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[13 Mar 2004|11:18pm] |
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mood |
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 blah |
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music |
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Marilyn Manson--> Tainted Love |
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Not finished. Actually, it probably never will be. But by demand of Mr. Christopher Turco, here ya go.
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Calloused hands travel the soft porcelain terrain of your face as though they've never felt skin before. His thumb brushes across your lips, which until this life-bearing moment have been dormant and cold. Any anger or fear that ever once coursed through your veins has been purged by his touch, more gentle and precautious than any you've ever felt--as if he fears he may break you.
The solitary flame of a candle, left glowing for hours now in the window sill, illuminates hundreds of tiny rain drops spattered against the glass. Each one of them an ocean in themselves, yearning to flow through the glass into the bedroom, desperate to feel true warmth again. You smile as he adoringly slips his hand around the back of your neck, lifting your head up to meet his. Your mind is racing, heart pounding. And in the midst of attempting to disentangle the countless emotions you're experiencing in this one moment, you think that he is going to kiss you. Holding your breath, your heartbeat speeds up faster still. You can sense it in his breath--nervousness, excitement, fear. You spot your own reflection in his marble-blue eyes as he draws you closer....
...and does nothing. You slowly exhale and let your eyes flutter closed as the hand at the back of your neck starts to innocently stroke your hair. Your entire body relaxes and settles into a faint grey medium between sleep and conciousness.
You've suddenly become so tired, the feeling washing over your body like water overflowing over the brim of a bath tub, and never before did you realize how cold and lifeless his skin felt next to yours....
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| Eh. |
[13 Mar 2004|10:56pm] |
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music |
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Death Cab for Cutie--> Sleep Tight |
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Something seemed to capture me, seemed to seize me from all conciousness and prideful grudges I had held against you for never being with me when I needed touch. I crept soundlessly down the stairs and laid an unsteady hand upon your back, but you didn't turn around. You drew breath in quick, sharp gasps as everything you couldn't find words for spilled from your sad brown eyes. How small you looked there, curled up tightly on the floor in a huddled mass of resignation and tears.
I sat on the ground before you, taking your head in my hands, but you didn't look at me. I brushed the backs of my fingers along your cheek, blending each tear stain together and running my hand over your hair. All you do is shiver, and the only noise in the entire appartment is the sound of your troubled breathing. I pull you closer, so that your forehead rests on my collar bone and I can caress the back of your neck, singing softly in your ear. You stop crying, and sit up slowly to look me in the eye.
There was something about how you looked at me, and how you placed your hand gently at the side of my face that made me break down into thousands of tiny chards.
You took me into your lap and rocked me slowly back and forth. I told you that I couldn't stand the silence anymore, that I was just so tired, so tired. And you told me that you loved me.
And for a moment, all was right in the world.
That night, as we lay sleeping and intertwined in one another, all of my pasts and futures collided. And for once, I didn't feel as if something were missing. For once I dreamed, only when I woke up, it was really you sitting there next to me, smiling.
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| Ephemeral as the sun's brief reign |
[01 Jan 2004|10:24pm] |
Nightfall bleeds through bright skies, once again to find you reclined on your roof-top with a cigarette pressed between your lips, smoke billowing out of your reach and casting a haze over the ritualistic struggle between sun and moon.
In the last dissolving light, you trace with your tired eyes each pencil-drawn word in the last letter she ever wrote to you. Reading was of no use, really, the words were already etched into your heart and your memory, engraved as if in stone. The penciled markings on the page begin to blur and fade, spiral and contort as the sun withdraws from the sky in defeat.
Beneath the weight of your own resignation, you wonder whether it was right to feel that way, on those nights in your car, as she smiled and breathed truth into your skin. Always the voice of reason. Always letting reality poison your dreams. Passion is overrated, anyway.
Exhaling a last cloudy breath, your cigarette meets its finale in the worn paper at your side. Where a timelessly flowing script once expressed "Love always," now bares an ashen void, much like the one in your heart at this moment, empty of color and clarity.
The moon diseminates a melancholy coldness into the sultry night air, numbing your lifeless cheeks so as to keep you from feeling the tears cascade down them as you take your lighter to the corner of her letter. The scorched paper curls and blackens at your hand, the words it once bore erased completely and forever. You had forgotten what they meant to you quite some time ago, and it only seemed right to watch them cauterize beneath your fingertips this way.
Pertinacious in your solitude, hapless in your grief--you let your heavy eyelids slip closed. Your head bows slightly in regret. Symphonies of crickets lapse into a melancholy serenade, in sorrow for your lost love. Bright, blinding love--ephemeral as the sun's brief reign. Their sympathetic melody does little to solace your grief, but passion is overrated, anyway.
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[19 Dec 2003|11:18pm] |
December 5, 11pm
As I walked inside, headed straight upstairs for a shower, they were talking about me. I knew because of the way they all got quiet when they heard the door close and then suddenly became fascinated by their shoe laces, fidgeting idly and making certain to not look up. I pretended that I couldn't feel my father burning scars into my back with his eyes.
ap·a·thy
1. Lack of interest or concern, especially regarding matters of general importance or appeal; indifference.
2. Lack of emotion or feeling; impassiveness.
I suppose I haven't assimilated the idea of feeling numb for quite some time, for fear of a relapse into a certain period of my life I'd rather forget. That's an oxymoron, you know, to "feel" "numb". I'd say my whole life is an oxymoron. But what does it mean to feel, anyway?
I got into the shower, overwhelmed with one-sided conversations and slippery strands of poetry. I ran the water over my face so that I couldn't tell if I was crying. I hate crying.
To feel...is it physical? I nearly scalded myself before it occurred to me that the water may have been too hot. I remembered how you used to take such hot showers. I turned the tap and stood there freezing.
Now I ran the cool water over my face. It brought back the cold of your fingers tracing the curves of my face through the tears. And it sickened me, the way your simplest gestures send me into an insatiable kind of yearning, an ache to be nearer eternally, an ephemeral happiness bright enough to glow through from beneath the sullen gloom that's been draped over me like a burial shroud.
But that's what love is. The dreadful pains felt with each time our lips met tonight, how I cursed the lifting happiness that rose from inside of me at your touch. Knowing you didn't feel the way that I did, kissing me because it was a habit, when all you wanted to do was walk away and confront yourself alone in your sorrows. Away from me, away from your haunting past, away from the inevitable truths that have bound our hearts together since before this life began.
But someone wise once told me that in order to know and understand others, you must first know yourself. I believe that I am as much at a loss in this area as you are right now, as you may be surprised to learn. The thought engulfed me just this morning and didn't leave until my realization (which I have already relaid to you) this afternoon. But I was thinking about it, sitting on the bus and staring out the window, feeling a bit like a caged bird longing to fly again, as ridiculous and cliche as that may sound. I don't know myself as well as I'd admit to.
But I could see something in you.
I knew something pained you, but I hadn't yet decided what. I never expected that it was so serious, and I was too late. There is nothing I could possibly want more than to take you in my arms and absorb your troubles into my own skin. And I can sit here as long as I want to, grieving over the fact that you don't need me like I need you, jumping at every ring of the telephone in hopes of hearing your voice--but it will never do me any good. Your war lies within your own mind, not with me. You must fight and kill your enemy there, and I can't help you, as painful as it is to admit this to myself. All I can do is apologize for the stress I've caused. You deserve better, you know this. Your life has been far too difficult, my love, to be in pain for much longer, and it is in this that I find what tiny glimmering chards of hope I have left.
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| That night, I dreamed. How much I dreamed awake and how much while sleeping, I don't know... |
[11 Nov 2003|12:35am] |
Idle wandering, the all too familiar child of the ill-fated attempt of slumber. Youthful restlessness coursing through my veins, warming my flushed cheeks, all the way down my spine to my bare feet. Hazy languor rests its endolent hand at my hip, breathing crystalline droplets of dew across my neck. I reopen my eyes to a talismanic display, an entire celestial city is suspended in the clouds, transcendent in its astral eminence. The sky itself was dark, and would have perhaps looked quite dismal had not the stellar inhabitants been so avidly fleeting about, playfully twinkling and glittering at one another.
I was reluctant to leave my seat beside the pond at first, my night vision being poor and my fears being unfaced and forgotten through so many years. Time had hardly begun to tap its foot impatiently as the curiosity began to prick up along my spine. I can feel him...
I gathered my skirt and arose from the granite bench that held me. Tenebrous sounding songs eminated from tiny crickets, rising loftily into the night air like vapor. Such beauty, dark as it may have been, pulsed through their song that I nearly smiled. Ahead of me lay a fog so thick it cast the illusion of a cloud of pure sugar embracing the earth. The air was laced with the fragrance; my hundreds of floral nighttime companions. Stealthily they lead me into a hypnotic trance, quickly purging me of my fears of the solitude and darkness. To this day I can't recall how long I trod that moonlit path, for time had lost its meaning. All that mattered was this magical place, this epitome of such exquisite and near unattainable beauty, the kind that would await me in your eyes every night when I would lose myself in them.
As mesmerizing as each star, innocently you would smile and nonchalantly hold me spellbound. This enthralling languor numbs my entity at every ephemeral touch, for not a moment nor eternity seems to last as long as I wish.
With the setting of the moon, so flees my love
as he leaves behind nothing
but for yearning and a promise of reunion
to carry throughout the sunlight until nightfall
with the one he holds and spills whispered words to.
"Be my wife..."
Your kisses aren't like others so previously known
love falls delicately from your lips, beauty from your eyes
as tonight I learn
why you love the night so.
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| P a n a c e a |
[24 Oct 2003|10:00pm] |
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Loyalty, honesty, and the roar of wind against your ears.
Buzzing of sleepless crickets, nearly as nocturnal as we.
Resounding noise, entrapment within the outer walls of everything you thought was real.
Reach out to me, and don't let me fall asleep tonight.
Singing softly in your ear, all of my skin touching all of yours.
Fragments of every dream you've ever had
Cohering into a stained glass array of sleepy reveries.
And none of it ever, until this point of oblivion, felt real...
Or made any sense, for that matter.
You are the color in my life, my supernova star,
The arms that hold me up when I forget to breathe.
Forget.
Forget the old worn-down paths through darkness,
We'll never walk there again.
Highways leading nowhere in particular
It doesn't matter anymore, you're here with me now.
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| h a u n t m e . |
[08 Oct 2003|10:14pm] |
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music |
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Counting Crows--> Colorblind |
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Your haunted and haunting eyes are so faded through the haze of the various, unknown pills. Rain drops drip down your face, giving you the illusion of tears.
Wanderers float on by you, the world spinning and everything dancing slow and out of control, on a collision course with black and supernova stars. No one takes notice of you but me (no one in particular) but you're too far gone to know (nowhere in particular). And so you drift along the shoreline forever, the waves crashing ever so gently into your wet jeans to find you tripping over the excess. And the sand washes up between your toes and the slight breeze from the sea pushes around your ragged and beautiful hair.
And I follow you down past the bend and the lighthouse. Just to watch you. And to wonder how you can live with yourself.
And the sky burns the only fire that could ever see red fade so; blending into blue, enveloping the tiny glowing stars. I could just feel so happy, if you would only turn around. Your drunken saunter finally sees you hit the sand, face-first. And who was there to pick up the broken pieces? To hold you up and see you safe and out of harm's way? And will you remember me in the morning? I know you won't. But, you know what? I love you so much that I don't even care. I'm not out to prove how much I love you. I'm out to love you. And I hope someday you will see me clearly. And maybe I can do what the alcohol and pills do for you. Maybe I can take away your pain too.
And true love lies in haunted outtakes.
Just lonely.
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| Lie to me and say you will |
[08 Oct 2003|09:51pm] |
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music |
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Senses Fail--> The ground folds |
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Slow down. You move too fast for me, and I'm about to crash. Will you be there to pick up all my pieces? You won't, will you? Lie to me and say you will, just like you always have. It was all a lie. All a kaleidescopic array of pretty poisons, they made you feel so good back then. But you'll pay for it now, as desertment glazes over your monster-yellow iron eyes, bloodshot and full of fear. Cold. And I'm ever-perplexed and wondering if you miss having me around. I know you don't. You're thinking of drugs and sex with all those innocent little girls from school who think you really care about them. And how you wish that you were okay but you're not okay, and you can't fight it. There's no point anymore. Maybe I should give up. No point at all. What's there left for me? Words that aren't pretty and thoughts that aren't cohesive. Can't follow a simple order. No point at all.
Fall asleep forever, and see if I care.
I won't, will I?
I'll lie to you and say I will.
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[23 Sep 2003|11:01pm] |
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music |
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Cold--> Bleed |
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Disappointment marked her face like technicolor paints under ultraviolet lights. And he was happy, no matter how pretense and longing the happiness could be at times. Both submerged in a distant sense of sore sobriety, they lie down in a vacant sea of overgrown grass stretching toward the sky, aching to survey the earth alongside the stars. It's all so beautiful when you're that high.
Despite secrets being conceived inside the innerworkings of their minds, this boy and girl shared little more than a common goal--don't fall in love. And never before has such a violently determined plan failed so miserably, for as one might suspect, this is exactly what happened.
Someone walked in and turned the lights off, and I couldn't quite make out who it was, and frankly I didn't care too much. But never the less the ambiguity struck a diminished chord in my mind and made me want to close my eyes so that the figure with the distorted grey silhouette could guide and protect me, and I would rely on touch alone. And maybe if I could find in my heart to trust him and not push him away, the monsters in the closet would quit making their hushed noises and find another undeserving victim to antagonize (or at least put their clothes back on before they came out).
All he wanted, all I needed, was just someone to hold on to, to keep warm, to hold on to the fading slippery illusion of being loved. Neither of these characters knew one another and yet neither of them seemed out of place at all. And each one awaiting something.
He, the grey-rimmed silhouette with a gentle hand and calming voice, never realized how truly alone he had forced himself to become. And I, the out of focus poet who perhaps wasnt really a poet at all. Just an indecisive passer-by who took comfort in a pen and paper, fascinated by the written word. And perhaps even the spoken word, beautiful and thought provoking like a cello in the London Symphony Orchestra on opening night. It's all so beautiful when you're that high.
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| Boxes |
[23 Sep 2003|10:31pm] |
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music |
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A Perfect Circle--> The Noose |
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Summer's returned.
The days are long, nights are spent alone and mornings dissolve into sticky noontime. All of your fears are packed into neat little boxes, tied with tiny strands of hope, and tossed carelessly into piles of all those things you only wish you had the courage to evaluate. And, with more than your admittance and your heart will allow, I am in one of those boxes. I am one of those burdens shining into your eyes, blinding you as you try to sleep at night.
Eventually you'll put me up high on a shelf, to be looked, at to decorate your past and nothing more. I'll be taken down every now and then, to be held and absorb all of those false, endearing smiles. Then I will be put away again, out of reach, out of earshot and out of mind.
Maybe someday you'll come back and let me out of this foresaken box. Maybe you won't.
But hope is such a beautiful lie...
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[23 Sep 2003|10:13pm] |
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music |
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A Perfect Circle--> Gravity |
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Peter Pan was never real...
And darling, neither were you.
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| A crying shame, because it sure was pretty... |
[22 Sep 2003|01:05am] |
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music |
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Seether--> Broken |
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Every bit of love and devotion that ever was contained in your being was carved into that tree. That little tree in your back yard, overlooking the sunnier side of your grassy, emerald hill--the one you loved to climb as a child. The one you would lie with her beneath and hold her hand. You stare at the initials, those initials that you carved there, that you swore by and made vows for. Those initials that you cursed one night when you were sad and ready to jump from the bridge across the other side of your grassy hill. Under the stars, under the influence, under the watch of the trees with their pinecone eyes.
You stare, mind foggy with regression, and all you can think of doing is taking a savage axe to that tenebrous tree. Of taking it down and watching it fall lifelessly to the ground--the way your heart and your pride fell--and chopping it up for firewood to burn. Just burn it all, because you've forgotten what all of this meant to you quite some time ago, and you weren't happy then, anyway. But you're happy now, with a new set of initials to encase within a carved heart on some other tree, on some other spot on your grassy hill. Because the new initials are here now, and the others have been long since gone, drowned somewhere under that bridge, and only in this sordid tree are they still real. Nothing but a fleeting moment in your past, and so you take an axe to the tree and cry as you cut it down.
You burn it in a massive fire that everyone will always remember because you were crying the whole time, rocking back and forth in the corner, under a pile of neglected lawn furniture shrugging away from everyone's touch who tried to comfort you. Even the girl whose initials you'd like now to carve; because it was a hard experience, a hard experience.
And you disappear from the chaos and the sirens and the water hoses, and the feeble attempts at comfort. You disappear to that bridge and no one knows where you ran off to or even has the energy to care.
But you wake up the next morning happy and in love...because this time, you just might be.
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