22/29/16

The Monster, Broken, Within

I have had a broken heart, and I have had that broken heart mended.

I have broken a heart, and I have watched it heal.

On another hand I have taken a heart from a beating chest and crushed it in my hands. 

What was left, remorseless I showed, I threw it beneath me and stomped out whatever ashes of the fire had continued to smolder.

I watched as its slow beat faded into an endless life of turmoil- it was the most painful thing I have ever done.

If I have any regrets my stoicism would be one.

In this heart that I had churned to dust, not only did I mutilate its once colorful canvas I tore the soul attached and watched as the colors both drained out.

I lit its remains on fire and watched as the embers turned to ash and I let the wind sweep them away from the earth beneath my feet.

As the wind blew past me I had never felt so empty as if I could be whisked away by the wind as the ashes.

I felt the spirit cry out in terror.

I watched a woman made of steel break down before me.

I tore two souls destined to have a love shared forever apart and as I crushed one in the palm of my hand, the other lie in my chest and beats only as half of a life. 

My body had drowned in the tears shed that year.

While most of myself remains intact, I live with sound of crying soul forever on replay in my head. 

A terror of my own.

A wound of two, neither of which will every be fixed, mended nor stitched.

8/29/16
Life has become something that is a little bit funny,
It's too short but the days are so long.
Life is not measured in the amount of breaths you take they say but the moments that take your breath away, that is- until you take your last breath and that moment goes by too fast.
Death and disease are both tragic yet we write about them in books and fantasize fatality and create witty banter made up of somebody else's tragedy but it's merely fiction in our life so it becomes acceptable.
We measure success by money but strive for happiness at the end of the day when we find ourselves hiding under the covers.
We preach good faith and kindness but when our neighbors need help we hesitate and excuse it by convincing ourselves that we are just too busy to extend our hand.
Grow up, get a job, start a family; but kids are unmotivated, go unpunished and more often than none experience separated Christmas eves.
We procreate and raise children who sit in their room entranced in media because we have lost a sense of togetherness and we look forward to the next update of an unrealistic reality figure.
Dinner tables are often consumed in stacks of mail and spring cleaning stops at the hinges of your own bedroom door.
Life has changed and people cease to live; I have always feared the (so far) fictional fate of a "zombie apocalypse" but I fear the day has already come where the bodies I pass are already numb.

4/21/16

...in that drunken place

you would

like to hand your heart to her

and say 

touch it

but then

give it back.

-C. Bukowski

4/13/16

11:12 pm

Father,

I feel you:

your serenity

your grace

your bliss.

I feel it all, it's flooding around me as an overflowing river in mid-April.

Your serenity surrounding, drowning me.

The swift grace to stay afloat- to swim

and the blessing big enough to feel it.

I feel your hand over me as it storms in the sky and your hand beneath me as I travel the dusty roads of my home.

I hear you profess your love, loud enough to hear over the many hardships I send booming through speakers and into my own brain.

I thank you often,

not enough but daily nonetheless and throughout and in my sleep even,

but father,

I cannot speak. 

I cannot close my eyes in worship for fear of meeting yours.

But please- do not be stricken by this. 

I can no longer bare my own reflection. 

Patched skin and bowed lips in a shattered mirror.

But father how do I?

I cannot speak out to you.

I cannot bring myself to my knees and cry out for your forgiveness.

I have beaten and berated myself into oblivion begging my own mind to stop.

For it goes without a doubt that my knees are beyond worn but my praisal vocal chords not yet torn.

Not touched.

Not a rip.

I cannot scream, cry or even speak out for your love.

Is it that I cannot handle your love, to handle having someone there for me even when I am angry at my self? 

Or is it that I cannot bring myself to see my own reflection- not broken- in your eyes?

To look at the purest, most correct, version of me. 

Who you want me to be pouring out of your eyes.

Out of you.

Oh father-

My salvation-

your eternally graceful hands wove together a defect.

A monster-

out to destroy herself.

Father, I cannot be the me that your hearts yearns for.

I make too many mistakes and often show little repentance. 

You see, I can no longer speak 

and that only leads me to fear the day

that I can no longer see.

4/1/16
Father time, the man oh so wise

drawn to blank stuck in between somewhere along the lines of a run on sentence and a run off girl skipping school taking trains to Cali or planes to New York so sick of boundaries and the present level of mindful stress and her salvation comes at a price at night in terms of lack of sleep she mumbles and rambles and cries much too often in comparison to a year ago but over time you grow and move on hopefully move up but you learn things about yourself and others and things change you realize that punctuation is necessary. That life doesn't always turned out as you plan, and that sometimes a plan ends up a broken dream. You realize that life is short and cliff hangers aren't just for books anymore. People die and sometimes that last thing you said to was I hate you or I love you or nothing at all. Things change, boundaries disappear, you're old enough to legally do this or that and suddenly it's no fun anymore. You find yourself sitting at home more often than not. You work, and sleep, and wake. You learn to grow old and forget, but that's life- and no matter where you run away to or what you run away from, you can't hide from time. It moves without you, it denies your eternal existence, and sooner than later you will understand why plane tickets are so expensive. You will learn that father time is one man that you cannot run away from.

Drugs are a waste of time. They destroy your memory and your self-respect and everything that goes along with your self-esteem. They're no good at all. 

                                                                      -Kurt Cobain

4/13/16

In my silence- I'm screaming for help.

In my attempt to avoid eye contact-

I'm hoping that someone dives into my pupils and swims through the tortured waves of self loathing and climbs aboard ship to fish out every evil thought that has consumed my mind. 

In my many miled feet-

I'm following my natural instinct to run from anything and anyone that can hurt me. 

In my calloused hands- 

I'm fighting my way through the mazes of people trying to reach me, crawling through a labrynth of deterred love.

In my scarred knees-

There is a history of self loathing and beration. Beating and breaking myself down, a slave to my own shadow.

In my silence- I'm screaming for help.