the Valentine's winter

It's ending pretty soon, perhaps in a couple of hours.
And this picture of this actress who's quite beautiful, who was once the it girl but doesn't really act anymore , has painted her eyes with structure highlighting eyeliner, her eyes sly and slither and the whole picture almost melts.
But the disentangle of the photographs particles hardly matter; it's ending in a few hours.
my sister has been depressed for the longes time. almost everyone in my family has been clinically diagnosed with depression at some point, we all fear heavily, accumulate all the masses's posible judgment upon our shoulders, us, the valentines, sensitive and sentimental, and deeply impressionable ,have at some point felt that our existence upon this earth is pointless, such a feeling was so deeply embedded we could not sleep or shower, without feeling, like waste of water and oxygen.
I am not at all aware if it is in our genes, or merely in the upbringing and the years and years of living in an isolated house by the algea infested pond that attracted all sorts of animals and plants, I am not sure if it were the magnificent wither we were exposed to as children, if it were the miles of books staked in my fathers study, I am not sue if it were our parents's hinted, inaudible portrail of a large and beautiful world that made us seem like our being upon it was of no use, it didnt need us.
but we all got ba's then ma's then some ph.d', we all got married and settled down and saw, that yes we were small but there was a slight displacement in the worlds possession due to our existence.
we all un-maniced.
but my sister, m most beautiful sister, my most troubled sister who aways came home at the tips of nights, when the the earth rotated away from the moon she would stumble in.
my sister who had boys with grand futures as doctors and lawyers, NBA players and late night hosts, all at tips of her troubled fingers, has been depressed for the longest time.
I was 10 when she was 16 and she had always seemed sad to me, I would ask her these little, obviously oblivious questions and she would try her very best not to terrify me with her dark, obscure objecting view of the world.
my sister hardly cared for the pond ir plant, or algae, she hardly cared for the feel of burning sunshine in a freezing afternoon, the books she read, the books we all cried over, she read without the slightest faciel displacement.
we have all been sad, to clinical extents, us the valentines.
but maggi Valentine has been depressed for the longest time.
but that hardly matters, its ending in a few hours.
I had this boy in my class when I was in highschool, and highschool is such a difficult time to lok back at, for several , endless reasons, that the person who was a jumbled up, insecure version, a naive uncunning version of me had been in the most unnecessary of pains.
highschool reminds me of the fact that my society never stops judging or bullying, it only grows old enough to learn to conceal it in the forms of hellos please, goodbyes and thank you-s,
high school most of leeches at me, at the little bit of feeling I hardly feel anymore.
when I am in a classroom, and sunshine seeps in, and I am so young hat everything I do is impressive.
I come back home reading "lolita" on the way back, I make my self some tee, I read the reviews for the latest Broadway re-make of "waiting for godot" I make m self a bath and breath properly.
I was 16.
now I set at my window, sunshine seeps in, and nothing I do is impressive, I will not grow to become a sensation.
I a grown, and I no longer rasp the definition of a sensation.
"I am sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody"
this boy who was beautiful, and apparently intelligent, did not see within me what I saw within him,  even though, I more that stupidly assumed (in my hight of impressiveness) that it did not matter to this intellectual that I was not as beautiful as my sister, not as attractively depressed and self harmful, not as darkly, glisningly dangerous.
I was stale and dull, I carried a copy of withering hights with me everywhere assuming that will suddenly make me eccentric and essential enough, to get a smart pretty boy to like me, to make my consumption of oxygen (at times overconsumption) worthwhile.
but that hardly matters, its ending in a few hours.
goodness gracious, less than hours.
we all (the Valentine's) swallow the tangles of fear that collide in our throats,  embark upon streets scatterd   across separate continents.
almost as if we have now been displaced of the mother womb and nothing begins to matter, non of it, not our fears or lonesomeness, or stark, raving, indigestible ways of living.
we could wove a few words,  ge a few laughs, more one or two in the audience but eventually we all decay, and us 9the valentines) understand that a few notches too well for our own good
maggi most of all.
in winter nights, no one walks the streets, and that is when we bloom the most.
when we are not hindered by the clutter f asses rushing to do their business as if they are not gathered by one great poetic cease.
as if we will not all end up in the same fucking ground, we pretend we dont know each other.
but us (the valentines) appreciate winters freezing late nights, in wich there are no ungrateful, swift motioned human beings who do not take to the savor of a minuit.
"in a minuit there is time, to murder and create"
but that hardly matters
its spring in minuits.

winter's ending.

november

I do not want
the end of november.
the pond
that collides
 across my room,
the meticulously placed
aura of gloom.
not november.
not that too.
I do not want
the end of the cold
more dishes to wash
more laundry to fold
I do not want the end
of comely
november
warm coffe
and glisteningly lonesome
poetry
solitude.
isolation.
I do not want
the end o
of november
the end
of death
and snow
and all things
ceasing to be.
all roads
diserted.
a glorious
abiotic
existence.
I do not want
my month
of hardly mornings
and hardly afternoons
of dead poets
whispering to me
vers by vers
setting me f r e e
more coffe
more tee
I do not want
the end of november
the end of a century.

sylvia in her flight.

soaring
fluttering
groping
with her intwined
lifeless
legs at flight
the particles of the air
in love with her
broosed
brooded
skin
8 flights high
small, insignificant
ginormis tower
of a building
jumped
leaped
sylvia
in her
shimmer
silver white
wedding dress
thats rather extravagant
almost
but not quite
elegant
it was not the child
screaming
weeping at home
not the hairy
shaggy
manic husbind
not the failed poetry
that in half a century
will be hung upon
a pedestal
as the model
of a masterpiece
non of that.
sylvia
in her flight
only thought
of how lucky she was
to end her life
on a rather warm
breezy
day.

a poet.

in my restless
indestined
journey
rarely esteemed
stale and ungleamed
it seems
I appear
on occasions
unattractive
pathologically
ordinary
friendless
mere bits
that scatter
with weakest of wind
but as I stand here
in front of this
limited Assembly
this godforsaken facility
I am the climax
I am the summit
the end of all charts
the goal of all
whom are
young and and dreamy
for I am a poet
I speak
fluently
the pains of a world
at large
I
wove a planet
out of plain thoughts.

October.

There is a lump
Where my heart is
And it slowly rots
In my place of womenhood
Drifting back
To memories of childhood
It seems, almost unreal..
The breez
The feel
Of wind
Passing by the autumn leaves
Umder an autumn sunset
Into my face
Drifting through my fingertips
And themusty scent
Of pine wood
It almost should
Be unreal
I am not the same person
She and I
The 14 year old girl
First in love
Devergnised of
The complixties of the world
Sunkin into
Ideasilim
I, the 35 yearold woman
Loved much
And lost much
And have let the
Thoughts of beauty
And existance
And possibility
All the aesthitical simplicity
Slip.
For on my breast
Attached to my chest
The one that is suppose
To archaticturaly
Beautify me
The one that is suppose
To feed
My unborn, not yet concived child
There is a lump
An ironicaly
Almost bullit shaped
One.
Slowly ticking
Slowly rotting
Slowly wakeing me
And shakeing me
And putting me to deep
Unexisable
Irriversable
Sleep.

I am Africa.

when you'r an unbelievably
over-cryer
I hold you`r hand.
and I whisper the right words.
and all is a bit bitter.
I am always bitter
but I laugh endlessly.
and externally, it would appear
we`r having a blast
I am hurt
I am pain
I am Africa
at it`s highest state of shame.
and you, the world
mindlessly look away
I am privet, and silent
I am centuries of decay.
I am the ache of greatness
I am the greatness of ache.
and in you`r imbecilic mind
you`r Cleopatra-like eyes
 I am a bit short of ordinary.
you.
my dear,
to me,
are world hunger
manic depression
repeated rape
and fucking dictatorship
natural disaster
time going faster
writers block
art, unmasterd
and death of dreams
death of liberation.
but I cant help
my absolute idiocy
around you`r
devastating
deceptive
tragic
beauty
to which
I am helplessly ugly.

Sufjan.

A secret garden.
And when you run to me in midnight fields
My chapped shell,my fragile sheild
Your golden coat of hair scatters on my sholder.
You laugh at me now.
And i had let you in
The crumble of nonexisting life within
Your father's cold steel gun caresses
My back,my flesh, my kidnys.
But i have a bike , and it has a back seat,
And i have my sheild , so i'll grab you
And your disstressed dress and goldrn tumble of curls
And softly elope, disapear into the infinty of space reflected on our pond.
You could tell me of your thought and opinions.
You could tell me of how idiotic it is to have any.
of why you want to leave unditictedly
Like a whisper, whithout touching or being touched.
A cold forgotten crumble of bones.
But now i am alone.
Now there are my bones untouched.
my silint internal explosions.
And befor you invaded my hous next door.
Befor you scatted all over my back-bycicle seat.
Befor you murderd my secret garden.
It were the emptiness and liflessness, the freezing
Cold alaska within that i feared.
And now you walk away laughing, and i am inflamed
Sit on a deep avalanch, lava hot fire.
But is it the ungrown fruit? Is it my immasculinity?
Maybe you were just a mad, foolish little girl, being constantly raped.
Maybe you just wanted to rape somone too.

untangle me.

I am seduced by feminism.
I am seduced. slowly lured in by the craft of becoming like her.
unknowingly grand, unspokenly poetic.
I am tempted to have girlish talks, to sneak in tubes of lipstick, to magically turn, my short fuzzy lump of hair into something long and magnificent.
I am tempted to be.
within volumes of poetry
of tender, gentle, fine taste.
and cups of overly groomed coffee.
I am tempted to flee.
I am tempted to escape this dead end job in this dead end town, where parasite migrate to rot, where fuck is fucked and shit is spat on. and it`s ungrown green begging for sips of water and glimpses of light.
I am tempted to sip like a girl.
to slick my golden curls
to be, the subject of you`re next, depressing, fall off the deep end, electrically shocking piece of beauty, out pour of poetry.
for you to whisper:
" I have grown over-charmed
with you`r flower-like motion"
but I, am far too ugly.
far to dark, and burgundy.
far too butch and unfree
never a subject, of Gothic poetry
so untangle me.
"she is so lovely
isnt she?"
you say as helen walks past us.
helen: whos beauty is utter and mass destruction
helen: the fire that grew the flames of troy.
why, isnt she lovely..

grief: back from Alaska.

he struts out threw everything, unafraid, untamed, he flounsis the great fitnessn of his arms, the great whitness of his skin, and I am old, and crippled and crinkled, and I think I might stink, for all my white t-shits turn a bit green under the arm.
he says hello to me, laughs with me, acts as if I am some great ancestor of his, he is the son of my son,or at least could be, and I am horrible to think so, but he is so young and, so fresh, I believe perhaps, if I could smell he would smell like bananas dipped in full fat milk.
in the eyes of the court, and almost everyone, I am a wrongful, terrible man. but this is love I feel, for the wilderness within a young fruitful, idiotic man. for the innocence, and dark intentions, for his bathing within all that the earth could offer, I open up my folded chair, and I glare and glare, as he strolls through it all.
he embraces me for what seems to be less than 1 tenth of a second, undesired, I sit in the corner, how could I be.
 he is a mere boy, and the world awaits his triumph and victory, his well written widely read poetry, I will say, I knew this boy, I love this boy, the way no man should love a boy.

the star gazing ancestor of utter lightness.

your so very reckless and I am aware of that, Halom.
dear Halom, you have become the surreal invasion of torment, because in this world, in which I daily watch you lose more and more of your recklessness, of your carelessness and child-like ness.
in a world where I see them, shove guns in your palms, force you to trigger bring you back heavy, onto me, you poor endlessly, and I say, halom, child of life, blue haired, eye piercing beauty, please stop screaming, forget the sound of guns and terror of them following you, chasing you in the pitch , crept , dark, corriader of there secret hiding,they lurk onto the ground pooring their everything and anything on to you.
and I attempt, I run to the big men, with their big chairs, and I plead, your a child, and I am a child and their taring the fundamental pices of our world apart.
if I may add, I have given you, the last pieces of my gloomed down heart.
do balm it onto you, halom.
you are, the star gazing ancestor of utter lightness.

Brokeback Mountain.

I lived for you.
when the plane smell of her, and the meaningless curves of her were all I had, I lived for you.
when my child was born, and she was beautiful, and I was not the man she thought I was. I lived for you.
when years passed, I lived for the very remanentas, the very crumbs, slowly scattering, slwoly evaporating, the very thought of you, at the very back of my head. time, time and places and people and everything renewed slowly snatched the overwhelming image of you.but I lived for you. I lived for the blurry memory of your firm hold. I lived for everything wrong we did, because, wrong it was, but it was a reason to live. I lived for the widespread of your shoulders.
but I am getting so much older. and lies have snatched the bits of peace I once had, and all I could ever think of, is you. its you, all I breath, all I live for.
30 years older, the 25 year old you.

cunning

composed. with two cubes of sugar, the perfect cup of tea, in a perfect evening looking afternoon, hardly any sun, an overdose of wistful, shimmery, stark, pallor, snow.
she crosses her bony legs, peeking through her oversized fur coat, she reaches towards the cigarette and imprisons it  within the opening of her chapped crimson lips, she looks around, and suicide beautifully inhabits the corners of everything in sight, a side effect of winter, she thinks, and in this town it`s winter 80% of the time, so in other words, suicide is always around.
suicide is the time between your finished cigarette and your unlit one, suicide is stuffed inside the compressed partecels of expensive high heal shoes, suicide is larking threw the empty corners of a consumed cup of coffee.
suicide is widely drawn across every word on every page of every book she`s ever read.
suicide is beautiful.
suicide is seductive.
suicide is inevitable.
suicide is cunning.

shall i?

Shall I drown within misery?

Shall misery drown me within?

I strive and I strive

To cling, to be.

To run through sun lit mornings

To bathe upon dim moonlight

to see beyond old melancholic novels

to fight and fight and fight.

To originate and generate.

To drink and smoke, and walk the walk.

To talk the talk.

I dream and I hope.

And I slowly let such poisons sink

Beyond walls of skin and immune system

To think and think.

To slit and slip, and slither.

To dive and drive

And dramatically begin.

to wisely, insightfully see..

tragic essence of reality.

I am not born to empress

Not made to be put upon lists.

My name shall not be whispered

My words shall not be read

My melodies, inharmonious

My thoughts, misled.

giant filthy feet.

yes, I have.
it seems as if I am this completely isolated being, no one begins to understand my deepest thoughts, though my unusual dreams are heartbreakingly simple.
I am not who you think I am.
I do not wake up to hurt, I do not sleep to dream.
I am shattered.
I am steps, mere steps away from total and complete break down.
but I seem ever so powerful so you step on me with your giant filthy feet, and your piercing words, and I laugh at you, to show you how immensely pathetic your attempts are as I slowly, and gradually , break, within.
yes, I have been hurt, yes I am hurt.

a writer

A war has been unleashed, and I am here, but a tool of destruction, with my useless words, and my hollow insides, an amusement park…….You tread softly atop my chest, and I bubble within a most revolutionary feeling, you tread, and tread, and I am ever so empty..

Click, click I softly shed my existence…letter by letter, so it must be. My ink screams words I dare not speak. I am an artist, I am a loner, I am a failure, I am a writer.

a cup of tea, and a single tear.

I come to drink my tea, nothing more nothing less, it has been, or it seems, that centuries have past, and I am drowned, drenched, within this utter state of numbness, in which my top priority, my top pleasure, is a cup of tea.
 my rain coat is wet, it has been raining for days, my garden my leafs are ever so abandons, and I am inside, drinking my tea, thinking of him.
it has become a routine worn out thought, nothing surprises me anymore, not the beauty of moonlight, or the speed at which my tea becomes cold, or the occasional runaway tear.
I stand before my porch, it is a dim night. and it is a state I have grown ever so accustomed to, a state of pure emptiness, and wretched intangible leisures, and a cup of tea, and an old memory, and a single tear.

a single runaway tear.

lue

A breath, a mere breath, is my current top goal, its all I ever strive for, a breath.
My red balloon, and your red balloon, my red umbrella, and your red umbrella, I hadn’t ever felt such joy, I never had. Until our umbrellas and balloons met.
I wanted to save you.
But here is everything, and here is nothing, here I am next to your bed, next to you, or next to what was you. With my unlit cigarette, holding your fingertips, or what was your fingertips.
I wanted you to struggle, to fight, and you were smiling, I should have known.

The nurse called it, and walked away, gently, slowly, as if a gentle way of saying “time of death 3:30” can make it any less tragically hollow.
There is a moment, a moment parallel to nothingness, filled with screams and sounds of pleading.
Pleading for what, pleading to who?
Here I sit, struggling for a breath, because a breath is all I ever hope for.

gray room.

 she clung to him, and as the sense of anointing joy that usually showers her at his touch kicked in, she drew in a deep breath.

 They walked out side, rapped in there coats and shawls, admiring the shimmering coat of snow, and slowly sipping there coffee,  he was most intelligent, and most lonely, unless he was with her.

I cannot begin to speak of these two as if they were your ordinary she and him, they were your classic transgressive fellows of society. The outcasts.

She was a lady, with a habit, of sniffing white powder, and he was the man of the house, the provider.

And in there lucid moments of day dreaming, in there bake yards in her white gown in his blue collerd shirt, they would stair ant the wonders of nature, the blue bird, the green grass, the joys of life, slightly, without being fully present.

And in such moments, they would compose the worlds greatest positions, words and colors and note, endless notes, they were artists, with an edge.

don’t ALL artists have an edge?

But eventually the land of colors in which they lived, as all great things, came to an end.

There words were no longer words, the blue bird fled, and thee bake yard was hardly ever a yard, and there powder, tragically ceased to exist.

Her was no longer the intellect, she no longer the lady, a mere man and a mere women, mere helpless souls in the city of helpless, souls who were once the providers of all great things. 

schizophrenia

I run around , the thin walls of this hospital, it saddens me that I now feel at home, if I do, then that only proves that I have declared defeat.

and that is something I dont ever intend on declaring

yes, they do all live within me, and I do admit so.

but dose that mean I have declared defeat, not as far as I know, but then again, most of the time I dont really know much.

The voices made there debut only 4 years ago, in comparecant to all the girls with me, I am a new comer apparently.

they form a fortress around your brain, locking thoughts and influences from coming in and out.

the whispers consumed all that surrounds me, they came out of the tv, the radio, at some point even the light bulb spoke to me, all announcing the same declaration, you are absolutely worthless, why should you even live.

at first I thought they were mere insecurities, scarcely anything to worry about.

tell my insecurities started talking to me taking the shapes of bizarre creatures.

it felt as if I was living in a prison of my own mind, aliens wanted to abduct me, terrorist held me hostage, all withing the few yards that are my apartment.

my mother came to visit me, only to discover the shrine which was my apartment and the disarray which was me.

she at first thought that I was on drugs, she tested me, and I passed.

there was only one other probability, one which she so grievously attempted to nudge away, however she eventually caved in and took me to the psychologist.

after further examination , the doctor spoke one word, that changed my life as I know it.

schizophrenia.

a mental illness , with side effects such as delusions and paranoia

the word schizophrenia became my life, it labeled me, consumed me, and took full control of every thought, hope, dream, nightmare.

oh yes, nightmare, I sure as hell had a whole lot of those.

all my writings became hallucination, my paintings blur, all passion turned into pure and utter hopless hatred.

my mother, recommended by my doctor, put me where I am, this mental institution, this hospital, this cage, this home.

it terrifies me, I consider it home, the girls here more friends to me my own sisters, the medicine better then any food, the nurses touch, better then my own mothers.

I am being discharged in a week, I wont go back, no to where I am all alone, under the complete mercy of my very own demons.

I wouldnt allow it.

"hello cassy" here it begins, ok, haah, hoooh, take another deep breath, haaah hoooh "doctor, oh doctor I need hepl I really need help" the doctor wasnt as concerned as I hoped, another breath"Benjamen franklin wants me to die doctor, I was reading a book yesterday, and he told me so, he says If I dont I am going to destroy this whole building, doctor I am afraid, everyone`s safety and well being is at risk! you must do something"

out of breath I just stared at him, now I could see genuine concern in his eyes, much more sincere then my own father`s who hasnt visited me once since I have been here, how am I suppose to leave, and head back to them.

"oh, relax cassy, its all going to be all right" he itched his bald spot, and whispers something to the nurse, who went to git my medication.

thank god.

I am not going any were.

I do realize this only emphasizes the level of my insanity,

But

it also sequres my happines.

thoughts...(2)

My word, my writings are scarcely pathetic descriptions of Ideas, paintings, photographs,that exist so perfictly in my head, and are failed to be conveyed.

and as it always is, I belive, my lack of extraordinariness , physically and mentally, gives me the motivation to be com a better artist, its simple really, theres nothing els for me to be.

you musnt think me shallow or ungreatfull, art is one of the best things to ever occure to me, however , I am mearly suggisting, that my lack of originality or spark, makes me a better artist, as unuseual as it sounds.

the smallest of word fromt he smallest of people,with there little demanding actions, and there crys for attintion, makes me want to git away, snap my fingers and dissapear.

I am running out of ideas, as if the ideas were mine to begin with, I ma sure i read them in some book, and herd them being told and mixued them in my brain and added a word or two to them, and called them a story of my oun.

self pity is the most hideous of acts.

I am a child.

I argue with children.

I play with children.

I think like children.

I am a child.

.........................................

I use books to hide my face.

I use books to escape my reality.

I wish I could just sleep right now, instead of having to go there where people blame and judge, I wish I could sleep.