Beauty (A Little Whim)

Is today a new day? I'm unsure. Where do we draw the line? A sonnet of hours, a cadence of first light across the sprinkling of winter snow, or something more to the heart?
But of course I'm being foolish. A day is a scientific classification and, therefore clearly, a sonnet of hours.

This Is - No Doubt - A Senseless Lobotomy

These lights, this city.
There's nothing I can do but think,
Spinning these words around my head
Like a fucking religion
Pounding my heart
Breath through breath
Long enough to smear them down
In ink
Blood
Song
Until extracted later
Or forgotten
At your discretion

What else do you want from me?

I Hate Giving Up

Even for something so fruitless, I'll watch them spin in counters before my eyes. The lucid black and white lights beating out towards my eyes.

My mind seems wholly infertile.
Waiting for the timers to pass.
Waiting, from the mistakes I've made.

I hate giving up.

Things You Should Have Told Me

I write scripts of what I will one day feel. Unfolding myself at that opportune moment, a seeming spark of inspiration - an impromptu persona painted on my lips. It's as honest as I can ever be.

But you
You have not been honest,
Stowing away in my heart, a fugitive of it's own mind. And the secrets you kept...

• The night is beautiful, caught between fingertips
• There are swan feathers buried beneath the snow
• I'd believe in The Cure
• I cannot breathe without you knowing
• Love
• I am frail
• All my words are meaningless, to some point or another

Had I known this, coming into this life. No, I would have not changed this. But you should have told me. I've spent all this time playing in drifts that burry the dead lilies.

Certain Emotions

I want to hold onto this life so tight, that I can feel the blood from my palms trickle down my fingers. To encapsulate all that is good in a single breath of lightning - a jagged stroke down a dotted line. Sign your name here, or at least, the name we have given you. What an arrogant notion - to think an indecent fuck bestows the righteousness of parenthood. Have you ever looked deep inside, to call out your name, the one you have found for yourself? It will change, as it's measure is not that of the fallacy you scribble on the top right corner of pages and notes. It's how you know it is yours. To look back and never regret what I once called myself - the sound of smallest ripples on the shoreline. One day, I will fall in love, and he will call me. But he won't need my name to know me. To kiss my name out of my lips, to feel it crest through you. To hold it on my tongue, unafraid to say it. And he'll gather me in his palms, like snowflakes, each sentiment I've ever said, tumbling, crystalline, from the sky. If I were a season of cold, catch me on your tongue, knowing that waited all this time, just to fall for you.

While My Gloves Lay Astray

I slip my fingers into the soft folds of snow. I know I can carve rivulets in the rich surface, biting on me skin, calling, closer closer. Is it you? I used to catch you in my embrace, tenderly masking the hot tears on your face. It's been years hasn't it? When was the last time I threw myself open armed into a waiting blanket of snow?

Maybe you're not the one who has faded in the changing seasons.

Because People Can Die From This

For the need to write more than a meager little fiction, I lay on my bed, head turned low, night oscillating in brief, quiet circles above my head. To be taken seriously - what a joke - and to tell more than what you've spoken, is a desire that draws parallels to the capture and portrayal of art. And this may be little more than a pathetic fallacy I've composed of my own devices, but the need isn't to be heard anymore - its to speak as if I'm heard. To hear those words flowing from my lips, to the lines I draw with my hands, to know that it was not I who erred should you discover the true meaning of this indulgent illusion of mine. But for the need to write more than fiction, I pressed my skin against the cool wall and try to sink into it's surface. To say something, something peculiar, insightful. But what can you say of nothing more than fear? Because I want to be more than just that - a one word draft. Not to be the clever one, the deep one. But for the need. The need to look at a word and find some extract of meaning. Something more than a drugged up boy with a fucking gun in his hand. For words with no weight, I will carry you no further. My back is broad enough to carry clearer thoughts. For the paper, sitting on my table for three days, because no one can dare throw away the story, as if to do so would mean they'd grown unsympathetic. We need it, on the table. For the light words they are to say "how awful". Did no one think this would happen? The overindulgent youth of our time, unbounded and uninhibited. The authoritarian patriarchal figured who a gratified with nothing more than a visual obedience. The media, streamlining violence for the every day consumer. Of course they did. But we need this don't we? For hypocrisy in the world. How terrible that there should be fear and upset. For the rebellious. Thank god someone rebells more than I do. For the overbearing. Thank god I'm a bitch, I have the right to protect my child. For the hurt. Thank god no one else was hurt. For the demanding. Thank god I suffered the attention. For gun barrel. Thank god I saw daylight. For the illegitimate. Now I'm legitimate. For the stories we hear. Thank god it's just a story to us. For me. Thank god for the words to say. For the mad interpretation. For the conjugation of absurd, irrelevant thoughts. The paper still rests on our table, for the need of more than a meager little fiction. For something real.