fall&i

I believe in beautiful things,
I recognize them,
always appearing,
somewhere less than fragrant,
molding floors,
slipping into patterns of palm trees,
burying my brain in tropical woe is me mourning,
but this morning?
it was a bright morning,
a bright morning,
I spent cradling the leaf which landed on your arm,
and it remains,
gold as ever.
I want to kiss it,
I want to kiss you,
and it's quiet now,
now that all those puppets were silenced,
now that all my strings have been cut.
I'm alone,
in my head,
it's just me now.
in my bed,
holding you like a child holds a pile of leaves,
ready to pounce,
I want you to be all over me.
I want you to be the reason I crave fall,
for forever.
Yes, that's a long time,
but there are miles of you,
miles and miles of you,
I must find answers for,
answers for blushing kisses,
and fragile gazes,
I don't forget them at all.
In fact they lay on my ceiling,
I instantly projected them there,
upon noticing,
I was sitting in the middle of a moment called love.
I painted a picture,
and I can't get rid of it.
there are colors,
gleaming.
I wish you could see how dark I've been.
Because this moves me to tears.
And those tears are blue,
and I am feeling all this,
this happiness,
this fear of loss,
this heart, now beating.
I know I've tried deeply,
to forget the odd of the seasons,
for some reason,
while deeply ruined,
I reached for you,
maybe it was your eyes,
never strange,
not from mine.
maybe it was because
we wept once,
for one another,
before we even touched.
I heard silence in static,
found confusion in my routinely devoured love,
while you gave me hope,
the fog of past,
rallied its droplets, and
drenched my hands,
in gasoline,
I never wanted you to be there when the fire broke out,
when the match lit.
I fractured branches,
charcoaled trust,
splintered precious things,
I know that,
I see them at my feet,
before I sleep.
And it's morning,
So early.
And you're here,
rising above all that dust and decay,
you're a beautiful moment happening,
in a beautiful setting,
nothing but gold peaking through the shades,
lacing your outline,
growing in my mind,
framed by the slits of my eyes.
I want you to know,
I see you now.
something I won't lose,
I won't lose again.
I don't even want to blink.
but it's early,
so early,
with the scent of coffee in the air.
You're sleeping.
here.
You hate coffee.
Sleeping,
yes,
I need to be sleeping,
so I close my eyes,
but I can't keep them there,
I don't think dreaming even knows
how to construct this
safety.
No, not even dreams can construct safety
without illusions.
I'm awake.
I'm awake
and
I want to be.

READERS!

Hello readers, browsers, or anyone in between, this week I'm doing something new, and I really dig it. I'm putting some wonderful writers from my town up on my blog. I personally grow as a writer when I hear something, or read something of someone elses. It's a truly wonderful thing to encourage and to support! So read up! I should have a few more coming in soon! Also, if you feel so inspired after reading some of these poets words, send me some of your thoughts! Some of your poems or anything else! Tell your friends, it's a great thing to see & share!
much love friends,
-Olivia

I saw a child,
wandering.
She had sand
caked in her fluffy dress.
She picked up daisies,
and removed petals,
not knowing
in 10 years,
she'd be asking those petals
if he loved her,
or loved her not.
But for now,
the only man
she would love
was her father,
he sat on a bench
at the edge of a cliff,
thinking in the colors of fear,
he thought red,
he thought black,
he thought gray.
He thought about how stupid games were,
and why he ever thought a daisy meant shit.

Garden

I lit a candle,
and set it in my garden.
I watched the ladybugs worship their new found light.
They grew to the size of tomatoes,
And forgot about the dark.
They sang love songs to the birds,
longing for the day they would soon fly into the sun.

In the ocean

I followed the map
that you left on my nightstand,
you said you wanted to see me again,
all dressed up like a woman.
(not a girl)
I decided I'd wear a hat and carry only credit.
But there is this salt in the air,
And you don't understand what it does to me,
I smell the ocean,
and fear leaving,
I fear returning home,
the lonely ride home,
with thoughts of you,
and your busy life,
I'm sure all the people you see now,
sitting all around you,
they all love you like I do.
It's that unconditional kind,
I'm sure they know the freckles which lye in your eyes,
and I'm sure they've loved,
every thought they've had of you,
even the drifting day dreams
when you're not quite you,
and I'm shining gold.
and though the sand on my skin is removing old parts of me,
I wish they would stay.
Because I can't bare losing you again.
and again.
and again.
and this dust,
these pieces of me?
This is all I have left.
In the ocean.

there are pieces of me, waiting.

Emotional investment

They say that ocean tides move to the voice of the moon,
and the tide and I, we have that in common, because I live at night.
When the sun is just starting to fill up with gold,
I lay in the middle of my red room,
and fill my mouth with words
words I want to whisper in your ear,
no,
shout at you from a distance.
I want them to explode like grenades on your back,
I want the impact of me to leave you with post traumatic syndrome.
I want you to wake up 46 years from now,
and know you destroyed this, not me.
However,
I am a coward.
I lack the emotional funding to actually perform
in front of you,
like a loyal jester,
I would gladly be beheaded if I couldn't make you laugh,
and you would hear me say I love you
with the final slice of my thanksgiving ham of a head.
Everyone dies alone,
but I think when I die,
I'll take you with me.
Just like when its dark out,
and I have this uncertainty sprouting in the hairs on my neck.
When I feel like someones watching me that shouldn't be,
I pretend you're near.
Because somehow, no matter how far away you are,
you keep saving me.
I want to spend days creating with you,
making sunsets richer
because we are in fact the color which so inspired the heavens to part.
I was there when it happened,
were you?
When I was once a flower,
guarding a snake hole,
I was so beautiful, blossoming white gardenia.
I stood a limbs length above
any bird,
and any wolf.
I was a fine scented meal,
with a nasty after taste.
You couldn't hear me then,
but I loved you,
and when the blue jay we hated
plucked me from my safe perch,
to make her nest,
I gave my body to the Earth in hopes
you would find me inspirational,
you would celebrate my life for the rest of yours.
I wanted you to know,
I could be selfless.
You grew right next to me,
beautiful and bright.
But this world chose me.
Chose for me to suffer,
as you innocently stood by,
my roots became a memorial,
and you watched the baby birds hatch
in my warmth,
I saw your translucent stem weep.
photosynthesized tears,
colorful and tempting-
You were always
so obviously better than any other vine of jade I had seen.
I wanted to tie you around and around the sky,
so the world could see just how twisted our imaginations were.
I want to see shapes,
not just picture them,
I want you to be in charge of all my skies.
complex, powerful, sexual designs.
But we are no longer flowers,
we are man and woman,
similar only by flesh,
still tangled by the touch, the taste, of love.
But I remember you,
You've mourned me once before.
But this time,
you're cruel.
like a man.
And we look into the same sky,
colored blue by the hysterical breakdowns
of broken hearted sailors,
throwing themselves into the mercy of the sea.
No one gets out alive,
But before you get out,
you'll feel more alive than ever before.
I know,
I know I broke your heart.
But once it's been broken,
you'll feel more alive than ever before.
My sky is blue,
and so is yours.
So I know there are plenty of things in this world to sulk about,
but I've loved you.
I've loved.
at all.
(But if only you knew,
baby,
if only you knew.)
If I could capture the sunrise I felt in my soul
the morning I first woke to your touch,
I would never see darkness,
I would never need the darkness again.

The elbows (Fragile, like a shadow in hell)

Please lend me your love,
lend it to me, in potent pouches of ounces,
So that I may count out my dosage
And learn to inhale with a french twitch.
Lend it to me like you want it back- never,
and you're loving me like you only want mine.
My love, Your love.
Seems to be the only equation I can picture
as I spell out pictures,
because I cannot use these hands to contaminate a portrait of a prettier thing.
my love of us is so intense,
intense, yeah, like camping.
Out in the woods,
We laid in mud,
because we wanted to feel criminal,
we wanted to feel as dirty as our minds made us feel.
Just so we could feel the sun cake something on our skin
besides fire, beside the cancer, besides our god-like tans.
We want to wear our desires stamped on our chests,
like a scarlet letter, branding us,
we want our love to be poetic,
so even the trees can translate the echoey canyons of it.
So throughout time,
we forget time,
and for once,
maybe birthdays wouldn't be so dull.
To know you, another year,
would be just as beautiful as the eye of a sparrow, when the Iris reflects sun.
And there we stand,
holding one another up,
baked like love birds in the oven,
cracked, hard, and dry,
the mold of muddy plaster
fills my mouth, and invades my tongue.
I want to be dirty.
Not just sexual,
no, no, no.
I want to be covered in mud,
baked in the sun,
and cocooned within a mud mask.
If it means standing with you,
in a museum,
people will frame us,
Like Mona Lisa,
but with less deceit and more desire,
I want to be Mona Lisas secret twin sister,
Give you everything she can't,
I am the sexy one, I am the intelligent one, and I do want to love you.
I won't just smile and say,
"Paint me this way."
The more muscles in the mouth,
the better they are for smiling after we kiss,
If you don't love me after this,
(after this catacomb of dirt and water
pieces of the ground,
keeping us still
my eyes in yours.)
at least my skin will look good.
I tilt one hip,
and the mold cracks.
Suddenly we are standing outside of our shells,
shells we created,
because we thought we could love each other always,
because we didn't care if we grew old.
We are too busy soaking in the moment,
the moments,
Lava coated, lightening storms,
pacified by nothing,
intensified by a single stolen kiss.
I should know better by now-
love finds me always,
in the stillest of days,
and fingers my soul,
until love materializes
with flowers blossoming in blood,
bees buzzing about breast size and landscaping.
crash.
A realization, realized entirely in the glass parts of my spine.
I am a midnight window
in a world full of angry cats.
I kept trying to let them sleep,
but god did they cry.
and sometimes, I let their burdens stay perched until they die.
I don't need anything,
Because I am a fucking superhero,
Because I know how it is to love,
Because I feel fear, and fear feeling.
I have survived this world for 18 years!
Because I have lost everything,
and to find ANYTHING is everything.
But I have spent 19 years breathing
I have spent 18 years walking,
And 17 years talking,
But ask my elbows,
if they know how I ended up,
lying on my back.
body, suffocated by a storm of sheets,
body, removing itself,
mind, nowhere, and everywhere.
kissing you, like I've never been hurt,
Like I've never skinned the face of my fleshy peel.
Like my funny bone hasn't cried,
I love you like I can't even love myself.
And I won't let the tragedy
of a few severed nerves stand in my way.
When you see them,
Ask the elbows if they've ever felt a fall
(wishful, like a shadow in hell)
(beautiful, like a shadow in hell)
(fragile, like a shadow in hell)


Quite like the fall of love (miracle of all miracles, like a shadow in hell)

Quickly,
before a man tells you the infinity of women,
let me try and sound my drums the loudest,
let me beat this into your hand,
so you forever have a scar to frame your face with.
Not the ugly scars you spend caking powder upon,
but the beautiful ones, shaped something like-
sunflowers, texas, hearts, or lightening bolts.
I am an organic wanderer,
farming up ideas of the people,
people quieter than me,
People who have been taught to never speak, unless spoken to.
The same traditions I thought died with my great-grandparents generation,
but a genocide that still, very much exists.
I am the voice for those remaining so near to mute-hood,
they can't even recognize their own ideas,
especially after they've been dipped in ink, and capitalized.
People say "hey man, it's a tough world out there."
Cliches, like "roll with the punches." Or
"Keep on trucking."
Strands of words, interpreted by the simplest of men.
Causing the most complicated to question the simplicity of life.
And we buy into it, us women, we buy their purses,
we buy their shirts, with clever lines printed across our breasts,
because we think it makes us revolutionaries,
when in fact, we become the walking billboard for a world of fashion,
designed by men.
If we can sum up our lives in one philosophical fortune cookie,
then aren't we finished here?
Isn't our work done?
in response to ideas being murdered and raped,
girls tell me media is their muse,
with muted MTV in the background,
Lady gaga spreading her legs in a music video,
singing about freedoms we all had the chance to display first,
even before she copied Madonna,
before pointed bras were back in style.
All of these repeat offenders,
they tell ME, I am wrong.
They ask me questions starting in egotistical slurs,
ending with question marks, hoping I'll interpret their mind fucks
as silly, simple questions.
How dare you forget, NO one is smarter than me.
Have you ever seen the sunset on the glass of an ocean?
I am the woman standing beneath the sea,
capturing the colors, transforming them into words,
so you can hear about the way the sun looks,
while you sit upon mountain tops.
Ignoring the news, fires started by pure laziness,
by the flick of a cellular ember into a forrest
of dry brains, just waiting to be ignited.
And when that fire comes,
they run to us, like tortured, misguided ants,
asking for all the answers.
I have a purple ego,
mellow, yet still it exists.
WOMEN,
I beg of you,
PLEASE give me a reason
to feel like I shouldn't have an ego dripped in lace?
You stand around,
breast in hands,
butt in air,
taking money for sex,
trading looks for souls.
Arguing about how many things you can fit within your holes.
Where is the purpose driven woman?
Where did she go?
The women set on being far more intelligent
than any man they ever wrote about in the bible.
Because in the bible,
ladies, we were nothing but whorish burdens.
And yet, you look to the God who cast you away,
into years of suffering,
menstruation,
the pain of being devirginized,
child birth,
we are the ones who can, and will be raped.
Yet we fall to our knees and say "Thy will be done."
And yes, we are so close to being done,
I am waiting for your skin to burn,
so I can flip you within your tanning bed pan.
none of your flat, drawn out hair twirls,
and sexy curves can be undone.
So the rest of us,
become so ashamed of the rest of you,
we can't help but run.
Run from generalization,
Because if there is something I hate,
it is the acceptance of my fate.
I am woman,
woman stays home,
woman cleans gun,
woman gives birth,
woman shoots self.
When asked about starvation,
you respond with
"Oh no, haven't done that in years."
and cast away microphones within your eerie blush.
And sure, I do not speak of all of you,
the rest of you are poets,
stuck on the inspiration of marijuana,
with this fake ass hippie mind-set,
you speak of "energy" and "flow".
stuck on the migraine keeping you from speaking your mind.
Did you ever once think,
it may be your mind that is keeping you from surpassing the migraine?
Do you ever feel afraid?
What about the mothers of this world?
Drenching our daughters in every shade of pink,
We start off as blank canvas,
and if that's the case,
then PLEASE, cast every mother of every daughter into a fire.
We teach them how to primp,
how to be prim and proper,
how to take care of men.
This is NOT how women should stand.
Un-united, catty, two faced, bitches.
If you can be best described as a dog,
then where have you let your life wander?
I am not the woman you fuck and forget,
I am the wet dream you refuse to wake from.
Because in the heat of my passion,
I will question everything within you,
until you are forced to come to terms with the universe.
I am a universal symbol.
I do not rhyme with money,
I do not taste like honey.
I am the big fish, eating the bear at the bottom of the pond.
The more you realize,
I am powerful,
the more we will have in common.

Belly of the whale

I only wish you could see how perfect I look naked these days,
Glistening in the candle light, tanned by the blush of sex.
Here we still stand,
300 feet apart,
remembering exactly
what it means to hold one another again.
I can feel your nervous pull,
while it drenches a fire within
with kerosine and 11 bottles of rum.
I know you remember what it's like to taste this tender flesh.
It leaks champagne sweat, and you imagine yourself,
drunk off my disposable liquids.
I see how you covet my breasts
and insist on misunderstanding
my laughs of good nature,
as laughs of romance and fearful longing.
You create bitter bites along my spine,
and connect the dots,
until you read what you've been longing to read for years.
"I've moved on."
And in this bitter flash of reality,
spelled across my shoulder bones,
you shudder to think that I can exist without you.
No, I am no longer stuck within the belly of your whale.
I don't mourn our ghosts, dancing across the numbers
painted in pink laying humbly in front of my home.
No,
you have slept so many summers away from me,
I hardly remember just what it was I loved about you.
Because as we stand here,
300 feet apart,
you can't even make me smile.
You so desperately try,
to look into my eyes, and avoid the arrogance I leak.
I know I am the upper hand,
and this is something you'll never grace upon my cheek,
ever again.
300 feet away,
I stand by a man, I once watched
trace spiderwebs through my heart and soul,
binding them so tight, I swear I could never be released,
from the pitiful, and foul skeleton locks,
only, and once,
carelessly unlocked by the hand of your gloved arm.
You reached into me,
and planted the seed of insecurity,
and the waves of self loathing came in long steady tsunamis,
until I located that part within,
and tricked her into taking her old and miserable life with her.
To the floor of the ocean, to treetops, and mountain peaks.
I watched her drown, fall, and disappear into banks of pure snow.
and now you have no schizophrenic minions of mine,
You're left wondering, who is left to mourn the old you,
and now that, she, the insecurity, fades away into a swift, suicidal explosion.
how will you ever return to unlock the best parts of me?

bad news

I don't like bracing myself for bouts of terrible information.
Bad news,
bad news,
bad news,
Fuck, it's everywhere.
It drips off the noses of everyone,
it's laying on my bed,
it's flying in the sky,
it's glowing red,followed by green.
It's handsome, and it's smiling at me.
It's fragile and decaying on my front porch.
It's making me blush
so hard that I've forgotten about complexion.
It's burning down my forrest.
bad news.

Letters to myself

Dear me,
Feel GOOD.
Feel far,
feel freaky,
feel fantastic,
feel fucked up,
feel anything.
Feel anxiety,
feel overwhelmed,
feel sheltered,
feel fragile,
feel smart,
feel beautiful.
Feel something.
feel frustrated,
feel loved,
feel gracious,
feel happy,
feel grateful,
Feel anything.
feel sharp,
feel dull,
feel life,
feel content,
feel sorrow,
feel grief,
Feel God.
feel something.
Feel soft,
feel laughter,
feel crazy,
feel energetic,
feel pain,
feel fear.
feel.
feel.
feel.
anything.

The plants.

I have a place
in my backyard
where ivy rules,
where trees are welcome to spread their branches, and take over.
I sit on an old box,
light cigarettes,
and let the sun nourish the plant within me.
I like this place,
because I'm not responsible for anything
except the plant within me.
People like to think of themselves as work in progress,
Canvas with much white to spare.
But where is the art in assuming this?
I don't know what I am.
I don't think I've ever known.
I'm so tired of piecing together moments of my life,
understanding myself one quilted memory at a time.
Don't tell me you're fun.
Don't tell me anything,
We spend so much time explaining ourselves,
there's hardly enough time in the day to actually live.
And that's what I do when I sit here,
I answer to no one,
I feel no remorse,
I pay no attention,
I just live.

Treat?

Good boy,
sitting right where I left you,
tattooing your skin with hopeless pictures
they speak, only to you.
Especially when you're lonely,
when I don't pick up the phone.
You can explain away everything,
that's your gift,
to kill,
kill,
kill
anyone that says otherwise.
But with me,
you fold,
with a listless poker face,
and your love is an obvious give away,
that you've not forgotten
a damn thing about me.
You fall asleep with my smile,
pinned to your eyelids.
You can explain away anything,
except me.
Good boy,
stay.

Ayita

I like my skin best when it's dark.
I feel so in touch with the best parts of my DNA.
The parts that make up the savage in me,
the stubborn parts of me,
passed on by years of begrudged compliance.
I don't like the white skin of mine,
it looks too weak, too normal, too sheltered.
I am none of those things,
I am a beautiful woman,
but I have struggled.
I like people to know that I am an indian healer.
I like to mystify people with facts about the earths medicine.
I like to lay upon legs, and heal the crippled,
for I, myself have been crippled.
And know what it means to live trapped within yourself.
I tell stories,
about moments I've lived.
I write poetry about the insides of my brain,
I am an honest woman,
which comes from the indian in me,
certainly not the white.
When you pick your breads,
You have been told that the white bread holds no nutritional value.
You, instead reach for the multigrain, or the wheat.
Why embrace the parts of you, that are no good for you?
In the womb,
My grandmother, with her long fingers,
placed her hand upon my mothers belly.
She was an indian healer, and she needed to give me a name.
She called me "Eyita" which means "first to dance."
How did she know that I would spend my life dancing?
Above all things, how did she know, I would be the first to break the ice?
That's my personality in a nutshell,
never afraid to be the first to dance.
And even though I admire my birth name,
being "Olivia" or a "peace maker" seems so unrealistic at times.
Some days I spend living as Olivia,
I cook, I clean, I speak softly, I make peace.
But the days I spend as Eyita, I feel most alive.
The nights I am onstage, glowing.
That isn't Olivia, that is Eyita.
The nights I feel too much, burdened by the evil in this town,
That is Olivia.
And though I seem strong as Olivia,
I am a lesser version of who I would truly, and always love to be.
I am an indian woman.
I am not white.
I am Eyita.

Loathing in love

Its hard to imagine what life would have been like
submerged in waterfalls,
painted by the careless colors of your spine.
You were true to nobody,
which is why I admired the chase you helped me pursue.
I told you secrets, the deepest on the radar,
the ones that were scorned away by the sea,
melting salt into the pores,
stinging away the truth,
the shingle like memories, hang on the roof of my skull,
sheltering the parts of me, I keep for me, and myself only.
Love is like:
Nothing and everything.
The picture perfect button eyes of a child,
the feel of a roses warm caress
the petals take on my warmth, and mold to my skin.
They are shells on the beach,
they wash away between high tide, and low.
What I need is a good shower,
to cleanse myself of the cuts,
and the dirty battle fields of this war-love,
the kind that screams until your eardrums burst,
until the rhythm of dying is how we learn to make love.
I plug my ears, and dodge the bullets in slow motion,
You shelter me, after you shoot me.
As I lay,
my back to the worms,
I see the sky,
nothing but sepia tone bursting from the clouds,
If you look into my eyes,
you'd find love.
But you keep your eyes on my chest,
you follow the beats of my heart,
You have come to worship me on my deathbed.
I am the hallow woman you've come to read about.
I have housed your thrusts,
which trickled down my leg and left me,
After hours of promises whispered into sheets.
You'll never leave me.
Of course not,
it never just goes away.
Physically, you will remove yourself.
Mentally, you remain just as clear as the sun.
I was at war with myself,
throwing grenades at the mirror,
You sad man, the only song I've sung for you
wasn't a song at all,
it was a a battle cry, long forgotten.
But as the sounds quake from behind my throat,
every woman who has ever lost,
cries.
Where is love now?
The paint is chipping from my face,
and my blue lips frighten you as we embrace.
My pure skin,
cold and sad,
like the voice of a violin.
It fades in the corners of your mind,
and you sleep.
Love is: I am-
Sleeping.

Moth

How could this moth die
perfectly sprawled out on my chair?
I went to sit, and grew cold
with the idea of my rest,
being another creatures final rest.
At first, I touched his feet,
to make sure he wasn't just scared.
But there he remained,
so still, and so poised.
I'm sure he was ready to fly,
But not that far.

The dangerous

Where would you be,
If I hadn't ruined the best of you?
That's how it is,
that's what it's become.
A blame game, and I'm stuck
in a bottomless pit of excuses.
I was so young.
I was so careless.
I was a mess.
If it's apologies you need,
I've sent them.
If it's my love you still crave,
my venom you need,
I've still got it.
You call me,
drunk.
I answer,
sober.
And here we go,
the whys, and the ways of love.
I don't know why I left,
I always pictured myself returning,as a better version of myself.
When I was done being so sad.
I was so young,
I was so careless,
I was a mess.
If only you knew
how many flowers I've received
from other men,
faking their ways into my heart.
All the petals I've plucked from seedy stems,
and squashed beneath my heel,
They aren't you.
And no matter how hard I will myself,
I can't open my eyes,
quite as wide as I did with you.
While they kiss my spine,
My skin rejects any love, that isn't yours.
Shaking, and sweating,
They mistake my act for something sexy.
But it is pitiful,
and it is tragically overdone.
I never thought I would miss the anguish of our love,
but your spaceship still flies by my window,
sprinkling fear and remorse on my bed.
I still picture you in the grass,
flipping your hat in circles,
until you shifted the tip
enough to shield your freckled eyes from the sun.
You'd call me spineless,
if you knew it wouldn't kill me.
But you hold back your venom,
Like I could not.
I'm so young,
I'm so careless,
I'm still a mess.
But this time, I don't have you to blame.
And it's easier,
if you just keep your distance,
so I can never get the best of you, ever again.
So you can sleep alone, and mean it.
So I can sleep alone.

BRO

What do you need to know?
Press it against me,
and I'll shed a tear for the ego you once knew.
You feel me bro?
Nah, I doubt it.
You don't know the corners of the universe like I do.
I've gone places,
and remained in this seat the whole time.

Just stay still, and shutup.
that's how I like em'.


You feel me?
You feel me?
Hey? You feel me?
Good.

> or < or =

There is a ballerina drifting across my jewelry box mind.
She spins, and remains perfectly poised,
plastic, skinny, shiny, blonde.
filling my usual silence with sighs.
The adoration of my own thought process makes me a dull woman.
If I ever catch myself loving who I am too much,
I take notes on things like my toes,
which will forever and always remain ugly.
I stare at my feet rooted to the black floor boards beneath them,
I thank them, silently, but always.
For letting me stand, even when I was too short to see.
Its easy to crochet and knit away pain,
But my spiny fingers preferred the purr of a piano,
the ivory wanna-be keys acting as beds for my pointer fingers.
I fall in love with the sexy sounds I produce,
all natural, and organic,
sprinkled with the sounds of life I love enough to recall more than once.
I thank whomever I owe this pleasant existence to
for allowing me to be the creature I am.
For allowing my voice to echo, in the deepest parts of the darkest caves.
So at least, if I die alone, I'll never forget how to speak to walls.
It's so lovely to touch my face, and feel nothing but skin.
The same skin, my freckles blossomed on,
after the sun had overly nourished my pores.
The same skin many men have placed their hands upon,
and swore to never leave.
the same skin I've stretched and returned after bouts of
body image dysmorphia after they did leave.
When I felt like a blank 16 year old.
When I was orchestrated by projected obsessions.
When I just wanted to fuck, and dance.
The commercials were all around me, and still they remain.
Playing louder and louder,
In the ears of most, it is preferred:
garbage > static.
So just as long as it isn't black and gray etched across a screen,
they will love it.
I'm so glad I left that part of me behind,
and I left it right where I found it.
Dying in the passenger seat of someone else's car.
I became ill with media,
suffering to avoid grande coffees every morning,
feeling guilty when my umbrella no longer served as a shield from the rain,
but a fashion statement, expensive and bold.
Now I run in the rain, and pity those who still remain shielded.
If you would like to think any water is Holy, allow it to be rain.
At least you know, if there is a God,
the raindrops were once at his feet.
I like to think that maybe once, in a short previous life,
I was a raindrop.
Because even here, with a human heart, and a working mind,
I know I've touched the sky.
I can't help but feel betrayed by anatomy books,
with all their different maps to my heart.
I wish I could have been the person
to discover the beat of my heart before anyone else.
before my mother placed her hand against my chest at infancy and said
"Hear that?"
I should have been the first person
to discover the rhythm of my own soul.
Before any doctor, or any mother.
We become jaded,
assuming the beats will always be there.
mechanically, funky, and raw.
If I listen hard enough,
I can hear just how my soul wanted to groove,
before anyone else told me how it should be.
What's fashionable is being alive,
being so alive that you can recognize when your beats
become someone else's,
In the hearts of most it's:
sight > thoughts
But my thoughts are so colorful and loud,
I will be the one to break the mold.
I am, and will remain alive enough to know,
this is and this isn't me.

Ex:

I never fell for the left footed love
of a right handed man,
I don't trust a single person,
whether they draw with their hands,
or shoot with their feet.
It's the insanity of being human,
I know what they are.
Because I am, in fact, one.
So it will do you no use,
to explain how different you are,
I know.
It's when I find people
that aren't constantly trying to explain themselves.
that hope is restored.

Sleep Walker

I hope one day I sleep walk to you,
with my eyes closed tight,
so tight that you could walk on them,
like the man in the circus.
I'll walk through my door
With an iris projection,
keeping me walking on a selfish path to love.
I hear you say my name
under your breath as you fall asleep.
As I feel your name make its way,
coursing it's self throughout my thoughts,
touching my veins in a sexy, electric way.
I can't find it in me to curse this connection,
I cradle it, and spoon feed it like I'd nurture my own young.
I guess my mind is cruel,
sharing with me, unique dreams of how our first kiss would go,
you'd place your hand on the curve of my spine,
and tilt my chin,
just like a dream.
Because it is.
Please just once, let me wake to the touch of your skin.
I need your warmth,
"I can feel it coming."
I can't hear you say goodbye one more time,
without seeing you say it first.
I want to hear you say my name,
as I watch you chew the vowels,
while they reluctantly leave the safe haven of your mouth.
They, much like myself, cannot wait to return.
Return to the touch of your lips,
because upon arrival the only fear I can imagine,
is the fear of letting go.
as you calm my fears,
and stroke the spine of my love,
I close my eyes,
and sleep, just to dream of you.

Give up

The moon is wild,
giving me every reason to stretch my legs,
giving me motive to motion,
to turn myself on.
I hold down gallons of scorpions,
pinching the velvet sewn into my skin.
They crawl everywhere,
leaving behind their poison charm,
murdering moments I've tattooed upon my hip.
Ideas of who I'd like to be,
a monster.
Where are you going?
Somewhere impressive I hope.
Because I'm tired of giving my self away
to give ups, and empty dreamers.
begging to be released from my dark lullabies.
They are so ugly, but they are mine,
so I will love them.
All of these memories are ugly,
but they are mine,
birthed from the canal of my cannibalistic brain
So no matter how dark,
I will love them.

Prayer number one:

Being the object of several desires
gives you the objectivity to crave nothing.
I find myself growing out of this body,
growing into a space above my brain.
A place that is safe enough to call a retreat.
This is where I go, when I want to feel humbled.
When I hear nothing but silence as I walk into a place
sheltering nothing but ver'men' and egotistical suits.
Men,
Hushing one another to catch a glimpse of my charm.
If I crave nothing, and I eat nothing,
as it goes, I must be nothing.
So why should a man love me?
Cliches aside,
I could never be content with being a face in a room.
I hunger for being the voice in a crowd,
laughter in silence.
However,
Nobody ever shows pity to the girl in a red dress,
not once have I been asked for the time
with the intention of ever knowing the answer.
Not once will someone compliment my thoughts before my apparel.
Lately, I don't shower,
I don't wear layers of anything,
I just want the outside of me,
to prove nothing.
In fact-
I want nothing more than to prove my face wrong.
Yet, as a woman in the end
I'll find myself, a slave to the mirror.
Just like my mother,
crimping and primping,
shaving, and lasering,
fixing and filtering.
I am not a cold queen yet,
I don't ask who is the fairest of them all.
I'm not vain enough,
and even if I were,
mirrors are seldom honest.
If you could see me now,
the insides of me, twisted into cement
shattering into a powder I inhale to feel at ease.
You'd understand.
And maybe with the deterioration of my pale, smooth skin,
I will find the love of my life,
and maybe, for once,
he'll truly love me.