Tag Archives: wounds

Eighteen Years and Twenty-Somethings

Was picking up pieces when you
Gave me a reason to be
Falling down the middle
Crawling ’round a little
And I see that space in your head
And I want to fill it in…

~*~

I want to throw my irrational fears down my favourite set of stairs

And fade away the wounds that once defined my unsteady hands

I want the chance to breathe without polluting my lungs with ashen doubts

Drag me out of the skin I’ve beaten within until they can understand

.

So take the breakdowns that broke me up and replace the faulty intuition

The devil on my shoulder won’t compare to the angels in the television

Hang up on this week-long hangover and stop hanging my neck by the rafters

Still deluded by bad choices and old mementos and happy ever afters

.

The kids are not alright these days, and their clothes are stained with sad

But I didn’t think I know that I knew until I have it bleeding out and bent-up bad

So there’s a little cold weather, that’s gonna get a little better, maybe there’s a little sun

Maybe it just doesn’t exist in my head, maybe my moon will have someone

.

So maybe hope doesn’t belong to me just yet, and these noisy voices won’t shut up

Maybe I’m suffering from silent anxiety, shot through the ceiling, it won’t stop

But this time I won’t let it win, I’ll catch it by the tail and let myself spin

Spiraling all the way to space, I’ll crawl through constellations until I find that something.

~*~

I won’t lose my grip, don’t let go
No, I won’t lose my grip, don’t let go
I think I found that something
I think I’ll finally breathe right in
I think I feel that love I won’t give up
I think you soaked into my skin
So much has come from nothing…

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No thanks, I’m not hungry.

There’s no one left lying on the second story floorboards
And I’m sure they heard next door, but the bottles are hollow now
And there’s room at the bottom and I would
Take it all back if I could, but I won’t!

~*~

There are rumours at the bottom of my bottle

And the windows are filled with hazy complaints

I’ve got a dollar and a nosebleed left in my pocket

Take a rocketship to the right and a bullet to left

Surrogate phantoms take their place in my head

Because the original ghosts left a long, long time ago

I don’t want to find it, so I lock it all up in my chest

My hands tied to the anchor, but they don’t need to know

There are starving liars at the bottom of the ocean

And the metal submarine has a growing hole on the floor

I’ve got a stick of gum and a bruise left in my pocket

Take the low blows when I go and the gunshot wounds to go.

~*~

Sit back, get my palette wet
Getting mentally prepared
For the consequences
And you know why
Because the neighbors
Have complained damn near every night…

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insensitive

today i slammed

my thick dumb head

on the hard concrete wall

until it bled and bled

because i was just bored

because i felt dead

because i’m too impatient

and made of pure lead

but it wasn’t as cool

so i moved on to needles

stab sharp pricks on my hand

as i made up a riddle

and the red lighter, it did

such an amazing job

it was quite a burn—literally

and these blisters i’ll have

for the rest of my life

just like the scars i made

all from yesterday and today

with the edge of my blade

no, i don’t like the abuse

i just like the pent-up violence

and if i had to take it out

better me than anyone else

so fucking call me masochistic

it’s not like i’d feel insulted

or maybe i will—try me

if that works, good job, friend

‘cause i’m just too numb

and the pain is only fun

when you stop caring about everything

and start aching for the gun.

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anatomical dissection: nerves

they love bruises

like crushed plums

and gaping slits

like cranberry juice

and they love to

paint the sky with it

because they think

it’s so bloody beautiful

.

with tortured grins

and metal instruments

and a blindfold to the

eyes of the ignorant

sickening voices coo

“this won’t hurt at all”

while making sure that

the pain lasts an eternity.

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They’re Better Off Without You

Arrogant boy, when will you ever learn?

That this world is not made up of roses and thorns

Sometimes the blossoms wilt but the weeds will remain

Waiting for a chance to stick briers in your name

You can stop chasing good girls by their hourglass hips

And bringing more rounds of vodka and shotgun to your lips

You can stop using your arms as a substitute ashtray

Or your skin as ivory to carve out sculptures in scarlet clay

And all your best friends that proclaim they’re sincere

Draw insults behind your back and say it’s good fun and fair

They don’t have time for drama, but get front row seats

When you’re deep in the mess, entangled in bullshit

Your smile is bleeding out, teeth scattered on the sidewalk

“Good one, guys” you say, but they never want to talk

Your eyes don’t need fists to be darker than they already are

The lack of sleep does that, when you have come home from war

You read the daily newspapers to know about everything else

Trying to care about them, when you don’t know anything about yourself

You give up your seat for others, thinking it’s an act of selflessness

When in reality, you just hate yourself to much to deserve any duress

And you think that you’re happy, but you’re just distracted

Choosing to admire the vivid carnage when you have self-destructed

Because it’s all the same to you, and it just doesn’t matter whether

Your life gets blown apart mile-high or moves inch by inch like a feather

Blind boy, when will you see that they’re all laughing at you?

Your youth is too old to pursue the optimism of a hard-knock truth

When can you draw the broken line between a break-up and a breakdown?

When will you stop trying to swim and simply let yourself drown?

Ignorant boy, don’t be sorry for believing the lies, but will you ever even learn

That this dismal, ravaged wreck of a world will turn and turn and turn

No matter how much you stumble, trip, and cry on your faded hand-me-down shirt

Time won’t stop, your friends won’t care, your wounds will still bleed and burn

You can scream but no one will listen; foolish boy, don’t you see you’re not much worth?

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W i t h o u t · A · S h a r p e r · K n i f e

Honesty sold-out at face value, the price you pay for distance

The depth of your wounds can’t be measured by the doctors in the ambulance

Complicate my rising lungs and grip my falling chestnut hair

Sleep in, I won’t keep bleeding out dreams if I know you’re always right there

This battle is yours to expiate, with every star there is to count

As multitudinous as the silver glistening in your face, an ebony ink tantamount

You’re regressing back to the rejected days of golden senescence

I wouldn’t let go of the only part of my life that makes any semblance of a sense.

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metal & skin (xxxiv.)

i’m speaking to the red slits

as if they were your own lips

of the words you’ll never hear

when you attempt to interfere

i’m speaking to the scarlet slits

’cause i know they’ll never reply

and i don’t have to listen to bullshit

that i know soon i’ll just fucking defy.

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Nightly Vigils

her broken fingers trembled

as the vivid scars on her pale neck

drew another drop of blood

and dripped down her cotton gown

.

the dim lamp pulled back

arches of demonic silhouettes

sleeping beside her with

their fangs bared beneath fragile flesh

,

she was terrified to move

even a sinew or a twitch of a muscle

frightened that she might get hurt

scared that she might feel pain again

.

the stars cackled their sympathies

in the cracks of the closed venetian blinds

and the moon was like a watchful eye

under an impairing blindfold

.

the night was dragged by the ticking

of the ancient pendulum clock

every now and then clanging boastfully

but she didn’t flinch; no, she daren’t

.

simply lying there in silent agony

without a warning or a clue of

the dust that gathers in her eyes like

the old tears she couldn’t shed anymore

.

and her incensed thoughts were louder

than the wailing, moaning, and screeching

of the vile creatures she was damned

to remain in ill-fated company with

,

she gritted her teeth and clenched her knuckles

as the abominations stirred, squirming and

writhing in her mattress, and every touch

felt like a thousand tiny pieces of rusty razors

.

her catatonic body was stiff as a corpse

as she counted the hours until morning arrives

when all the monsters disappear from her room

so she could stop holding her stale breath

and bandage her freshly-cut wounds.

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Mary’s Counting Dead Sheep Again

Mary had a little dream
Her eyes were blank and cold
And everywhere that Mary went
The beasts were sure to go…

~*~

Another night spent where there’s nothing but wasted thoughts arbitrarily presenting itself behind my star-sewn eyelids, slaughtering and slandering what little is left of the fleecy drowsiness that I stared the myriad astral bodies into. Horizons blend from honeysuckle sunsets into a velvety-rich midnight, every jaded memory and faded remembrance lying somnolent on my bed, and activated by the flick of an overused lamp switch. Nondescript chagrin is pressing softly at the back of my inundated throat; later on I’m aware that this force will grow until I begin to choke and fail to intake oxygen. For now, I exhale tiredly. The weight of the world trails behind my breath and sinks in the disturbed dust, kicking up old resentments.

I feel vexed. I shouldn’t be trusted to live up to the chimerical expectations that everyone has written down for me in indelible ink, as if it was the byzantine code that would unlock my stubborn rusted heart if they sharpened their blunt needles and tattooed it under the layers of my diaphanous flesh, into my clenched and straining muscles. It hurts, doesn’t it? The bared grins sneer unsympathetically, claws holding me down with incontestable strength, and it’s all I could do to complacently nod, cautiously wary of the glinting guillotine that’s dangling only inches away from my stiffened neck. I’m merely a plaster-cast mind, deranged and cracking under the pressure of the tattered cassock’s final judgment, and someday they will unsheathe me and mock my abstract art.

Despite the vainglorious efforts, painstaking hands filling in the voided gaps with purified liquid gold won’t fix me. It may look to be a desirable effect; yes, and perhaps it would do me good to have a little bit of luminance in the bare, simple vessel I questionably call my body. But in the end it’s nothing but a deceitful playact, an illusion of smoke and mirrors, fragrant cerise roses beneath the ravenous mucilage monster waiting for dear sweet Mary to reach out her delicate hands and get her cherry blonde locks entangled in the lethal thorns. And I do not wish to be darling strawberry-cheeked Mary, adored and oh-so glorified by everyone, yet playing the unfortunate lifeless victim in the end. I won’t be the one being grieved over, I won’t be at the receiving end of the sword; rather, I’ll be the merciless hand holding the ax and wiping the poison off her pallid blue lips.

And where does the verdict of the counseling jury lie, staring down upon me condescendingly with my indelible inked-on vices and gaping neck wounds from grazing the guillotine blade and the inevitable tempered gold patching up my shattered bones, as I hide the bloody murder weapon behind my back and cross my broken fingers, still tasting little Mary’s most saccharine sin and feeling the prickling sensations dig deep into my engraved palms? Will they immediately claim me guilty? Or is my goading charisma enough to get the edacious wolves begging for my forgiveness to save the hunt for another day? The questions hang from my pastel ceiling dreamily, yet the answer rests in my lurid nightmares, I know. I know. For now, I hold my breath and slowly close my star-sewn eyelids, counting the wasted thoughts dragging into another night spent and another soul selling out. One, two, three, four, five…

~*~

…They followed her when she woke up
She woke up, she woke up
They crept into her fragile heart
And made its beating stop.

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