time

Things taken for granted
each day
leave unphased,
you soak in them,
unnoticed and soon forgotten;
seldom remembered,
if ever.

But the moments of
sorrow and despair,
when you felt something
within your fragile mechanisms stop
and the wheels,
the bridges,
the ticking mechanisms,
bevels,
stems,
mainstays
and jewels
sift through your hands...

No longer a time piece
but a piece of time
that altered you

you will never be the same
again.

Broken.

Unable to be reassembled.

When I feel those moments
I like to pretend I'm an orphan,
my memory is a train-
I can see it getting smaller
as it pulls away.

But the things
I can't remember
tell
the things I can't forget.

That kind of history
puts a saint
in every dream.

fragile

There's nothing new to this hurt process
Wasting trust, squandering feelings like tokens.
Though, I recollect when dreams formed unsullied
stacked like wedding china
And I, a bride for the world

machete

I'm tearing through the underbrush of my mind, scratching the floor of my existence to try and find what it is that is the element of it all. What does it come down to? Disappointingly, I cannot hunt or corner it. I cleave to this urge to machete my way through it all: the pain, the sentiments, the memories, the faces and if I must, through the days. Is there a still pool somewhere? I thirst, with no cup and dirty hands.

ophelia

Sometimes I feel like Ophelia. I'm standing in the middle of the promenade. Im counting flowers out to the rhythm of lullaby's gone by. I'm wishing the violets in my mind hadn't withered and died. The flames are licking at my skin, which is threatening to fall away like the skin of the ripest fruit. I'm trying to get people to listen to me, but the words come out backwards. And with this infinite amount of reason and god like judgment I'll lean against the railing and scream my song for the court to hear.


I wonder if anyone would fight at my funeral. Would the leaves crunch under you as you strangled the one that I gave orchids to? I can hear the heavy breathing of you against my back. I can feel the hands against my skin. Cold and metallic, grasping at my flesh and pulling me backwards into the wet dirt of my home. My home with the granite headstone. The acid rain will erode my name soon and the ivy's will call the sarcophagus their home.


There's silence in the water. Thick, inky silence.

Let me drown in this silence

And watch my flames burn the surface of your quiet contributions.