After a while you learn the subtle difference

Between holding a hand and chaining a soul 
(click soul for beauty)



Poems come more like the spontaneity of volcanic lava, than the mere bend of mind and tongue these days. I have written two in the past two weeks. Far more than I can say for the past two years. I think passion is funny that way; like a mute child waging war against all the sounds in the world until one day he turns to you and calmly asks, Could you lower your voice? I can't hear my own thoughts. My heart spasms for all of it. Verses dance through my head like ribbon through the wind, carrying themselves to one another like destined loves, desperate for their fated lives. Disorderly etching pen to paper, a compulsion to release what has been given to me before I go on to loose it myself. For I am always losing things and the thought of losing my voice again is something I cannot bare.

S's hair is thinning by the day, a field of beautiful daises climbing quickly from their dirty beds in search of some place new. I try, Hair is nothing compared to what's just below. But I don't think she believes me. She weeps in a frenzy of wet clouds that pour like a giant avalanche of snow onto a tiny creature. I feel like I am made of sea things when she's like that and there are no drains out at sea, so I am left there. But I would stay there (with her) even if I had the arms to swim me somewhere dry. I tell her that someone once told me that it's healthy to cry like this. I told her that I would drown with her.

He ignores my given attention like it never hit him in gusts of vanilla and mint. He cannot comprehend that my inability to speak stems from my inability to let them listen. I keep secrets so well hidden that they are not secrets, they are something that never existed. I can only pull my long fingers through his thick hair, whisper I love you with my lips on his forehead, like maybe he might believe it faster. There's this furious pull deep in my gut hinting that I misplaced some beauty and the short hairs at my neck stand tall like a feline as she stretches her back in that crescent way. Like it knows what might be coming for us.



We move in two days. I have two letters to write. I have been offered a new job. I smile with my entire body as it enjoys the world, but my heart is so lonely that it has not even tears to accompany it to sleep. That's a secret.

Listen

Nowhere seems like home anymore.

That fine line between making something of yourself and believing that everything does happen for a reason has cut my tongue from my mouth. I sit here mute, teeth chattering much like the rain's pitter-patter on the spring window. My hands shake for someone I've yet to meet. Things creep and crawl from the corners of my eyes, barely recognized. I snap my neck to the left and the right trying to see them, etch any bit from the normalcy now there. I find nothing. Pit-pat-pit-pat-pit.

This child-like awareness seeps through and through the core of my body. And I feel like weeping for something I've forgotten. Something I've misplaced beneath the chaos. I hear their voices slice in the air like a carny throwing knives and I bow my head, hoping they don't take it. But I feel so deserted there, with my mind inside my hands. Like I know not what to do with it. Like I cannot hold it myself.



Imagining a place within a place where I can live and truly be alone brings me paralyzing pleasure. I dream of going there now, just to be. I will hang this there and place this here. Gardenia and cinnamon everywhere you turn. So much color, it will devastate your eyes and make them water for dry lands. Comfort you would willingly die for, a cold blanket and pillows full to the brim of the most tender hearts. Where I may sleep with Fitzgerald and Bukowski and Plath. Sinking so low into the quiet, white sheets of The Little Prince...that I become the little prince. I will teach myself French. And Greek and Spanish and Chinese. Writing the new languages into the frizzy carpet of my soul. There will cease my battle in beauty and grace. I will become those things. I will become everything. And in awe I will stand inside the mirror, smiling gloriously back at myself.

Listen

“If you love a flower, don’t pick it up.” - Osho

Listen




Someone said, "waiting rooms are depressing," yesterday and I didn't agree. They are so abounding with emotion that I can practically place colors upon their many faces. Keeping still of the notebook inside my head is difficult and I tried to take apart the people I was watching, so that I could possibly remember them better. There was an elder man with his elder wife and they were beautiful even when so tired. So tired that looking into their eyes and smiling the way that I did made me feel lethargic, like I could curl into the uncomfortable chair I was stuck in and instantly dream that I was someplace other than there. His wife left him for another room not too far from where he stood and he stood there in a funny way. Like his hips were roughly dancing to an intoxicating song that no one else could hear. It made me nervous and I felt myself wanting to jump forward to catch him with every right and left swing he moved. Right and left and left and right and my left hand shoving my chin right to look away. The hot air swims fast from my lungs like a dam snapping, like bones breaking.

And I took an instant disliking to a young woman and her pink blouse. Even before herself and her pink blouse traveled quickly into my line of sight, I took an instant disliking to her voice, herwordsandsentencesmovingfartooquickly that I had to separate them once they all registered in my mind. She resigned into the middle of her large family like each one of them went from and returned to her, like she was the vertex to which they all directed their lives. It crossed my mind that perhaps we had met in another life, said some things and thought poorly of one another after awhile, burned bridges. Because I felt her worry no matter how deep down it rested and cared very little for it, as if I were a careless or cruel being and that, I would like not to be. She said something like, "I love how everyone dressed so nicely and I look awful," and I silently pondered if her family was as annoyed by her as I was.

A woman of the staff had these dark eyes that danced with the florescent lights and the pigment of her skin forced me to stare a moment longer than I should have, but she just smiled with her Cheshire smile and I swear she shimmered. She easily sat down beside me, tucking loose papers and brochures into my hands, smoothly talking about my mother and how she would take me to see her soon enough. Something about that made my stomach clench hard and I only smiled weakly, but I was never depressed.

And I said, "Thank you," a lot that day.

Dear TF,

Opening doors inspires me. I don't mean metaphoric doors either - merely ones that lead me outside. Because nature inspires me. It seems to me that the darkest days are the ones that touch me most, always prying their gaunt fingers right into my soul. Call it cliche if you must, but the dulling grey backdrop against flooding rain or illuminating starlit midnights open me wide every time, sometimes without even meaning to. Ever since I was a small child, interacting with these breathless scenes clicked with something inside me. Kind of like flicking on a light in an incredibly dark room and seeing that this huge house I'm forever stuck in actually does have potential. It has something I might enjoy living with. It awoke things, like mind numbing rhymes over subjects I didn't really even quite understand yet. And at all hours of the day and night, constant riddles upon riddles and ideas upon ideas. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't possibly write all of them down in time, without at least some escaping my grasp and scurrying away forever, for someone else to think up and make sense of. That was frustrating, losing bits and pieces of what I felt and thought, like there was too much for my mind to hold onto - some had to be chipped at and made astray. It bothered me and I felt like I understood why most writers end up crazed beyond belief or even kill themselves. I knew that being brilliant meant everything flying everywhere all of the time, with no one there to catch it or calm it down. I also knew that was part of the appeal.

I believe that being uninspired is like someone choking you, blocking your airway. They keep screaming and spitting in your face, "Talk! Tell me what I want to know! Speak!"
And you can't. I mean, of course you can't, right? You're airway is blocked. But if it wasn't, if they let up on your throat and let you speak, you could sing like a fucking canary.
But they barely ever do, let up on your throat. Not until something larger and much stronger comes along (may it even be yourself), pushes them aside and pats you off good-as-new, unharmed and like before.

I think you do also have to remember that no one can help/save you (not even yourself), if you won't allow them to.
And I think that maybe if you break something enough, it eventually becomes something else entirely.

It took me one year to let my soul open again, to get back up on my feet. And I still feel it closing in on itself from time to time and I still trip over my own toes more than just on small occasions, unsteady in my legs as if they're not really mine anymore. I don't ever think that this is only because of my latest lover, either. More like everything that came before him. Like when he found me, I was still face first in the ground, writhing from the beatings that had come. Still so pained and unwilling to be helped. So, he didn't, he only made it worse. "Kicked me while I was down," so to say. And without even meaning to most of the time. Then we parted ways and it was like something completely changed in me, like I had been changing for awhile and the last piece finally formed at the proper angle that forced everything to better come together. This time I welcomed it with kind gestures, helped the fresh parts move into me like they were old friends. Kept it company until it grew old enough to be on its own, which is now. A year later.

All this inner growth reminds me of springtime as a child, lingering heat from the sun while surrounded in a cool breeze, the aroma of freshly cut green grass nipping at the tip of your nose. And for some reason, this one passage Sylvia Plath wrote, "Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing."

Did you know that butterflies do not hold the ability to see their own wings? How beautiful they truly are is something they are incapable of knowing. I had no idea.

I hate getting to the pin point of things, finally spitting out what it is I have been wanting to say, but wouldn't just because. Just because "I'm not ready," or "I don't really know what it is I feel like saying yet." That's poppycock. Everything, I've come to realize, is a state of mind. I always know what I wish to say and I am always ready. And I believe that is true for everyone, not just myself. I think people foolishly (or brilliantly) prefer their monologue and their grandest entrances. Because in hindsight, we grievously discover that our ultimate discovery has become the less beautiful of the two. Which is neither horrid, nor lovely, I suppose. I hope you understand.

As you know, my mother has been diagnosed with stage three cancer of the rectum, kidney, and muscle. In my journal, I describe my saying that aloud (for the first time) like tasting sour milk in my mouth. Which I have done regretfully and discern to be quite the same, even possibly lacking in as much horrific after thought. I haven't even honestly tried writing about her or her situation because frankly, I cannot fathom my thoughts and feelings over this matter ever to be gorgeous or lovely or sought after for their beauty. I think the only words that shall come of this will be ugly and horrendous and so heart breaking as to make one vomit or cry for their own mother. And I wouldn't like very much to do that to many people, for it is depressing enough that we ourselves are forced through it.

Sometimes, I feel like killing my father and I always wish that my feelings were sarcastic, but they rarely are. When I explain my parents, I always come back to saying this: If you could imagine the purest, most honest, and good soul this universe has to offer - that soul would be kept deep inside my own mother. And if you could imagine the most corrupted, awful and cruel soul able to stand foot at my mother's feet, it would be my father. But I won't speak of this any longer, because it wears down my own soul and makes me thirst for my happiness, because within these cold and dark wooded thoughts - my happiness is long gone.

Summer brings a storming sky along in its suitcase this year, but I happily acknowledge that I don't really mind. The rain tangles with my waist-length, redding hair and I imagine it all to smell like fresh gardenias, although there are none in sight. They're just something I closely remember to be immortal in beauty. Sandy beaches stick to my fair skin like the freckles themselves and I belly laugh at the trail of joy I end up leaving everywhere I go, even if most others refuse to notice it quite yet. Shooing away the sick, blue thoughts has become nearly second nature and I believe I am truly happier than I have been in years. I'm glad it shows, with my thinning face and hips, my softly flowing hair and brighter eyes. Finally, the forms and molds begin to show something, and it doesn't look half bad.

I miss you like I imagine the moon misses the warm face of the sun and I am constantly wishing you were here.
I hope you know that.
Stormy.



1st of August, 2012
It is Wednesday at 1:41 in the morning and I just happened by this quote from a Japanese novelist named Haruki Murakami. Critics say his fiction is, "humorous and surreal, focusing on themes of alienation and loneliness," and I plan to read everything he has ever written before I die and you should to, if you know what's good for you. And you do. But that's besides the point, even if there is none. The original Japanese title of the book is Noruwei no Mori, which brilliantly translates to the title of a 1965 song "Norwegian Wood (This Bird Has Flown)" by The Beatles. I just thought that was obviously worth mentioning. But the quote reads,
“These days I just can’t seem to say what I mean. I just can’t. Every time I try to say something, it misses the point. Either that or I end up saying the opposite of what I mean. The more I try to get it right the more mixed up it gets. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I was trying to say in the first place. It’s like my body’s split in two and one of me is chasing the other me around a big pillar. We’re running circles around it. The other me has the right words, but I can never catch her.”
And every bit perfectly, even bewitchingly illustrates precisely what's been rummaging just beneath my rough skin, begging for the slight chance to beat through and be heard by anyone other than the thick walls of my bedeviled mind. (Bedeviled: such a fantastic word, I have even missed using it, despite the measures needed to be taken to mean it. I am sure you can understand, of all people. You're always great for that.) Jesse Lacey's pretty voice belts against my ear drums like some scared girl trying to reach the other side of a door while it's locked up tightly. And I feel like I am floating quietly, gently over this calm, but tempestuous wave of depressed souls. (Tempestuous: love the way it hurries through the gaps between my teeth, jumps so quick like it might be flying off the tip of my tongue. Try it.) Which I need to get this out, to rid myself of these words violently circling inside my head. Like imagined 1665 children from England, singing "Ring Around The Rosie" in that achingly sad way as they turned and turned and turned, searching for whatever hope could be found in the great darkness that was their lives. But folklorists reject this idea.

See, what's wrong is, I am constantly wavering from that gorgeous act of believing in one's self. Dubiously insinuating the worst or even so, a bit less of what I am. And that is terrible, such an offensive thing to do! You, nor I, should anyone ever treat another how I am treating myself, even themselves. Learn from this, take it in, breathe it easily like thin mountain air, I say. Please. "Do it for me," if I must go there.

Someone I had not talked to in ages asked what I was doing with my life, a few days earlier than now. I said, "I don't know."
If I truly don't know what I want from life, yet on the other hand know exactly, does that mean I lied?
I am an honest liar who lies honestly.
That sounds like the title of a song I had to have listened to in high school. I'm laughing at myself.
I hope these letters make you feel as much as they make me do.

Bitter doesn't quite fill the bill. I become far too infuriated with certain situations for such a mere word to suit me. Ferociously maddened to the point of possible combustion, perhaps? Maybe. That boiling essence of utter agitation solidifying itself into a fiery substance that weighs down so profoundly inside of me is why I am here, writing this to you. I am within the earth now, my feet have punched through the fat surface. I have worms for veins and rocks for eyes and dirt for blood. Insects serenely greet me like we've met before. They say, "We didn't expect you back so soon."
I say, "Whatever that means." But I know exactly what it means.

And I hate that I let him put me here again.

"I don't ever want to feel like I did that day.

Take me to the place I love."
-- Red Hot Chili Peppers



She has cancer. It sits copiously beneath her skin, singing in this deep and ugly voice of its' barbarity, as if it belongs inside something as beautiful as her. Slithering through her like a serpent of impending doom, seeping and oozing into even the tiniest of crevices, taking her over. Lies bricks in her hips and legs in case she might choose to run, to flee from the wickedness that is her infected shell, meant only to keep her lovely soul safe. Her sadness is great in strength and pierces walls in our home, moves through my stubborn chest like a knife would, stopping my heart right in its' place. Catches my breath with its' sharp nails, snatches it from my very lungs, and buries it deep in the earth for no one to ever discover again. Every last thing is seemingly so futile whilst attempting desperately to coo her demons into rest. I pray and plead for them to lessen, to calm themselves, to weaken and let her cheeks rose as they always have. They never do.
"Just let me know when you need something. I will do anything you need me to do."

He has addictions. They laugh like bedeviling hyenas loud in his ears, spit right in his face. Make him fume, make him selfish, make him vainglorious. They watch themselves close in all reflections, from low within what is left. Stealing from her secret lock-box of pills (the one hidden inside another box, that is hidden inside another), used to relieve her very real pain and not the nothingness he has built inside himself. Biting the heads off those small, insignificant folk that stand nose to nose, looking straight into his glazed-over eyes, telling him, "No." My fists clench like jaws like when you know you should never allow the words to flow, but you do nonetheless, in fear that they may punch their way through if you choose hesitance. I would tell you I hate you one million times, if I could, but I would prefer to keep my teeth.

The younger woman is bittersweet, pleasantly painful with regret, hair worn high above her heart-shaped face and out of her large, graying eyes. She could slap blood loose on the next person's cheek whom says she's so much like her father. She hates her father, regrets being his daughter. Would never speak to him again, if not for her kindness having the strength of ten men; continually forcing the warmest of love into her cold heart that wishes for no more. She would rather wish for the feeling of early morning angels kissing her face freckled, that extravagant and echoing silence she finds when one of her pencils scratches sketching paper, all the dust and turnings of old pages in all the libraries in all the world. Pleasant dreams pour into her soul fast to be full and ready to be drunk in ample gulps that fatten her throat. Of such adventures sought out and such enlightenment found. Of chilly witching hours spent bundled on roof-tops, breathing in the most illuminating stars like cinnamon and cigarette smoke at her Grammy's kitchen island, forcing them deep down onto the bottom of her lungs for later use. Letting the hot light in their bellies warm her like a blanket stitched together with every comfort known to man. To experience everything so glorious for a second time, just as if it were the first. Maybe three times, four times even. To laugh hard with her whole body among others it would be painful to see go. And to be whoever I might be, whenever I might want to, however I may choose. For bittersweet is the younger woman.