed, they started to fall.

Snow whispered past, a moment in time, the theif’s eyes upon mine never left,
never blinked, never cried, never betrayed but a word, and slowly once more turned to theft.
Slowly my heart faultered, slowly it rose, I lost sight of where it might be,
and behind rosy glasses, I never noticed the binds, or the cuffs on my wrists keeping me.

I watched helpless as he stole my heart, took from my chest still beating strong,
it pulsed in his hands, soft, fragile, and glass, but tainted with undue and unforetellable wrongs.
The flesh walls fell to bricks on the ground, leaving it vulnerable.
Beneath walls, beneath brick, behind the bone of my ribs, a blossom so small, so beautiful.

I reached for the bloom with my hands, grasped soft and gentle but came back empty,
the thief staked my shackles in stones that hadn’t been there before, and held my heart too far from me.
His eyes flashed some chronic alleviation, of some poison that slowed in his veins.
His scars healed as if cured, his voice whispered some relief, and the blood disappeared from his stains.

But above us the rains had come soft, too soft to hear beyond settled mists.
The dam had run full, streams slid down the edges; there would be no surviving through this.
The levies cracked and broke down, shards of stones fell to muck and the river flowed out.
The flood scoured every nook, caught every last soul, caught us last, and spilled over our mouths.

I closed my eyes and dreamed of some other place, far and away of this sea.
The thief caught my lips, and placed on them this kiss that scattered and disoriented me.
I opened my eyes, frightened and confused, caught him staring into my eyes, the thief.
I opened my mouth to say anything and choked bubbles of rainbow when I noticed I could breathe.

My shackles and chains disappeared, my heart glowed this golden aura,
of every other heart and soul, tainted by ills too sour and unkind, I’d survived some new Sodom and Gommorah.
The thief told me that love made one pure, that seasons had passed with me remaining here,
that in my happens to stay, my actions had sold my heart, that I loved the thief, that much was clear.

That perhaps it was not such a crime, to steal blossom of heart behind wall,
that I had held no resistance, ’twas no thievery, if I had already forgiven this fall.
That he had his right to my heart, only for him had it bloomed,
the other buds came with thorns, but mine not a one, and that I loved my thief of the moon.