I wrote this for me. The words are for you.These words are just words, but they're like the sunrise. They're more than the dark. They're more than you say they are. They're brighter than the stars to me.
These words are just scratches on a page which was once a tree. This page is ugly now, but these words convince her that she is free. She is better than the rest though these words are scars on her bark and tears in her leaves. She bleeds black and blue ink from the bruises and the droplets don't follow the lines.
These words are just words, but when I speak them or shout them out to the universe from this mountain's inverted peak I'm free from the voices that hate and lie. Those sounds tell me that I am less than I can be, but these words prove them wrong.
These words are just words, but when I write them they are a symphony. They come together with their twisted strings to form a fucked up harmony. I don't follow the notes. I don't listen to the conductor even though I am the conductor.
These words are long car rides al
VaporI stare at the clouds from this passenger seat as you talk unrelenting, complaining, whining.
I'm listening, but I'm not. I'm hearing, but the sound flows in one ear and out the other, Even before I can process the information in the jumble of exclamations and explanations.
You notice my absent stare, though I don't mean to offend you. It's what I do best, Mom.
"What are you looking at?" You ask in a serpent's hiss. You're just like the serpent in Eden, weaving your webs of deceit.
"The clouds." I murmur and trace my hand across the window pane to feel the cold grey sky.
I outline the faded harsh lines of the sun shining through with my hazel eyes turned upward.
You're silent and I worry, but I can't look away from the floating wisps.
That vapor just waiting to be inhaled and tasted. Exhaled and destroyed.
"He's up there." You say with reverence that I don't understand.
You turn down the radio dial in hopes that I'll hear you and believe. I won't,
But I let you believe that I do. "God
This Is What I AmI am a coffin, I carry death on the inside.
Will you be there at my wake, when I rise from this velvet shell.
Only to be buried six feet under the cold, hard ground?
I am a tree in winter, baron, empty, but I only look this way. Only feel this way.
In spring I'll bloom again, but what if spring never comes.
What if snow falls forever and leaves me trapped in it's glory.
I am a dead flower returning to the place from which I was born.
I flake, I decay, I rot into mother earth and she accepts me with her open skeleton arms.
I decompose under trampling and she catches me. She tells me I once was beautiful, but I'm just dust now.
I am an empty hotel room. People walk in and I close my eyes.
I only miss them when they're gone. I only miss them when they're leaving, but
I'm always ready for the next heartache or sleepless night.
I know that both love and nightmares escalate under bed sheets and behind heavy eyelids when night claws at the walls.
I am candle wax dripping from a fl