Nov 04

The Saint of Salem

People are cruel.
People are violent.
In a blizzard,
I meet the tyrant.

She stands tall.
She stands straight.
I met her
at hell's open gate.

Her hands on
her body's dips,
my blood
upon her arched lip.

She told lies.
She told me
that death
was a squealing glee.

It was piggish
but truly gentle
and I will enter
its giddy open kennel. 

I pleaded mercy
from her judgement,
and dare I
admit my bowed lament.

She handed me
the bluest bane
and soon,
my dearest wish came.

A taller martyr,
a saint in Salem,
with words
said solely in caelum.

I raised myself,
awakened a sense,
that relieved
my crooked mind so tense.

I saw an abyss.
I saw a blackness.
My hand
couldn't lift this
nothing to procure
Nov 01

Back

I lost it a nine years ago,
but you brought it back.
It was floating in water,
but you brought it back.
It was burned to ash,
but you brought it back.

You, above all people-
you, above all things-
brought it back.

I don't know how or when
but you did it.
How do I brush it off when
it all just settled?
How does a lifetime take
so long to start?

I lost the glory in everything
and you presented
the most glorious thing of all.
You didn't even look,
you just showed me the world
in all its disturbed
and tiredless, sleepless imagery.
That was all it took
to bring the world back to me.

I never lost it after all.
 
Oct 26

Going Alone

The mist is moving.
My legs walk through.
They disappear beneath me
and I become a phantom.
I stop to look over
my stiff shoulder.
I see the horizon in waves
darkening as I go further.
My hand is cold
as I move along.
It's the first thing that died
when I abandoned my life.
I lost my heart
in the snow.
I tried to find it but it's gone.
I can't weep because it's gone.
I lost my life
in the storm.
There's nothing here to keep me
and my hand beside me warm.
There's nothing left
to grasp onto.
Reaching through heavy mist,
I'm touching the reaper's cloak.
The sweetness
of a rotting world
rolls off of his tongue and onto
the waves of mist that I breathe.
With this hand
and this heart,
death has veiled my crown.
Forbid and forgive this body.
I have long
given into him.
 
Oct 05
poem 1 comment challenge: Winter/18

The Season of Night

The world is darker in winter.
The wind begins to bite.
It no longer runs its fingers
across my warm cheeks.
It pinches them with its cold
and frozen hands, dead
like a corpse that whispers.
White little flakes melt
and spot my black mascara.
They make tears feel
nice and comfortably warm.
Their intricate patterns
beyond naked hazel eyes
break from up close.
Lips blow mists as shoulders
lift and fall and relax.
Scarves curl up like cats on
tense and cold necks.
The sky is cloudy and heavy
with frozen white mist.
Coughs are sent into elbows
and pink watercolors
brush cold noses and cheeks.
The night prevails in
darker skies and a single star.
The bells and voices
of a choir in carol sing along.
"Hark how the bells!
Sweet silver bells!" and all
grows quiet as winds
moan the carols of the dead.
 
Sep 30

Ghost Thoughts

I woke up with sweat spotting my temples. I was gasping for air, but the room was devoid of it. The terrible nightmare that I had endured was over, but the scariest part was yet to come. My feet were cold as they had always been. My hands felt like chistled ice. My body felt like it was hours dead and stiff joints poked at my sides. I looked into the bathroom mirror and saw a white face like a ghost looking in on itself. My eyes were lined with quarter moons -dark as they were. They felt bruised and puffy, but they were just fine. Legs exhausted, I shuffled towards the medicine cabinet to take numbing drops for my throat. As I let the pain numb down, I coughed and yacked and my stomach squeezed.
Sep 27
poem 0 comments challenge: Portrait

Pale Grey and Blue

Paler than the moon,
almost like death,
but better.

Beach blond hair,
not quite straight,
but close.

Spots on your face,
but what's a moon,
without stars?

Tall and sort of lean,
but not too lean,
just right.

Sweatshirts and oh yes,
the headphones.
Perfect.

I always seem to notice,
the grey eyes,
but blue.

And they're always lost,
in thought or,
concentration.

They wrinkle in laughter,
and darken when,
focused.

A sort of anti-social,
but assuring,
person.
Sep 26

Black Flies

I saw them,
outside my window,
outside my door,
out on the patio;
swarming
tiny bodies
rising in a chorus,
out of harmony,
out of tune,
out of line.

I saw them,
beneath the bed,
beneath the rug,
behind the TV,
humming
little things,
breaking everything
on the walls,
on the shelves,
on the tables.

I saw them,
around my legs,
around my arms,
around my head,
screaming
angry things,
sucking the air out,
of this house,
of this room,
of these lungs.

Today, I saw black flies.
The storm brews,
the cat growls,
the day is night,
the sun is dark.
Where has it gone?
I am blind.

There is a black blindfold
around my head
and I walk like a zombie
out of the house,
into the night,
beneath the black sky-
the sky of death.
There's a whole swarm
Sep 21

On A Monday

I can't remember June.
There was an instance
of laughter
and love
that found me,
perhaps,
on a Monday.

Was it a Wednesday?
I can't quite recall.
I can't
seem
to remember
it all.
On a Monday.

Yes, on a Monday
it was. I was grateful
to be
happily
alive and well,
but low
behold,
that dreadful Monday. 

There was no work to be done,
no school to attend,
but in the end,
the very
last hour,
I slumped
and cried
on that horrible Monday.

I thought of how once I was
so happy and lively.
My innocence,
a thing
of present
and beautiful future.
I lost it
on a Thursday
when I was eight
and happy.
That horrible Thursday.

Mondays are for groaning,
the day's work ahead,
but that Monday
was for mourning
my life
my spirit
my smiling,
Sep 20
poem 0 comments challenge: Almost

Almost

The scene in front of her
was almost perfect.
Almost.
Her lips were pursed,
pink and flourishing,
saying things,
sweet,
that tasted like candy
and powdered sugar
on her tongue.
It was almost perfect,
(Click!)
the sound.
It was a noise
that signified perfection,
but that sound,
(Click!)
never came
when mascara
ran down her beautiful,
almost smiling,
almost perfect,
face.
(Click!)
Her heel turned.
She faced her,
the tears running,
her lips quivering,
pursed and pink and
flourishing.
The wind was silent,
almost deadly
as the distance
gaped. Gaps
never close
when blushing,
beautiful people,
who have been told
their whole lives
that they are,
seriously,
perfect,
turn pale,
eyes puffy,
and never see
the beauty in
Sep 19

While She's Here

She is the in-between
of heaven
and hell,
a devil
and angel
without horns
or halo.
Her wings are black,
beaten,
plucked,
damaged,
but soaring
and opening
in love.
She is a queen dethroned,
her crown
tossed and
broken
without even
a ceremony
or coronation.
Her skin is soft as silk,
wrapped
in layers
around
her lovely flesh.
I was on her shoulders,
high and
low again,
yet I am,
once again,
on her back,
hugging,
and she will never know
that someone
like myself
sees her
and smiles.
Please, give me this.
Allow me
to love
again just
for a while.
While she's here.
I'm afraid,
of our parting.
I'm afraid,
to love,
but I want
this feeling
to last for as long
as life
allows.
Sep 10

Two Leaning Stones

I have family in Canada and my mother, sister, father, and I were on our way to visit them. It was my father's birthday and he had greeted us with a smile that only birthdays could give. We hummed back because we were still half asleep. It was 9:00 AM, but my father and I had stayed up late. I was revising a story I had written a year ago and decided that it was alright to submit since I was too exhausted to truly critique it. I had gone to sleep at around 12:30 AM, but I've always had trouble falling asleep at night, so I didn't sleep until around 1:30 AM. We packed our bags and climbed into the car. My sister was driving, my father was in the passenger seat, and my mother and I sat in the back. It was a rainy and foggy day and the smell of petrichor had already settled into the morning air. We were taking our three and a half hour journey and were going to head onto the north highway soon. As the car rumbled on, we passed a cemetary that seemed ominous amongst the fog and shadows.
Sep 03

We Have Mourned Weightless Corpses

They never told me
that I am dead.
All they said
was that I have changed.
This body that I
have to carry
is weightless
and I'm bound to it in chains.
And they never told me
the consequence
of being dead.
Everyone here faced death alone.
I was a suicide.
There are many
different ways
to die that are horrible.
The murdered ones
enforce justice
amongst the wrongful.
There are demons
on earth and in
this so-called heaven.
They kill because they miss life.
They are vengeful
and blood lust
as a way to cope
with their own funeral marches.
I am a ghost
-this I know
but my death
was too quick to judge me,
so I am here
an extra
with no compass
to guide my spirit back home.
I pluck piano keys
and sing alone
to please the haunt
but I still can't remember why
and perhaps
for my sake
Sep 03

1 AM

10:44 AM
I'm tired but I'm awake.
Late night.
Morning coffee.
Everything is sunlit dining tables
and open curtains.

12:30 PM
My sandwich is tasty.
Filling up
another cup
to fend off the late night nerves
slowing way down.

3:55 PM
I'm not hungry anymore.
My ribs
stick out
like a birdcage beneath a sheet,
of pale pink baige.

6:00 PM
My dinner never changes,
same as
every day
that I have been too skinny,
to grow up strong.

8:30 PM
I haven't spoken to them,
my friends
who care
but never ask me if I'm
in any way okay.

11:21 PM
I've been sleepy all day,
and I
wonder 
if there is a cure to this,
tireless migraine.

12:35 AM
It's late and I am tired,
but not
all too
weak enough to collapse,
in reaping arms.

1:00 AM
Four years and I am,
Sep 02

The Quiet Heart

There isn't a sound in my heart,
not a cry,
or a whisper,
not a whimper,
or a sigh,
but there is a hallowness that I,
can feel.

There isn't a sound in my heart,
not a thud,
or a squeak,
not an echo,
or a creak,
but there is a hole with a leak,
unfixed.

There isn't a sound in my heart,
and if I,
ever had one,
it would not,
feel like this,
for this leaking hallowed darkness,
is silent.
 
Aug 25

The Woods Where Children Die

There was a mist,
upon the mountain,
and I saw it,
from the window.
I must resist,
the urge to follow,
the blue lady,
across the meadow.
And if she offers,
a blue rose or hand,
I must decline,
or run as far as I can.
The moth drowns,
in a cup of blood.
I know I saw,
the impending flood.
To look upon her,
and meet her eye,
in the woods,
where children die,
is why the moth,
with its wings undry,
licked off the taste,
of tears gone to waste.
"Shush, child,"
she says to me,
"The children will awaken,
at the strike of three."
To this night,
I hear the grandfather,
cry throughout the house,
and I can hear,
the children inside of him,
giddy to come out.