the pages ran out

I wish I didn't love to dance so much
with the bees and the birds
because the bees
as beautiful and sweet as honey
will sting you
and in the end
remain only loyal to someone else
who they were born to love--
their damned queen.

I wish I didn't love to dance so much
the with birds and the bees--
the birds, they leave me
high into the ocean above
to a place I only wish I could go,
a place I can never reach
and I'd drown--
at least then something would fill me
and that's better than suffocating here
gasping for oxygen only one mouth can provide.

But it's just a dream to go there,
and we all know that dreams are only for god.
The best I can do is hope that a nightmare will dream of me
and maybe then I'll have a real pounding heart
instead of a having my heart pounded
until what's left is just the dust that's blown off
of memories that never became.
Memories that were just so raw and beautiful
that life couldn't allow them.
Alas, that's a dream,
and the only thing that's real is
how I'm haunted by the memories that are,
that were,
so painful, so cute, sometimes both
like seeing your smile
but knowing I can't have it.

I wish when the weather was like ice,
the wind wouldn't blow me,
because I don't want that when it's cold
I would only ask for that in the heat
but that's when it does
that's when it turns me to an icicle.
It's never what I wanted
and I am powerless to stop it
as it forces itself on me
the same way that sweat seeps from my bones
like I'm in hell
when I am away from you.

I wish you'd let me love you
with the tenacity of the words
that escape my lips
after a night of drinking
because really I'm not drunk,
I'm just drunk on you.
And liquor is all that makes it past my tongue;
like a starved tiger or man
I'm fueled by pain and desperation
but unlike a beast,
I know I have no reason to hunt
because I know the only thing that can fill me is you
and I can only hope that my empty stomach and hunger pangs
will one day overcome my empty heart and love pains.

I wish I would have written you down
before I met you.
Each day I ask my pen why,
of all the stories it's built,
it missed you.
And I begin to wonder
if the pages have been laughing at me
this whole time.
And I've attached to you
the way ink attaches to paper,
without even knowing I had--
my feelings like words to a poem,
appearing one by one until
before I knew it
something beautiful and unstoppable had become.

But then the pages ran out,
and I wrote in ever white space I could find
only to find that there wasn't enough space
to finish the 

letters on pages

one corner at a time, tear me.
each tear falling as snowflakes,
trickling through the wind
away.
the words which once lay
gracefully across their home
smudge.  the story becomes
unsure, doubting what was,
what is.
an embrace, warm
to stop the winter storm.
held, given a home.
sharing what's left,
hidden words, letters
a foreign language.
not antique, broken.
discarded, torn. 

a synesthetic life

I taste pain on the tip of my tongue that I'm not sure if I am to spit out to be in front of me to follow me and watch me or to wash it down somewhere deep within with a cup full of life.  I'll laugh at the world while they laugh at me until the physics of the universe causes our laughter to synchronize and we will laugh together.  I'll put on my glasses to see the world more clearly, and I'll take them off when I tire of my eyes tasting the painful clarity of each vivid color of everything I experience.  I'll trade a smile with a stranger.  Perhaps a word.  Sometimes I'll come out on top, sometimes I'll lose.  But really, there's nothing to lose as the warmth that peeks behind a facade, or a face, is free.  In fact, life is free.  I'm not too different from Superman.  The sun gives me life too.  I know that my heart works with blood, and my mind connects me to another universe, but I do not understand the relationship of my heart and mind.  Sometimes lovers, sometimes as unfriendly as the coarse wind is to the rocks sitting so still and harmless.  I hear a ticking of reality moving.  But who's to know if we're moving forward or backward in time.  Who even knows what forward and backward is?  I wouldn't trust a man who said he did.  They say they can smell fear.  But who are they?  And if they can smell fear, I can mask my life with love.  And they'll search for me, but their efforts will be wasted.  I will be lost in my thoughts, a place that is only where I am.

Apathy screams as it should not.  It laughs when it should not.  And it mourns when it should not.  She flirts with the devil which makes her realize she is no longer Apathy.  Amidst her promiscuity she has lost her identity.  She's gained a quality that makes her more real, yet terrible.

Anger is like a drop of blood on the tip of a flower's leaf reaching for the ground, begging to be let go.  It's unnatural, it's not its own for a flower cannot bleed.  Rather, one has left a mess on this collection of silk.  Something so pure and natural has been tainted.  It's unknown where it's origin lies.  It may have been our mother who pricked and pried, or it may have been something ugly which shed something that was to be so precious upon creation.  Reaching, reaching, reaching for a resolution, yet this adhesive property clings. 

untitled

Oh, the tragedy of my soul ticks
away like the sand in an hourglass
falling from anger and climaxing in pain
as he falls into the glass so opaque.

a poetic life.

I want to live a life
where everyday is a poem.

No.

The days are poets.
Experiences are different forms.
The hours are stanzas.
Minutes, lines.  Seconds, words.
Words---or a translation of reality.

The only breaks that come are
the infinitesimal silences
that don't exist between each moment.

Those around me are muses.
Yet, my inspiration comes from
not a synapse, but from my discovery
of reality---of course, I am unsure of its realness.

I want to live a poetic life
where feelings inside and out are one,
where a discovery leads to finding that
he wasn't looking for anything but now.

Can’t Get Caught

The clock moves as fast as your time,

Slow and fast to kill.

Moving swiftly, committing a crime.

Running downward, avoiding the climb,

Moving backwards, against your will.

The clock moves as fast as your time.

Working on a trial and error deadline.

Constituting pain, but a thrill.

Moving swiftly, committing a crime.

Time proceeds up as it may decline,

Motions exert time to move uphill.

The clock moves as fast as your time.

Falling down the incline,

Feeling as though he’s taken a pill.

The clock moves as fast as your time,

Moving swiftly, committing a crime.

paradox in five or no dimensions

Sounds to be physical thoughts;
the beating of ideas, the rhythm of confusion,
the consciousness of the flow.

Punctured, bleeding out ideas;
ones that will never be made, or heard,
so realness is lost.

Pain as joy that is perceived dangerously;
without enough caution to be prepared for
disorder of itself.

Imagining is catching air with butterflies
and burning them for freedom with
hopes, or ensuring of to-be-dated.

Un.able to un.hear, un.see, un.speak, un-
do what makes you spill the moment,
or recall a name that you don't own.

Knowing of dreams, you dream of knowing,
that your dreams know what you don't-
dream of- another home for your soul.

Is ambiguity beautiful, strange or painful?

What paint on your face
haunts what is wonder
inhaling gun powder
to reach high and extrapolate
the senses to real life.

You Can't Dance without Music

"Would you dance with me?"
He asked.
And she replied, "It would be best if I didn't."

She was beautiful, like the four seasons,
but similarly, was moody like them.
She held something unfathomable in her hands.
Not life, but something more powerful.
Love? No. Joy? No. Then what?
Time.

"Just one dance. Completely harmless."
He said.
And she replied, "You don't understand."

She would breathe into his lips.
Not air.
But something that would
make his heart palpitate.
Love? No. Joy? No. Then what?
Time.

"Help me understand."
He requested.
And she replied, "Help yourself."

He could not resist her, regardless
of her warning. She was painful
yet pleasant, and he wondered
what made her this way.
Love? No. Joy? No. Then what?
Time.

And he helped himself.
For how long
he was unsure.

The only way he could tell,
was through his breathing,
which was unsteady, and
sometimes nonexistent.

At times he breathed heavy breaths of
passion. At times he breathed heavy breaths of
pain. His heart sometimes stopped in a spell-bound awe,
and sometimes in exasperation.

He was speechless, and
she,
silent.

He held her in his arms,
and slow danced with her
in the silence for
a moment,
or eternity.

syn

they performed their magic
yet my heart still sank
deep into hell

envelop, not release

pain resounds
in the melody
of the warmth unfelt
though I recall what
never was
while these daggers
explore my mind
to find silhouettes
of an abstraction
that spoke of
in∞finity, or
an abyss of affection.

(In)significance

My heart beats chaotically
as I try to make yours beat
dynamically.

Watching you die, I feel
like I never witnessed the many
deaths I have seen between
these walls that fight
for life. I try to wake you
with the light from behind the
curtains, but instead, the light
illuminates the paleness that your
skin screams to my salty eyes.

I miss you though I didn’t
even know you. I only knew
your name and your time of
death. I hope you are now sleeping
on a cloud instead of a stainless table.

I wipe my hands on the pure
white cloth that distances me
from you. All the mistakes I’ve
made can be seen to the world—
the life I couldn’t save.

I wash my hands and rid them
of your life. I lift my head up
in preparation.

A Eulogy to Pretty Blades

Being
hurt.
or not.
being.

Each velvet red petal,
his fingers ran across—
cut him.
made him—
bleed
the exquisite experience each
pretty
blade
bore.

Intentional to hurt,
or maybe not—
sharp actions and
blunt
words were dealt
and intentionally,
or maybe not—
he hurt.

All reds were love
like golden honey
bees.
Their existence was—
beautiful
but their stings were creative
-ly—radical.

His pain was not
necessarily joy—
but necessary
to have his treasure.

Pricks were like
sunrays
piercing through the
blue
sky and under his right
eyelid into his
soul which showed through his
iris.

The pain is correlated
with the
beauty.

His hazel eyes could
see the culprit through the
fingerprints
on the pretty
blades.
Still,
he
bled.

Mimicking—or maybe—
mocking,
a rose thorn.
Remove and
die.
Do not

Remove.




*this is layed out a little differently on actual paper, but i can't figure out how to add spaces in blogger...

Real

Now I see the freckles in my eyes
reflect yours like ice particles
in the warm air, obstructing
your view of the transparent
rays that spark our life together,
and my body numbs

This winter will treat me like a page
from your handpicked vocabulary
burning in my fireplace,
warming my blood until
my heart beats so rapidly that it seems
to be still like the sun.

Our love for each other was real;
as real as the thick mass of
the ocean and the absence of the sky.

As we dance in heaven’s tears,
the painful sobs urge
the songbirds to sing louder,
that perhaps their melodies could reset
reality.



*this was an aubade I wrote for my creative writing class

Whisper

I stop to listen to the sounds of
the trees conversing with
their creator. The words are so heavy
that the birds forget flight
and instead swim through the ocean blue skies.
I remembered the way I once listened to
two friends talk in a tongue foreign
to my ears, wondering why I
could not understand the luscious
sounds protruding from their lips.
The way each cared for the other was
clear in their melodic voices.
Why do they whisper?
The warm air, merely a messenger,
seems not to be as confused
nor as concerned as I am.
We watch as the leaves do not
fall to the ground, but
smash into the rubble of
the Earth. The repetition of these
sounds reminds me of a symphony I
once heard when the oceans
consumed a steadfast city.
The pain felt by the people
was reflected in the broken bodies
of the architecture.

I see the parallel of nature—but what
secrets do they tell such that they whisper?

The trees continue to sway, and
as the breeze hastens,
their branches whip violently,
singing in harmony with the wind.
I close my eyes, relax my body, and
listen softly. As I breathe in, I hear
innocence. I continue to
inhale the whisper, the atmosphere
around me engulfing my senses
to let me know that the intimate sun
and the anxious moon and the raging
stars are not the only ones evoking
stories from the pure
minds of the lost lamb.
The solemn wanderers of the world seek out
truth in the prose of the world, but instead find
confusion amongst the burnt-red leaves
and God’s blue eyes. Listening to
the stories that are woven into
their emotions, they become mute
because the carrying sound does not want to be delivered.

life. love. laugh.

because it might pay off.

John 15:16

-------------------------------------------------

You did not choose Me, but I chose you...

-------------------------------------------------

Strength

I grow weary of combat. Each battle I fight tears me down, closer to defeat. The world is a battlefield, and I am a soldier. I am not sure that this is what I have asked for, but I do know that it burdens my soul. It seems that I can always survive the battle, but will I be able to survive the war? My heart grows heavy. My body must work extra hard to disrupt the world’s forces against me.

Wake me up from this dream. Let this afflicted breath I breathe turn pure. Let my heavy burden turn to dust. I know I have been granted, the strength, but what I long for is peace.

For this moment is beautiful and I wish this heart beat would last forever. What should become of me if I leave this moment? I shall re-enter the battlefield. I shall conquer my fears, my tears, my hopelessness. God, grant me this peace. Grant me this prayer that I breathe. Let this heavy breath turn light and steady.

Halo

Your innocence is, henceforth, my lack thereof.
Your smile makes any situation a Utopia.
Life is suddenly worth living every time your joy shines through your eyes.
Like the feeling of the sun's soothing rays on my skin,
I feel refreshed to know that you are continuous.
The halo above my head convulses.

Storytelling

The moment becomes past, and the past becomes fiction.

Adults

I never thought that I would become one of them. They were a particularly mysterious group of people, and in fact, they were quite an eccentric bunch. It had always seemed as though they all had previous lives during which they were able to perfect the art of decision making, as to always make the optimal choices, since, in fact, they certainly knew what was best for everyone, including myself. What was most curious to me was that they were all the same in this way, yet they remained an eclectic group of people. Some saved lives. Others fought for justice. There were some who spent their lives fostering the intellect of others. However, all of them were full of passion and had fit perfectly into society, creating beautiful dynamics within the community, all while each trying to tame the world around them.

They were able to do this because they understood how the world worked and why people acted the way they did, and they functioned in their daily lives like the experts that they were; they took care of everything important and the most dire situations as if they had done it their entire lives. Perhaps they were not as similar as I had imagined, and maybe they had different life experiences. I did always find it particularly odd as to how they all ended up on such different paths and how different their journeys were relative to each other. What was this strange process of finding your passion like and how did they end up on their particular path, distinguished from the world of other unique opportunities around them? How peculiar that everything was so clear for them, when for me, my curiosity about everything in the world made if difficult for me to find my bliss among so many uniquely interesting paths.

Now, as I have begun to join their world, I understand that the lines for adults are not as clear as I had once thought and the ideas that each person holds are beautiful, unique, and most importantly, developed through the unique experiences one has and the way in which a person sees the world.

Following my dreams has been a rather difficult task in that my dreams are always evolving and changing. I have found that it is not the lack of inspiration that hinders this process, but it is the excess of inspiration.

one of my favorite quotes:

"the day the child realizes that all adults are imperfect, he becomes an adolescent; the day he forgives them, he becomes an adult; the day he forgives himself, he becomes wise."

-Alden Nowlan

Quenched, Salvaged

Familiarity tastes so sweet in this realm of despair.
Further, what s familiar is not always true.

What is a familiar face but a reflection of light?
Closeness, shared affliction, a connection that is never the same.

Love is only a piece of it, if it is a factor of it at all.
The intimate touch of the memories
to the warmth of a singular moment in time.
The feeling that a familiar face can bring about is necessary for love, in fact, it may be more comforting than true love.

What is more interesting is the passing of time
and how it quirks the view of what was real.
Realness is never true, but only emulated.
So perhaps there is no such thing as real.

Maybe we can be familiar with those whom we wish not to be.
Perhaps this can mean more than it should.
A connection between the human psyches of two people.
Any two people, this is the relation that holds us together.
Then why do men pursue death?
Perhaps they get lost.

Perhaps they are scared that they can connect with someone with such intimacy.
They are unfaithful.
Haunted by their relation to people in excess of one.

Who should worry?
Why should men not indulge in this metaphysical state of love?
The idea of passion can be pursued in a dream.
Even in consciousness.

Until the threshold is met, where familiarity turns into the Forgotten.
A transformation ensues, until one can no longer comprehend.
And then all feeling is lost.
One is alone.

But there is hope for man.
Familiarity may turn to truth.
Perhaps the emulator can become reality.
And man can worry not to the Forgotten.

A feeling so real cannot be altered.
A man will stand strong in his faith.

eight...

and perhaps it is in fact other humans that make you feel alive.

i wish i could jump forward, fall back, and stop in the eternal moment.

================================================

perhaps life is not a journey. perhaps life is a dissarray of random events that coincidentally seem to relate. |perhaps love is not a feeling towards another. perhaps love is feeling unconditional bliss amongst yourself in the presence of a friend. perhaps being in love, and loving are the same thing. |perhaps sadness is not feeling a lack of contempt. perhaps sadness is when it feels as though you are being rejected, unaccepted, let go; by people and by the world. |perhaps a heartbreak is not your heart being in pain. perhaps a heartbreak is your heart preparing to be joyful, training so hard that it hurts. |perhaps light does not break darkness. perhaps darkness dissipates in the presence of light. |

perhaps.

==================================================

savor the sun

savor the sun

small, small child,
don't you grow up.
the world is big, too big.

remain in your innocence. remain innocent.
sleep tight, converse with your angels.
dream a dream with wings. big wings.

dance when your heart hears a melodic melody.
laugh with sincerity; cry when you are sad.
smile loudly. smile because joy overwhelms your soul.

play and play and play until you tire.
share your toys.
they're just toys, in fact. only toys.

paint a picture. a beautiful picture.
color outside the lines.
show the world your art. your heartfelt art.

squeeze so, so tightly when you give a hug.
kiss without shame, so light and airy.
love with your whole, whole heart.

savor the sun. and the moon. and the stars.
let the sunshine shine, and fill you with warmth.
and in the silence, savor your silent peace.

sing so sweet. so sweet like sugar.
your voice can overcome mountains.
don't act. act on your will

be free, child.
dear child,
be free.


-j

Emily Dickinson

She dealt her pretty words like Blades

She dealt her pretty words like Blades —
How glittering they shone —
And every One unbared a Nerve
Or wantoned with a Bone —

She never deemed — she hurt —
That — is not Steel's Affair —
A vulgar grimace in the Flesh —
How ill the Creatures bear —

To Ache is human — not polite —
The Film upon the eye
Mortality's old Custom —
Just locking up — to Die.

-Emily Dickinson