Temptation.

Some women are absolute demons;
They're hard to spot, sometimes, most of the time.
They'll fuck you over, leaving you begging for a merciful death or their undying love, no matter how painful either would be.
Most demonic women have eyes of fire or ice and a disposition of viral injections.
Naturally hypnotic voices echo through any room where you've encountered an individual of this species.
These women will completely captivate you - heart, soul, body, psyche, thoughts, dreams.
They will sneak into a position of being your entire life subconsciously, which you realize only once she's left.
They never stay.

Like spontaneous combustion, she'll light your heart aflame and never let it go out, even after she's gone.
These demons are passionate yet unfeeling.
I battle with them, I love them, they love me.
But they're nothing compared to soft hair, blue eyes and a contagious laugh.

Your eyes.

The trials of Hercules morph in modern day to psychic survival.
We are a diseased people, plagued by internal fires of the mind.
These days, it requires more than slaying a many-headed, malicious dragon to stay alive
We need to slay our own demons and no (sword) or (spear) is going

to help (!!)

Macabre, morbid, tragic
I resent these words.
This entity of our collective wellbeing needs more light.
(existence)

Irrational, sane, rational, insane
Locked in by extremes as the hoped-for traits lie between Freud's worst nightmares or wet dreams
Thanatos, thanatos
Give me libido (injections)

It'll hold.

Floating through the apple-green clouds, an airplane visits my conscience.
As it passes by me, it waves and a knife flies against one of the small, rounded windows as (even from far outside the airplane) even I can hear a blood-curdling scream echoing through the nightly, light sky and that scream penetrates my bones
(bones)
I soar further as I recall the memories and see them colonize my mind yet again, again, all over again.
Post-traumatic stress disorder, I shake in my parachute, the motor churns with pure energy and I recall again and I smile as I recall again, again, all over again.

Starry nights.

Combat boots, bottle caps, prostitution misconceptions.
The world sighs with each heavy step and a cigarette lights the way.

Communicational mishaps mar minds as the clouds stumble through the sky,
powered by violent pushes from the wind.

Untouchable happiness – dangerous, volatile, flammable.
The flames’ obscene licks bring forth insanity and nobody is left whole.

Life as seen through another’s eyes becomes vicariously satisfying;
you know once that realization hits, the light will never flow out of your eyes the same way
again.

Mnemophobia.

Autumn of 2008.

------------------------------------

A trace of autumn was in your gaze
all it took was silence
shhh -
let the leaves speak.

I was wearing purple,
and my lips were gray

you asked me if it was the end of the world
not for you, no

and the butterflies morphed to chainsaws
they flutter and they carve too

I was your pulse,
remain a slovenly ragdoll

and my nails are no longer pink
but red.

don’t stroke my neck,
don’t autograph my hipbone
don’t scratch my bare back

more chocolate
to despatch those memories

yet I know they will not fade
but cling on like blueberry soup
on a brand new dress.

Sutures on defects.

Even as your hand warmed the left side of my pelvis on the porch of a muddy, wind-battered cabin, I knew you’d eventually skin my bones.

Hang me up to dry, I’m still dripping like mad.
Maybe you altered my memories of it, I don’t know. The pine tree didn’t do it, though.
Not this time.

The sharpened spike of the shady spruce-like tree shattered my solemn, shuddering heart and its sincerity.
Once so clear, so pure, so pungent as I dove into you.

The back of your neck in front of my eyes, you knew. You knew.
My hand, independent of thought, took its place on your right hip and I felt you.
I felt the wave of shivers it made ripple in every direction as I traced with my index finger the line atop the waistband of your jeans, halfway down.

Little, big and minute rushes of pleasure shot through my tendons and muscles. Bones were left alone, for decorticating, fornicating, love.

End of the world.

A warmth emanates from inside me and I smile.
Concrete marks of your beautiful existence and I never have trouble finding the words.
The parliament of psycheparts and emotionpieces inside all vote yes and it scares me.

A screaming consciousness states its opinion through the soulless rain as it leads me back to purgatory and I smile.

Argyle and tears.

As I walk by,
I hope you'll smile at me again.
As I talk to you,
I hope you'll touch my hand.
As I laugh,
I hope you'll wrinkle your nose and wink.
As I get up to leave,
I hope you'll clutch my arm and hug me.
As I giggle and tell you you're an asshole,
I hope you'll stroke my hair and smile again.
As I walk away,
I hope your eyes never leave my retreating back and you'll regret.

"You dodged a bullet", you say.
I want to hurt you for saying that;
You don't know what I seek.

Caffeine in the morning.

This morning,
This state of mind,
This exhaustion of the head.

Butterflies caress the edges of my stomach lining as I feel an accident, (destructive), coming on.
Without reason, I smile.

I'm worn out and bruised, but happiness is probable, if not ecstatically sure.

Make me feel it again.

Contrast of light and dark.

The human mind is riddled with traps, wormholes into the unknown, inescapable crevices and thorns.

She felt herself being pulled into the reaches of her psyche; she couldn’t tell if she would ever be able to fully understand the infinite insides of her thoughts and whether or not she would ever be the same if she tried, but she felt compelled to delve into, responsible for and enticed by the vortex of thoughtbits and dreamditches.

And after that, I never saw daylight again.

Misty-eyed.

The blue drips out of my eyes with every blink;
Drops of soul on the sheets.
Sounds like slow, torturous rain;
the kind that makes you frustrated and your clothes only slightly wet with
large
drops.
My lungs attempt to force their way out through my throat and mouth;
The pressure makes me cough and makes my head spin.
My head feels heavy and less vibrant,
and I feel myself missing your colorful love.
Shocking myself, I lash out and make the situation worse.
You always carried the scent of love;
slight, hardly noticeable and intoxicating.

Train fumes.

Significant emotion backtracked to nonexistence and all I'm left with is a storm of nothing relevant. Utter frustration takes over as I try to make sense of something that was nonsensical to begin with. I hardly know how I feel about me, let alone myself in relation to someone else. This is the beginning of something possibly completely new, but definitely progressive. I may relapse, and I think I have, but Ill always have me and my pen. I'm confused now in several places and I have no idea what or who to call home. I guess home is something you'll recognize when it comes along, so it might be safe to say my home is found, but out of reach and too far.

One of the hardest and most fucked-up things of concepts is the delusion that you're okay, which leads into problems conjured out of thin air, which leads to the realization that the nonexistent problems held a lot of truth and their basis being nothing becomes untrue. This is what happened to me and now I'm comfortably troubled and out of balance enough to feel. Flatlining is boring and boredom does worse damage to me than cigarettes. If life were all lovely and careless, we'd kill ourselves. We need balance and feeling like shit is a part of it. Give me rain and sunshine and I'll stay balancing on the border between sane and insane.

Drunkenhigh night.

A long time ago, I slipped into slight insanity for about 5 minutes while high. This was the result.

--------------------------------------------------

Please love me -
wait, no, just "love me" -
It can work -
Sleep with me -
Kiss me -
Fuck me -
Love is relative and therefore not definable -
Therefore, you can't define why I couldn't love you -
My dear, I fear I'll never not love you -
Partly painful, partly comforting -
I float in unfathomed places -
You, motherfucker, are the cause -
These places never set me aboard a spiral of self-energy in the past -
For I never knew of them before you materialized -
These fleshy stubs some might call akin to wings have come to feel numb -
I hover now above seas of active ideas -
Wanting to dive in -
Faith is crucial -
Without it not a single activity -
(conscious or autonomous) -
Can remain mobile, metamorphosing, flowing -
They remain soft illusions -
Lighting aflame only when energy appears.

Nocturnal.

Summer nights go by too fast -
not really nights at all, the sun never setting.

Summer nights have a feeling all their own -
closer to a flood of emotion, the dam nonexistent.

Summer nights fuck you over -
getting lost in them, never finding your way home.

Silver lining.

My insides call me forth and I feel a confessional's in order.
The cardinal of my mind bows to the Pope of my consciousness.

How I need to escape, to run.
I need to breathe.

I may have found an oxygen mask;
It's a real shame the extension cord is too short.

A voice from afar (tentative) vibrates into existence from the darkness.
Clear enough in message but raspy enough to reverberate, I almost cry out.

--------------------------------------------------------

I can't hold myself together much longer, Voice.
Tonight, I miss you and it stings, Voice.
Hopes are high for clarity, Voice.

I've bet it all and I'm losing, Voice.

Oceanic.

A new feeling settles into my core;
Among all the amazing moments of late, one or several related stand out.

I sincerely, naïvely, truly felt safe.
Figurative arms still clench around me and I feel balanced.

Beer, throngs of people (one single mass), laughter and unity.
Thematically functioning and I swim in it, I'm immersed.

There's an ocean inside of me.

Sleep-coma.

The air is thick with smoke and your heavy breathing.
I'm awake, but still not quite, and the ticking of your clock is the only sound rhythmifying my existence this morning.
It's been light outside
for what seems like years,
but units of time are useless.

Why not measure "time" in states of mind,
or physical states of being?

Right now, it's hunger and weakness;
later it'll be fatigue and in some time,
satisfaction and content.
I live for fleeting moments, praying for something lasting.

My back hurts this morning.
I feel off this morning.
I'm alive this morning.

Waves.

Every time I spitefully breathe in smoke,
I breathe you in.
Several times a day (too many times), I slowly die from purely physical reasons
and you.

I miss you so much, words fail me.
This shocks me; I talk a lot, but now I spew out empty words if you're not nearby, within earshot.

I can't deal with the distance and I need to hold you.
I sincerely and overwhelmingly (suddenly) long for your apple-white skin and the way it reminds me of my own destruction.

Your lips are still the best I've kissed.

Emotional masochism envelopes me in its warm, stinging grip and I now know that that is where my safety lies;
within you.
My center;
within you.

I may be able to take a step back for now, but it'll be you -
over and over and over again.

As hopeless and useless as it is,
it's always going to be you.
Your smile, your laugh, your heart;
the way you love me.
You will eternally stab at voodoo dolls in my chest.

I love you.

Sore ribs.

WWII of registered waking up and the opposite rises in magnitude,
but I don't want to wake up to how this feels.

With half a heart, I hang on;
With the other half, I attempt escape
because I don't want to be here again.

I may be more than obvious to some, but you can't see a thing.
I hide behind walls and keep up a facade.
I feel filthy, diseased and traitorous
for doing this (in my mind) to some.

It's gonna hurt, and I'm sorry.

Realize.

Martyrdom pains some;
They blame themselves for everything that goes wrong.
It's nobody's fault, in reality;
We all fuck up sometimes.

Collective fucking up is what's wrong.
All the Al Gores of the world try to Dr. Phil us
and all we want to do is OJ Simpson them
and Lorena Bobbit organized religion,
after which we'd Kurt Cobain ourselves (the entire world)
and enjoy it.

Fucking hypocrites is what we all are;
every single one.