my favorites – Page 3

stardust

stars and stardust fall to freedom
from the press corpse,
from the incessant demand of chemical crises.
crowds ache for love or a substitute
and false amoré is what they have.
love is folié a deux-
[the shared madness of two.]
attachment is an affliction,
infatuation is disease leaping from remission,
with deadly symptoms.
red roses lead to black coffin doors,
roses dropped on floors
from vases shattered,
and life is the water spilling from the stems.

golden hair won’t keep me docile-
blue eyes and a smile
are weapons of mass destruction-
cities sunk and flags risen
from the depths of inhumanity.
it’s all for you, Helen, and humankind will never
perceive its aftereffects,
its hangover headache
sprawled over the world on a bad day.
little city partylights and shiny beer bottles
broken upon the concrete
covering the grass.
reflections of insanity upon the glass.

devilish, the temptress,
the succubus, a mistress
sent by Him, to spin doubt into
the spiderwebbed life of family trees
split in two by axes, divorces
to fifty percent, no-
no wedding band-aid will stop this flood.

abandonment.
neglect gets to a child’s head-
can’t help but wonder if
they were the cause of this.
little anchors,
keeping the heart in one place-
an anchored rubber band that demoness
stretched and snapped.
the relapse gave her whiplash, and
the stepdad whipped the boy’s back, and
the boy grew up and
found a girl to take his pain to.
she gave him five stunted children,
with eyes hollow and glazed,
a mechanical response to a command.

lack of emotion only seems cruel
to those on the other side.
lack of flourish means nothing
to those who grew up to grey skies.

chains and handcuffs keep stardust grounded,
remains from a nebula which
birthed a black hole.
straight razors and pinky nails
teach fledglings to reach for the sky
and never fall back down.
glass ceilings never seemed so
breakable- tiptoe upsidedown
and reach the other side
before you fall back down to the real world.

angels have no eyes.
angels have no souls.
angels judge and leave the helpless for below.
cliffsides crumble and clouds dissipate,
and the devil lends a hand-
he is helping sinners make it up to him.
in his face sit eyes gleaming brightly;
there are teeth grinning, off-white-
he is human, though sadistic
and he understands your plight.
the devil is forgiving,
and you understand nothing, because you
are nothing.
you are nothing.

stars and stardust fall to freedom, and the devil takes in all.

–

written w12sep2011.

this is one of my most favorite works. i vividly remember frantically scribbling it in red pen in my notebook during free time in spanish class- the words appeared in my mind in one long, fevered stream, and when i was done i felt a genius. or perhaps a maniac. probably a good dose of each.

i’m not sure exactly what caused me to write this, but i believe the main influences were mania; neil gaiman’s sandman, volumes one and two; chiodos’ all’s well that ends well; and the blood brothers’ …burn, piano island, burn.

–

who do you think you are

: mason jars like canopic jars
sitting dusty on the counter –
captured memories and regrets
tapping at the lid .
nervous tics , stuttered remarks –
but not the brain
and never the heart .

the artist is the child
who hasn’t taken off for college yet
late bloomers
still don’t know who they are
so write it out ,
write it out –
and how are you now ?

kaleidoscope kids
rattle their own brains ,
searching for value
in fluid characters ,
constantly one step
behind the cataract

[ he’s still suckling from mommy
she hands him a fifty
and wishes him
i n d e p e n d e n c e ]

–

written w22sep2011.

–

déjà vu

i am choking for words.
i hacked off the tip of my tongue
to spite my quick wit-
stumble over it.

lusting for beauty through text/
creation is hollow at best-

a dollhouse
a fantasy, dystopian as per usual
for an idle mind
losing hours and
pickled in hate’s brine.
salt in the wound
salt in the wound

angst, angst, teenage angst.
a kiddie anarchist.
stop fighting it.

turn up the stereotypical.
depression playing on the radio.
don’t try to be more original.
what haven’t we seen?

choking for words and
stuck on painted portraits
all is well, but never exciting
i’m exiting this uneventful existence
all for once and once for all.

-and you thought there was a winner
buried in this chrysalis-
well, the rhythm has returned,
but i’m sick

of painted portraits and lost hours
and sugar-coated expectations of the truth
how uneventful, how unexciting
and i’m tired of razorblades,
but at least they’re honest

speaking down, insults and
lies and i know i need to sleep
but i’m fighting it.

i’m ready to move on, but not for long
not for long and
you’ll see me as a butterfly someday.

–

written r8sep2011.

had just entered my senior year of high school, and was predicting it to be just another mundane revolution of the cycle.

i’m quite fond of this one. i wrote a lot of good poetry- and made a lot of good art- in my senior year. i thank advanced placement studio art, emery’s in shallow seas we sail, mania, and deviantart.

–

metaphorically you

i sit at my mother’s table,
taking apart the roses father sent me
[happy sweet sixteenth, honey]

big-headed idols of the flowerfae,
gaia-sent and humankind-picked
[this is the classic, this is the girl we will blow up]

they’re dried up, twelve days after
the outside shriveled, some old maid
past her prime, past rose-bouquet days

i peel back the layers of the tough façade,
[alogotrophic, pitifully decrepit]
like slivers of lost hopes and ‘i-told-you-so’s,
and watch it bloom again, rebirthing

and realizing soon after that the inner things
are often the youngest, the most delicate;
the truth, and we must protect them
duly, with withered indifference

–

written w10aug2011.

–

day two

i.
apparently,
on the spectrum-
lack of eye contact
gave it away
years ago.

ii.
nervous tics-
always tapping feet,
moving fingers to
unheard melodies.

iii.
buzzing ears,
sweaty palms-
got it all
for the low price
of overstimulation-
crowd control,
i pray to you.

iv.
worries about
the rest of eternity.
doesn’t plan for it.

v.
irrational,
loud music blocking out
the simians
and their rules for survival.

vi.
cut my nose off
just to spite my face-
ginger-haired temper,
hailing from
blonde-dominated sweden.

vii.
poses as the rebel,
misunderstood reject-
an overused excuse.

viii.
varying from scarlet to mahogany,
sweet-smelling acid
in a box labeled
fade-resistant.

ix.
just an artist playing punk.

–

written m18jul2011.

two things have changed since then:
-my hair has now been every color of the rainbow.
-i’m a real-ass punker now.

prompt: nine things about you.

–

like a bad dream

my loved ones
are all falling
apart
dripping construction-paper
[stalks of] bleeding hearts
onto rainy pavement

mother maple
tree was felled
by eating the emotions
her daughter claimed to quell
sadness trapped her mouth like glue
now she aches to see you [whole]

twinlike,
carbon copies right down
to the scars on their wrists-
diamond sharp rapier-wits
clash together-
advice isn’t worth it.
peeling sliverscabs of guilt
off, never ceasing the habit

endings:
brown hair, red-eyed tears
confessions dunked in coffee
dribbling powdery pill-crumbs
[her vices vary, now her only vibrancy]
ocean-bound, she drank
too much salt water
and puked her guts out
i can’t say i’m not watching her

knuckle said
i won’t stop
this self-injury madness
if it keeps me believing
i’m something romantic
knuckle said
to the concrete
yeah, i’m a real
winner

–

written f15jul2011.

this one also got a lot of attention on deviantart.

–

throw it away

your hobbies-
darts on a checkered target
reel back and
thwap
a needle
pinning your hopes and dreams
to the corkboard,
butterflies preserved for the harvest

you can see
you lived the dream,
your life splayed out
before you-
some sort of sinister
Pollock on the pavement

you had it all
and then you blew it away,
two hands held together
like a small child mimics a gun
two shots-
bang
bang

-and there’s not a shot.

–

written a25jun2011.

–

counterculture

not the american dream:
a true american would never fall this far.

but i have to hold onto
this image-
        the phoenix
        crawling out of the ashes
        of the bridges we burned
    rising to glory
        by doing the one thing
        that got me into this

nails chewed to the quick
stubbed toes, eye leakage
over nothing special

self-pity
is nothing beautiful
morbidity
is low-key
revolt
is commonplace

“more real,
more raw,
more sincere”
don’t demand this of me
        (my standards are all too similar,
        but i’ll pretend they aren’t
        just to spite cliché)

counterculture
still draws upon society
as a photonegative,
a source of injustice
to rebel against

don’t give me structure
        rhyme in your own head
        hoard punctuation for yourself
don’t give me standards
        keep your mouth shut
        impress monotony upon your own

my standards are enough for me

–

written m13jun2011.

the prompt: what inspires/influences you?

i’m no good at sticking to prompts.

–

the pen is mightier (than the scalpel)

i.
fantasy girl,
they tell me,
you’ve got your head in the clouds.

but it’s better up there.

ii.
i’ll do what you want for now
but i’ll have you know,
i’m a celebrity in my own head.
and i don’t need to figure
things like taxes and math.

i dance
around beautifully brazen ballerinas
and flowers missing half their petals
before they’ve even bloomed
and weave justice back into romance
and weave romance back into words.

i make my own living
where i am king
of thieves and beggars
and i am respected
for my fraud.

iii.
you expect me to remember
the littlest things
        (names,
        dates,
        rules)
when i am too preoccupied
by things that fill my head
        like the sounds of words
        like the way they make me feel
(why do you feel that way?)

and due dates make me anxious
so i’ll just erase them
why don’t you understand
i have the power to change the world?
my pen is mightier than your scalpel.

        (i don’t need to meet
        your plastic-surgery standards,
        your smiling faces with lying eyes)

iv.
what is surviving in your world
compared to even living in mine?

–

written w15jun2011.

–

we’re supposed to need this

and i write
simply
for the cacophony
of six-syllable words
clacking against each other
for luscious alliteration
coating my mouth
like agave on a late-summer eve

and sharp consonants
and delicate suffixes
sounding smart
cloaked in fire,
burnt toast on the tongue

and i write at night
because then the murmurs of my subconscious
are unmuffled by the
should-haves, shouldn’ts-
and other standards

and at night
the razors attached to my truths fade
into vague discomfort
unhaunted by dirty words and clichés
and formatting and rhymes
and what else they say we need
we’re-supposed-to-need
-this

but i like parentheses
because i am two-faced
because i am secretive
because i am mysterious
manipulative
and i have everything
to hide

–

written a4jun2011.

this is one of those which came to me as i was half-asleep, waiting for unconsciousness to fully claim me- hence the nonsensical imagery.

–