the epidemiology of grace.

it wasnt something one could walk away from, it was a whole set of it`s own, a fully functioning family, an independent grand era. and we were young, we grew up together, we grew into each other. bits of us scattered  all over the old basement. the small garden, the local movies, our lockers, our homes and warm beds.
Tommy left first, he left cape cod first, and we all knew it would be him first, he was far too intelligent to ever get stuck here. but still Tommy  left with bits of us with him, and we waved and waved as he got on the train, with ceaseless, giant sighas choking us.
and Celin was beyond devistated. she thought they`de leave together, except she wasnt smart enough so he left her to rot in this dump. because she may not have been smart enough, but she was still smarter than everyone ells.
and then Michel left-and it just wasnt one friend leaving to study, it was our very core breaking down.
everyone was lost, and I loved you so much, far too much, and you knew that, you knew it very well, but until today I hadnt the slightest clew that you might  have perhaps ,just perhaps, felt the same. and then seth became so bitter, Celin was out of sight, they repainted our school and our disks and our benches and our lockers, and our air.
and the lovely grand world we grew out of, the buds that held us together betrayed us, sold us, it grew without us, moved, lived, loved breathed, in complete carelessness of the our being engulfingly stranded, our loneliness  our heart tearing breaths.
but then I saw you again last month. and my years of nostalgia, my years of misplaced scattered existence, interrupted.
your arms , and I.

I am not afraid.

I am not afraid.
I paint my face with colors of red, crimson red, blood red.
I am " great hollow fire"  and I am not afraid.
I am not afraid of the deep white vast snow invading my land nor the chilling , piercing air trapped in my chest, I am not afraid of their guns, or the dryness of summer, I am not afraid of hunger.
I am not afraid. not of the cruelty of war nor it`s vast destruction.
not of the deliriousness of helpless loss.
not of the terror of rejection.
not the living nor the dead.
because I am "great hollow fire" and I am not afraid.

red.

fall is my favorite season, so stuffed with wind and endless cups of coffee. poetry lights the ceaseless dimness within. baths produce rare minuets of calamity, shared loneliness defines most of me, I breath for the life of my mother, and my father.
I am there daughter, perhaps, however, I still live alone, I still find mobbed pieces of joy , leftover form the day before, in the back of my fridge, and though, though I have completely forgotten what it may be like to search for gratitude. it surprises me.
leaves scattered at my window, and days without rain or sunshine, days with nothing but wind.
this is what the very core of my life, the crumbs of it, have become.

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.

do i dare, and do I dare.

I let you walk my very core, let you sink into my sacred locations, I let my every hole become a part of you, a part of the being we`ve collaboratlly become,I let you see my weakest moments, and my weakest words. I let you have a front seat audience to my horrid, wretched well hidden wounds. and I regret not a single slithered moment of all of our scattered acquaintance, friendship, love.
for within you, I have discovered the being within me, that has been longing, nostalgically, wistfully, quietly, unhappily longing for something.
you.

the frozen poet.

I use to own a book, I use to own this book, i use to own the papers within the thick forests coming out of it, I use to own the ink covering it, i use to own the chapped wooden floor it uselessly lyes upon, I use to lye atop the cold reeking bed, i use to own you within it.
the stool iced cold , but I sat, me the frozen poet, with everymuscel fiber blood , nerve, bone within me, deeply, apathiticly frozen. you caress me, and I sleep. to the melody of a thousend screams.
soiled, you are.
spoiled, you are.
uncoiled,you are.
and I am a speck,
upon a star.
pushed,shoved
far too far
I reach to you, to your anointing fingertips, to your flushed, bloodshot cheeks, and I peak, just peak, and I dream. but you clutched my very soul and we fell beneath the grounds of law, tore down the walls of existence, into holes and horizons of our own .
but you are no longer mine.
I do not own this book lying quietly on the floor, your face dose not peer in through my old forgotten door.
my bed remains empty, my heart remains frozen.

to make you feel my love.

I take my oldened blazer off, and I sit. as simple as it gets, I sit, and I sip yesterdays rotten cold coffee, and I let loose all captivated thoughts, my saviors, my retreat. I escape, to a dimension entirely estranged to this world.
life is cruel, and I some times just choose not to feel.

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.

snow

I am on the roof, and I observe the coats of snow randomly scatter across houses, streets, lamp posts, mail boxes, rooftops.

Eternal wistfulness bubbles within, longing for a place I've never seen, so melancholy, I am berried within a coat, a shawl and a berate,

 seasonal depression and a cup of coffee.

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.