Dream StormA swirling, whirling mass in side my brainHead against my pillow, when one part shuts off the other comes out to playAn eternity of possibilities, usually the weirdest onesArranged according to thoughts and conflicts to imprint messagesGrowing in intensity and focus, almost living and real but impossibly notHorrifying, screaming horror, pleasant smiles, and the tinkling of laughsA brew set to boil, the fumes begin to emergeThe complete mass of all existent feelings tendrils out of the pencil still gripped in my hand onto the bed sheetRipping itself from flatness, it jumps from the bed to my desk where a pen lays clicked openSucking the permanent-ness from the pen, it then finds a blank piece of paper and curls up to wait peacefully until it will existA line gathers itself from her breath and floats above her head- DREAMSTORMShe smiles in her sleep.
Wana Wanayou used to saythe rain had knivesand the mist had fingersbut wana you were wrongthe rain is my cloakand the mist is my bathyou always saidthat my hair was yarnand my eyes were dirtbut no wana that's not truemy hair is my shieldand my eyes are filled poolsyou would speakof snarling and growlingflowers that wilted and diedbut now they are minesinging and growingand my bouquet lives with my touch and you would preachabout steel heartsand angels tumbling downbut no, you were wronghearts are glass and roses and goldand angels are men with white carnationsyou would point and and tell methat my toes were rootsand that flying is not possiblebut you were not right, wanamy feet are leavesand I fly every dayyou would rant and accusespring was a pleasant lieand my legs were skinny and cleanbut no, wana, nospring is a fresh clean feelingand my legs are a little hairy, that's allyou said that it was not realmagic and music were silly ideasand power was ev
Happiness in a BottleThat one childhood memory that always makes you cryThe feeling of a small, warm animal cuddled against youThe smell of fresh spring, untainted and pureLaughing so hard you snortReading a really amazing book and crying afterwardsBecause it makes so much sense it's scaryThe pleasantness of having nothing at all to do or worry aboutDrawing hearts on everything because you don't care if it's girlyLoving arms wrapped around you protectivelyWarm cookies melting in your mouthDancing to the music in your headBarefoot outside during the summerWatching rivers of water flowing down the edges of sidewalks when it rainsFlying through the air with eyes wideningRunning and running and runningGrass stains on my pantsHard floors having a softness chairs and couches could never containSinging impulsively any song you feel like singingHot chocolate after playing in the snowBeing silly when you feel like grown ups are dullBelly full of food, curled up in the back seat of the car at nig
Walk With Melegs dipped into the pool,deep breath in,and sink down slowly,listen to the silence wrap around youthe liquid lukewarm voidthe quiet buzzing of machinesin the back of your mind, orchestras tuninggetting ready for the show.i see my enemy,and my hands shake slightly,my nerve needs an understudy,pinpricks bleed behind my eyeseven my heart is tremblingand i can’t breatheget me away from her.shush. it’s, okay. shh.it’s too cold,my cheeks are too red.i breathe out cloudslike factory pipes, a smoker,sticky bus seats,the smell of gasoline,lean into the window, close my eyes,let the chatter roll through my ears.CDs of French singinglull me to sleep, and i remember thatmy language clears its throat as well.Sigh, put on my boots, change my shirt,run down the stairs.It had been six years,but i still remembered the path.this time a black cat didn’t cross my way.spin in the hallway,slip between bodies slicklyuse your ankles, gracefulbend, st
Fireflies and SunsetsA thoughtClosed eyes and freedomArt and writingOversized red crocsOn a splashed smooth dockClear water and bare feetDangling over the sideSo it beganThe poetry flowing outThe feelings runningDesperation on a flightBitterness and hopeSimple drawings behind emotionSplatters of paint on a white canvasEsteem unsteadinessAnd problems and troublesPart of growing upFrustrationAnger over the unnecessaryMelancholy and drama queensLittle moments perching on fingersFireflies at sunsetWinking lightsPeekaboo from clasped fingersMy wet hair and a small smileForeign words,Little lanterns strung along a stringHanging from my mouthNew people rising from ashesChainsaw in the hedge mazeCarve their way outDon’t romanticize itIt just happens sometimesGive a hand with the mess left behindPick up the scraps and put them in storage.Maybe I know myselfBetter than I liked to think.It’s okay to be sad sometimes.Just don’t let it rule you.Tears pour freely,
Bored Satan SummoningWind symphony performance at arts camp.I sit in a huge outdoor auditorium,sitting in the same row as my camp friends.Mandatory listening.We cannot talk or play with a piece of string,or bring a pen and doodle on ourselves.Bored out of our minds, many peoples' eyes are glazed over.Over the lake the sun is settingand I'm thinking because it's what I'm allowed to do.I'm thinking of endings and headaches,drama and memories,and the comfort of my bottom bunk bed and a book,the chattering of my cabin mates surrounding melike a blanket-less sleep in the summer,the steel headboard above me strung with mementos;rough drafts, notes and silver bracelets hanging from cords.One leg crossing over the other,sock pushed down to exposea few scabbing mosquito bites,and as I pick at them with bitten nailsI tear part of a scab off;a pretend accident.A pomegranate bead swells up and trickles down,and I absently catch it with my fingerand swipe it across my skinarcing up gracefully.
Birth StoneRubies are beads of blood and smell sharply of insane murder.They are smithed in the heat of mid-JulyWith edges so sharp they could cut your fingers with the slightest strokeThey are pulsing blood clots covered with polish,Hot as a coal stoked by an angry child.My birth stone is not a ruby,Murderous and harsh,But instead it is an Angel's WingMy real birth stoneCrafted inside with my imaginationAnd dropped downFrom my drifting balcony aboveIt is made from the wild drifting clouds of golden sighsThat taste like brown sugar and honey,Laughter freshly escaped from your throat,And bad mistakesThrown away to some abandoned crevasseTo catch the sighs you must cradle them in a netof silver chain linksCreate a net with your fingersAnd trap the laughterOpen a stitched hole in your heartAnd sponge up some mistakes(You'll have enough to keep some inside, I promise you)And sink the ingredients into pans of melted amberThen mix the contents slowlyMold spoonfuls of the mixtu
Night-time LullabyMama sings me a soft lullabyI clench her arm and my tears dryShe sings of rivers flowing surely downhillAnd their mossy banks where water is spilledOf deer finding shelter in the treesTheir brown eyes as deep as the seasSing, mama, sing about the wild boarWhose tusks tremble with his loud snoresAnd the doves that sleep among the leavesTheir little heads tucked into their silky sleevesSing of mother bear that curls up with her cubIn a cool cave outside a meadow and mudAnd of Mistress Night who begins her flightAcross the sky, her black dress covered with lightsWhose wolves pad out with graceTo sing and howl to her bright faceAs she embraces the forest with arms longMuch alike my mother’s; strongAnd mama will cradle me gently to sleepDreaming of animals and fairies that weepFor their wisdom is so great they could die
Susurrus...The sound of nature purifying your earsThe sound of a strange vibration in the airThe sound a tear makes when it falls from the cheekThe sound of quiet happiness absorbing your whole beingThe sound of floating into the airThe sound of curious intrest; the sound cocking your head makesThe sound of secrets as they are first toldThe sound of newly made magicThe sound quietness makes when only you can hear itSusurrus...