Watch who you pick fights with.

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Just because I'm not a bitch doesn't mean I can't kick the shit out of one.

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Anonymous said…
yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
October 29, 2005 8:35 PM
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Cast the Bones

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I write words like spells. To pull me from my skin, to Slide To set each cell and capillary aflame as my soul bursts from its cell I listen to the music that will drown me. Like rushing tides that pull me beneath the caps and rolls of waves A crystal blue prison that will make me panic as I feel a darkness close around me Like winter to enfold me Like a night to claim me Like all the horrors you can imagine Like all that, but wonderful instead I think it’s wonderful. And I feel no shame in this. Only desperation when it goes and I cannot follow Only despair when I wake from haunting dreams and see the sun shining in my eyes To touch Heaven, to touch God My Heaven my God And then strip it away like flesh flayed from the skin Like a knife that cuts its tracks down my arm To feel fibers sever and muscle tear and nerves that scream Nerves that scream like I scream when my eyes open to this place Every moment of agony Every moment of it agony Books weigh like anchors on my feet To pull me t...
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A steady rhythm Inhale Exhale Smoke-filled lungs Inhale Exhale A glorious epitaph Such a wonder opens before me Coffers of splendor A myriad of voids and endless worlds A hooker under a street lamp A gangster in a bank A gambler in a casino And the dead man in jail This air of mystery This fog of complexity Death in sticks Suicide in packs Choice limited by your issues Freedom hampered By coughs and the sense of smell But there is this moment And there is this space Where there is just space And nothing matters Because nothing exists And you can ignore the tar in your lungs And the smell on your clothes And hands And hair You can ignore the frostbitten fingers The shaking limbs The futility of a lighter in the wind Because in that one moment It’s not about what you did Or’ve done It’s about that moment And about the feeling Of knowing nothing at all matters It is a Zen garden With rocks and sand And Coy swimming about in empty circles It is a forest of solitude Of green And brown Of br...
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The Space that Fills the Time

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I see myself through frosted glass A sensation not mirrored by the truth of the image I see myself something I am not Skilled beyond measure, I marvel when I fail Whose image have I taped to the twisted window that I fool myself so well? When the turning goes quick enough, when murky water clears, I shall throw myself free I wear the tension in my neck, a yolk for the oxen to struggle through the field I have tilled here And I have failed as well My disconnected thoughts have joined forces They smother me at night with a hypoallergenic pillow The simple thing that chains them here The guilt or The obligation Or any of many, minute causes I may not have ever told you But it didn’t mean you could never ask I live without meaning No, beyond this obsession with personal purpose I live without meaning Confession of depression A sin I cannot help My mind seeks to stretch my body to a point it will not go A wave pinned upon the sand I could, I think I could cut my head open to let it go I see...
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I am so very good at feeling sorry for myself.

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Crayon Boxes I think I have died That you no longer care if I live This grave could be unmarked, for all the people who look at it and know I am here I am hunched At my desk in my favorite sweatshirt The hood lined with orange And the sleeves frayed, worn I have worn this sweater for so many years, though loved it half as long The orange does little to cheer me tonight As I have searched your name and found a new addition to your fame An expansion of your being I realize the knife is still there Because I can feel it twisting, fresh, in the wound I smell that change in the sweet spring air and regret that I am not there. These rhymes are happenstance and agony. It has been so long since I have written here, had the charge to write here, and as always, it is of a tragedy My tragedy Like a forgotten war, Like a villager, killed by a despot, who is survived by a child who grows up dreaming of nothing but the tyrant’s death (I don’t even care to draw the conclusion) I have a thousand songs...
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