Thursday, January 5, 2017

lids like weights
i'd like to think sleep is optional
and i could push through
i could keep humming
like some machine
and we love machines
i'm not one

I need empty space. I need loneliness. Only in a cavern of my own creation can I be immersed in thought. What I need is confidence in my own abilities. I don’t feel confident about anything at the moment. Everything is so painful, I'm stuck. I don’t know where to go. I think I keep going on as if everything is fine. And that can work, but then I feel empty. I keep feeling empty. I don’t feel like anything. I don’t feel like I have an identity. Everything I say I am, it’s all flimsy, backed with air. I’m a balloon, an economy inflated by credit, a false belief. I am false. I see people around me. There is so much space between me and them. I can’t share myself with anyone. I lock thoughts up and forget they’re there. Bury nuclear waste, the ground is eroding beneath me, one day I will fall through. There is something attractive about falling at this moment in time. The idea of being so estranged from expectations, from people, I want to be left bare. At this moment I don’t know what is dressing and what is my flesh. I need to peel away all this outer coating. I need to scrub away the dead skin. To peel away this facade. I want space. I want time. To retreat within myself and pull out my heart so I can look at it for a long while. It has become so hard to see it when everything is pulling my focus. I feel oversaturated. Phony with every word I speak. I’m starting to hate words. I’m trying to put my feelings into them and it becomes impossible. And that frightens me, so I run from writing. From recording, without judgement, my life and the things I’d like to hold on to. I run because I’m scared. Scared of not being good enough. I’m scared of how the words used to flow from me so easily and now it’s like pulling teeth. Maybe it isn’t my abilities, maybe its my confidence, there is this noise that is chipping at my identity and my belief that it is mine to claim.

Tuesday, December 6, 2016

I don’t really know how to describe what it is like to be young.
For me, I sometimes feel as though I’m witnessing the world burn. But I can’t scream, or comment. I am too young. I just don’t know how things work, how things have always worked.
It seems like I’m dictated by fear rather than by my own understanding of the world.
What governs my actions?
Why am I always so scared?
There are these things set before me, I’m given a rubric, are you a failure? is written at the top.
How do I live a good life.
A life of value.
Just follow these rules, fulfill the requirements.
Be fearful if you fall short.
It’s that simple, I’m supposed to believe. In a universe of absurdity, and vast opportunity, and endless factors, it is that simple.
And I listen, knowing that these rules don’t make sense in that they reduce my breath and body to an anonymous dot. This criteria colors me with numbers and rankings and schools and vague adjectives. I have no humanity in this scheme.
Yet I know that I do.
So why do I listen so easily, how am I so quickly lulled into deep sleep?
I’ve resolved that it is because freedom of mind is burdensome.
Having to decide for myself what to make of the world. It is such a large task, at such a young age. And this is how life can cheat adolescents. So young and so unprepared we are quick to accept the devil’s offer of mindlessness. It’s easier to let him decide, than to determine for ourselves who we are to become.
That is why it is important for me to think of what I would be giving up if I don’t question or decide or take responsibility for myself.
The depth of my emotions would be thin and light, unlike the dense thought which I have forsaken for a numb and ignorant bliss.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

fog

my mind is drying up. an internal world, once so built and vivid, seems to be fading the more I reach beyond myself. maybe this is balance, maybe my missing the crystal castles i built in my mind is a form of foolish nostalgia. don't miss what once hurt you. life used to be so binary. an intense peace or an intense sadness. she was good or she was bad. but life doesn't exist in binaries, doesn't exist in black and white. as i grow, as i learn, my notions of morality, my perceptions of others, they become so muddled and constructing philosophies about life is like stumbling through an intense fog. of course, there is always the choice, the one in which i let my personal philosophies die, internalize the set of commandments an institution places before me, and I go ahead with a simplistic bliss. the universe  stops expanding as soon as my definition of it all is set in stone. though the stumbling can be frustrating, i hope I'm strong enough to keep the fog from dissipating.

Saturday, November 12, 2016

part one

The cloth was itchy and abrasive. It disregarded her delicate skin, coloring the patches of flesh most affected with a dark, warm pink.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you breaking out?”
“It’s this dress you gave me. It’s suffocating. Just like your gruffy moustache when we kiss. Won’t you shave the goddam thing off and buy me dresses of silk.”
Austin paused.
“You can be so disagreeable,” his voice firm and brimming with resentments stemming from wounded pride.
“Well maybe if you didn’t keep me pent up in this stuffy room like some prisoner or shameful secret I’d be more pleasant.”
With that he dragged his freshly shined boots across the dusty rug and out the door. She locked it behind him and cracked open the small window that floated above her bed. It was quite strange, the setup of the room. But the constant rearranging of furniture kept her busy and propped up the illusion of movement, which became so vital in her life that churned on painfully slow. She felt like a fly caught in dream honey.
***
Madeline woke at one. She pulled her leather satchel from beneath her bed and glided down the quiet marble steps to the kitchen. She prepared the oils and herbs in a small tin cup and then poured them into a small glass container which used to house a strong floral perfume that she'd developed a distaste towards. After tucking the bottle into her bag, she slid out into the summer night air. Hopping along the muted gray stones. Beyond the valleys, and the distracting array of bushes and trees and flowers, stables and resting areas, she would find the secret garden. She'd visited it every night in her dreams since she was a young girl.
Her breath hastened as she picked up her pace, matching that of a drunken horse. She began convulsing in fits of laughter inspired by the thought of a drunken horse. And so she stopped running. She couldn't laugh and run at once. It was too much and she fell onto a bed of flowers. A good mile from the dreary castle. A good mile from her lover and enemy.
As she slept the vines and buds grew and bloomed, twisted around the roots of her auburn hair. The droplets of maple, that dripped from the tree under which she lay, fell upon her caramel colored cheeks like tears. But sweet, and sticky, like molasses.

leave her to heaven

the lake as a bed of death
sweet memories
soon fall into disrepair

the water as an accessory to crime
working like quicksand
pulling him under

the moans of ghosts could be heard
amidst the lapping of crystal upon rock