Friday, November 4, 2011

They were all that wasn't.

She was curious, he was everything.
She was conflicted, he was walking.
He was blue, she was rabbit.
She was there, he was taking.
She was science, he was falling.
He was architecture, she was nothing.
She was indignant, he was amazing.
She was right, he was scared.
He was crazy, she was love.
She was Eliza, He was Fitzwilliam.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Shayli = Haley

cry through explanation.
don’t but do
and loose by winning
the ticking race of chronology.

She knows but doesn’t tell.
instead, breaks down.
A scream that looses some
 and rejects them all.

count your fingers.
count your fingers
and don’t tell.
Because it won’t end.
it never ends.

tunnels of nothing barrel through
the pain and anguish,
monsters attack
the vision of a world
that seems artificial.

lights masquerade as hope
but bring a crash landing reality
destruction of the soul.

Thursday, October 20, 2011


      I had never felt night's grasp squeeze so tightly around me before. That murky October evening swallowed moonlight and starshine, like the gaping maw of a black hole. The streets of the neighborhood were barren and cold; the streetlamps flickered here and there, splotching the fog with off-white stains easily washed away by an ephemeral shower of sparks from exposed wiring.
      I wandered, stumbling over occasional debris and near-invisible curbs, reaching out with my arms to feel for solid salvation. I felt nothing, though, except for a chilly autumn wind that slipped indifferently between my fingers.
      Then the sky flickered, much like the streetlamps had before. A distant, but familiar rumble of thunder echoed around me. Frigid drizzle followed. It was only a storm.
      But the thunder quickly grew louder. Rain poured. Within seconds, I was drenched from head to toe, jacket to bone. I felt like I was turning to ice, like I was being numbed with every step. My feet splashed in the rain – water soaked through my shoes. In despair, I clung to a street sign that miraculously came into arm's reach.
      Then I heard a terrible, terrible noise. It roared like a locomotive thundering down a canyon with dozens of loaded boxcars following. Its deafening drone seemed to conjure a tempestuous swirl of wind. I nearly blew away.
      With the help of the street sign, I regained my footing and blindly began to run into the darkness and the rain. Fear fueled me, and drove me against the storm. It didn't fuel me long, however; my lungs burned, my chest begged me to stop breathing. I took a bad step and slipped (inevitably so, from all the rain) into a ditch. The grass was unfriendly and freezing, but my body refused to rise when I heard the sound of houses being ripped apart.

Sunday, October 16, 2011

even my head wasn't safe, they told me. so where was I to go?

the real world wasn’t
good enough
the leaves lacked their sparkle
and trees ceased their dancing
whenever I turned to look

they did it on purpose, I was
sure, because the malignant spirits
amused themselves through
tormenting mortal children.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
and I didn’t want to be mortal.
the adventures which inspired me
had me jaded and questioning my perception of magic.

reality was dull, and there was nothing, nothing,
nothing at all I could do to change it.
imagination only spins so far before it
crumbles into bitter disappointment.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
for where were the elves and the witches and the
long-forgotten magic which would transport me away
from this dull grey cul-de-sac
and the green plastic swing
and the tree that wasn’t actually
inhabited by wood faeries?

my magic wasn’t real
the labyrinth wasn’t real
Hogwarts wasn’t real
the shire wasn’t real –
my imagination had lied to me without
and the only thing left was
reality, which simply wouldn’t do.

the real world wasn’t
good enough
and though my dream catchers tried in vain to make it less so,
there was no escape, no reprieve
for an old soul in a child’s
body who wanted nothing more than to leave
behind mediocrity before fully comprehending what it meant:
wholly and entirely trapped, with the solid comfort of awakeness
no longer reassuring

the real world wasn’t
good enough
though the tendrils of hopelessness and
boredom were worse than any cruel sprite
my imagination might have conjured.

they bite at my tongue and scratch my eyes raw, teasing.

now, there are potions to make them all stop
but I’d miss the last remnants
of a real world that was good enough.

Tuesday, October 11, 2011

Calm Seas

Anger never fixed anything
but it makes you feel better
feels good to watch the glass
break into tiny pieces
watch the world around you
and crumble to your feet

Crumbling till there's nothing left
no buildings.
no support.
no one there
to witness.

To witness your break down
witness the salty water
drain from your face
creating the Sea of Agony
you now live in.

You half way hope
(and three quarters don't)
that someone will notice
will see you drowning
in your own sea

But you know that they won't
because on the surface
the seas are too calm.
the waves are too composed.
for anyone to suspect

Emotions never fix anything
so maybe
it's better to be an empty shell
drifting for eternity
in the sea
of your creation

Friday, September 9, 2011

a failed exercise in stoicism.

her mind is a blur,
possibly because her hands
are unsteady, with their slight
shaking, and
her eyes don’t focus as well as they should
in the early morning.

she repeats the same sayings,
the same jokes, like mantras, so as to
give her body the rhythm it so
dreadfully lacks

she dresses
and faithfully turns down the sleeves
of her blouse
piecing herself together by
breaking herself apart –
is believing in something so
darkly insignificant a crime?

the promises she makes are hard
and shiny like tumbled stones
yet their jagged qualities can’t be
tumbled away.
they remain brittle.

she practices printing, then
script in fine red ink,
trailing her y’s and making the
sharpest of v’s
mostly she wishes her facial features were
so she could pronounce her emotions
instead of puncturing them.

she is a weaver, and with orchid-scented
palms she hooks and threads and
nimbly orchestrates the digits at the end
of her weakening arms.
these tapestries of elaborate
hope are nothing more than gossamer,
light and fleeting,
and she uses them in defense, allowing
them to settle over those who would rescue her
to comfort, and cover, and fool.

there are lies, which she
harmoniously practices at the jewelry
counter, or the river, or on those she loves.
for when she tells the truth,
it tastes like plastic.

and comfort is better than worry and truth;
they may have grown, but she can
still shield them
from the harsher aspects
of the world –
how no one ever really “gets
and we’re all just survivors
of our own personalities

she’ll continue surviving
unless she doesn’t
but the more they try to silence her ramblings
and still her unrelenting hands
the less they’ll remember of how
they thought they solved her
in the first place.

Wednesday, August 31, 2011


Did you cross the river on your journey to this town?
For there lies a no-man's land of spirits,
and fates from which no souls could return.
No sunlight shines on the riverbed of murk.
The souls slipped from the graveyard: from the soil to the stream,
and haunted both the bridges and the water.
Are you still alive or are you now broken
by the things you've seen that made your skin grow pale?

When you walk these cursed fields, you call Death upon yourself.
There's not a soul who can save you, and no chance that you'll survive.
The Reaper accepts no pleading, breaks no contract with the curse;
All wars that have been waged here still burn beneath the rot.