East West (scraps to later revise)

The house is unbearably hot,
so I find myself sitting
as close as possible
to the vent underneath my desk.

The cold air makes my lids heavy.
I am beyond tired,
yet sleep is feared
and thus my subconscious
does not allow such a thing.

We are not to wake up crying.
We are not to wake up screaming.
We are not to wake up gasping.



The room is hot.
Too hot to sleep.
Sirens sing me lullabies.
Not the kind who steer ships,
but the kind that follow protocol.

Fuck protocol.
You should have left me in my bed.
I would have touched myself
and fallen asleep.

I am bitter.
Like the taste of you on my tongue.
Acrid acidity in your words.
Mine are getting shorter.

The cold air,
the writing,
the lullaby,

they're working.


Now all I need is someone to sing me to sleep,
to the tone of an ambulance on its last emergency call of the shift.

Hey you...

Go here and read what is beginning to be the blog of my life. About my life. Struggles and whatnot. Memoirs of an angsty young adult. (Surprise.)

We both draw lines, dear,

and not with my rapidograph.

We have come to the conclusion

that you draw your lines

at the same time

I draw mine.

You draw your lines

in brilliant white.

I draw mine,

red as rubies.

In brilliant white

there is an appetite for destruction.

In red, the red of rubies,

there is utter mental clarity.

Destruction is drawn in lines.

Lines across albums.

Clarity, too, is drawn in lines.

Lines across hips.

Lines across albums?

Sure, I've touched powder.

Lines across hips?

Sure, you've touched blades.

Powder,

we have come to the conclusion,

is better drawn with blades,

just like I draw mine.

Dear Richard-
not gun-metal grey,

I can see you when I push the curtains away from my window.
You are not flashing me my favorite metal smile, as you lift
a Marlboro, menthol, to your lips. The wrinkles above your eyes
tell me of your concern. There is a dead hummingbird
in your right hand. I can tell from here that its neck is broken.
Its beak is twisted toward your stomach, though its body is not.
It must have been through more, perhaps a stray cat,
because I see the blood that is running down over your wrist
and dripping onto my stoop, to mix with the ashes you've dropped
and the glass and metal scraps from the car that was going too fast
and drove straight into the front of my house.


Suddenly, the grey clears from the sky and the snow
becomes blinding. The sun is assaulting the ice as
I realize it is far better to say things outright.
So I will tell you that I am lying,
and that all I really see is snow.


Love (and it is true),
your pretty song

fodder

FODDERRRRRR

For a moment we are lost
among the shadows of yesterday,
and the hours and seconds past
shimmer forth in memory form.

I have been used to your skin
and my fingers tremble with
anticipation.

Time does not exist here.
The moment between
when you nuzzle my cheek
and when we are suddenly
much closer than I remember
is endless.

Dizzy, since all I am
breathing is you.

And then I can hear it,
the old fashioned silver alarm clock
and the heavy ticking it projects.

Time begins again
and you crash your lips to mine
and I can't help but remember
that you did leave me once,

but not before you touched
the patches of skin
that are tingling now,
knowing and wanting
the feel of your fingertips.
-----------------


Patches of skin
in certain and
specific places
remember the
graze of your fingertips.

The top lip
knows the feeling
of the middle
of your mouth.

The bottom lip
knows the velvet
path of your tongue.



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

Hungry fingers reach, following the natural line that outlines my hip and leads to something more interesting. Velvet lips distract the mind so as not to alarm when nervous attempts are made. "No," she mumbles to fingers that play to close to lines drawn in moments where clarity is lost. Just lose her in your lips.

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

I lost myself in the contours of your chest. You claimed my breath as your own. Patience, immeasurable, measured to recieve reward. It's ok, I'll wait. You've taught me how. Reinforcement is key.

I miss the way you taste.

You always leave so early.


The songs are slow, like the breath you lay across my cheek. The blankets are barely touching us, like fingertips tented and tracing your musculature. The light is soft, like the tiny kiss you introduce to my top lip. This is what it's like to be in a car accident. Shattering glass and metal twisted is sometimes called art. I can see the ice coming, but opening my mouth and swallowing your tongue allows for no warning. So we skid. We spin. We lose control. And we crash.

Musings (at sbux, shoot me)

him: what did you say?

me:
I asked her if I was the only one who spoke to her,
mind you I was whispering,
and then I told her that astronomy
and religion are useless,
because all I want to do is
preserve the mystery of the
world. I told her I didn't believe
that she was just a rock.

him: 'kay, you're right. Well, you're always attractive.
But still. Very attractive moment.

me:
Thank you. With three U's.
It felt good, for some reason,
like I suddenly had faith
in something.

(I need to make this a legitimate poem. mkthxbye.)

WRITING PROMPT - Expect edits. Lots of them.

LAST UPDATE: 2/9/2010
HEY: I realized if you don't have a deviantart account, you won't be able to view some of these. A number of them have mature warnings, which are blocked from non-users.

A 31 step writing prompt. Links are to the completed prose/poetry/bullshit on my deviantart. Completion is a lie. The gist of it: two original characters. One is a little more wise to the world, the other is learning the hard way. Some pieces share the same title as their prompt, others do not. This type of mini flash-fiction moment was inspired by a close friend of mine. He's a very talented writer and I want to attempt to do his methods justice in my own musings. Let's hope for the best.

01. letter.
02. sticks and stones
03. birthday
04. immortal
05. circus
06. abandoned (1/14/2010)
07. nosebleed
08. father (1/13/2010)
09. sunrise (1/11/2010)
10. distraction
11. habit (2/9/2010)
12. fuck (1/12/2010)
13. love (1/12/2010)
14. waste
15. skinny (1/19/2010)
16. eyes
17. white noise
18. impulse (1/13/2010)
19. addiction
20. desecrate (1/14/2010)
21. death (1/17/2010)
22. low
23. heartbeat
24. first kiss (1/12/2010)
25. tomorrow
26. sweet (1/18/2010)
27. fog (or mist)
28. can't
29. village
30. time
31. forget

I don't really know where to begin.
This living in sin is heavy on a heart
that can't possibly bear the weight

of counter-clauses and
(you know this line)
countless figure eights.

Maybe if I repeat myself
it'll be more than just letters.

But who am I to judge?

fishie

There's this feeling I get when you're falling asleep,
your body slowly giving more of its weight to my shoulder.
Some distant, ancient part of me
that has broken
begins to mend again.

Something about you feels right.
I have never found it
anywhere else,
and I hope to find it again.

Do you know
that I have compared
every fish I've met in the ocean
to the way you made me feel?

I miss you.

prose will bend you over a desk and fuck the shit out of you

I take my time jumping to the thickest parts of the ice, because if I don't then I'll fall right through and drown. The only problem is that there are only two chunks thick enough to stand on, but they're on opposite sides of the goddamn lake. I don't think I can jump that far. And where the hell did I leave my coat?

I wanted to hug you so bad. I don't think I can jump that far.

cervical displacement? (edits)

I am alone today
and it hurts.
Being alone

is not [like] a slow and crooked smile
as I had once observed
in a moment of clarity.
My stomach is telling me
that it fears cervical displacement
and nine hundred and thirty two baby chickens agree.
She says they're happy.
I hope she's right.
At least they're not alone.
Being alone

is not [like] a slow and crooked smile
as I had once observed
in a moment of clarity.
Aren't you supposed
to write about the things
that bother you?
This bothers me.

Receiver

"Do you feel that?"
she asked the hair behind
his ear with
her breath.

"Feel what?"
the other end
of the receiver
crackled in response.

"Distance,"
her tongue answered,
sliding
over cartilage to take
the lobe
between her teeth.

"I don't know what you mean,"
the receiver said,
inflecting its crackle like
its statement was more
of a question than any
statement could be.

I hate you.

You should have left me,
broken and undercover.
Maybe I could have saved this,
restored a martyred lover.

Instead you came back crying
for a shoulder and a kiss.
You goddamn fool I loved you
before you walked away like this.

Now I break before the dawn
under the weight of words so grey,
and I'll pull on my plastic smile
that lies so easily to your face.

For when I curl up next to you,
burying my face upon your chest,
and fall asleep to door number three-
which option- Not the best.

Now I know reality
and the truth that it foretells.
You should have walked away that day
and left me to my hells.

Purgatory, a quiet hearth,
and Hell a sauna steamed.
Because having all of you,
yet none of this,
is a nightmare, not a dream.

If Only

If only she were dressed in white
and held her mother's hand too tight.
And smiled at the bumblebees,
and asked for, "A cookie please."

Now she wears her skinny jeans
and falls in love with piercings.
Ink just below an olive tone
shows mother where the years have gone.

"I'm not a baby, mama,"
she smiles at the phone.
"I need to live my life now,
I promise I'll come home."

She liked his shoes
when he left the laces in her car.

She hates the soles now
as they walk him away.

ugh

I hate the way you breathe
when you're on top of me.
The way your teeth shake,
and you hiss between their gaps.
Brush them.
You smell like beer and weed.

I hate the way I get bored
when you resort to carnal pleasure
and call me and come over
and breathe that rancid breath
down my neck and across my hips.

I hate the way you smile at me,
and I smile back, as though
I actually enjoyed that.
In all honesty I did
when I closed my eyes.

I hate the way you voice it,
with petty moans and
whines of more, harder, deeper.
I hate how this is what we are.

Get out. Don't call me ever again.
Go fuck the other six, or seven.

Or better yet, why don't you go fuck yourself?

She is aware of the way things are, and still she hides the truth from herself.



Sometimes, late at night when the AC is giving her gooseflesh and she can't sleep, she reads all the text messages you sent her. Some of them make her smile. The rest pull at the corners of her zinfandel lips.



She wishes that you knew everything about her, like you think you do. She has her secrets, and she often lies to you. It's nothing bad. It's just something she doesn't know how to put into words. She can put it in writing, though. Somehow it works better when it rhymes and she can lie again and tell you it's easier to write about things you've never experienced.



The sad part is you believe her.



But you could be lying too.



She smiles at your pictures on her wall, and honestly does want you to be happy. So she inquires about your latest interests. Her name, where you met, if she smokes. That's always been a big deal. She does smoke. And it's the same brand you do.

She splashes in rain puddles, only after removing her shoes. They were too slippery anyway. She smiles to herself, doesn't watch the janitor staring from the overhang. She just hops, skips, and jumps to class.

She waits for the green light, fighting not to catch anyone's eye. The little white man flashes and she walks just outside the edge of the crosswalk. Does it make her feel dangerous? Or something closer to the surface?

She jumps off every curb like it's a leap of faith, and glances always at the man behind her while pretending to look at cars. Her music softens her smile, and she looks sad, but she's just thinking.

She talks to people at the bus stop, but they leave their headphones in and stare with the corners of their eyes. No one is nice anymore. No one expects kindness.

She'll leave the same song on repeat for a week and a half, until she knows every word and every chord, until she almost hates it.

She'll smile at everyone, and nod her head. She says thank you to anyone who holds a door, excuses herself from being in anyone's way, and always tells cashiers to have a good day. She's an open heart.

And she goes home alone every night to write about it.

sdfghjk

[wip]

She walks with a blind man,
her fingers his cane.
He smiles and kisses her
again and again.

But he'd kiss the next woman,
or the man or the child.
He can't see her

Scabs to Scar

There's a scab on her knee,
just like her heart.
She's said when she's broken
she's like a work of art:
From every angle there
is a new perspective,
a catacomb of reasoning,
the chosen elective.

She pokes at the wound
and it will bleed fresh.
But she knows underneath,
there is fresh, new flesh.

But she doesn't want feeling,
not for this cut.
He called her a cunt,
and he called her a slut.

She wants it to scar,
and never bleed again.
So she can move on,
without the need to pretend
that anything less is
more than acceptable
when she herself tries
to be something respectable.

So she picks at her wounds,
until they are scars with no nerves.
To lose feeling for that one
is what she deserves.