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{So I married someone else.} Jan. 24th, 2016 @ 01:37 am
I've known you for so long.
So long I can't even remember, and yet,
You were always no one.

This nobody.
As random as suggestion, and yet,
Carefully formed and placed by fate.

Placed so near.
So near I could actually feel you beside me, and yet,
Just out of reach.
My arms stretched towards you, shaking and bleeding, trying to get a grasp of you.
Your skin.

I am exhausted.
My arms, older, sinewy and weak.
My eyes are closing as I travel somewhere else where there is no you.
No vagaries, no choice, no suggestion. Just birds flown backwards.
Fate chose to send you, to walk me through fire, to blind me while who knows how many happy lives have passed by.

In my far away land your absence is bittersweet.
For I don't know a world without you and the pain you bring, a world where having you isn't the ultimate goal, and yet,
I know only to refuse to explore it.

So I open my eyes and soul to the wounds of believing that if I'd stretch my fingers a little more, I could have you,
Only you.
And yet, you can tear my arm from it's place and never be mine.

Lost in Limbo Jan. 11th, 2016 @ 11:26 pm

Title: Lost in Limbo

Warnings: swearing

Lost in Limbo

I think the summer fucked me up.

I don’t even know who I am anymore.

Am I the optimistic one, the one who used to cheer people up and drive them harder?

Or am I just the cynical little bitch that I know is just hiding, and ready to come out whenever I’m angry?

My friend used to call me her mom.

Jokingly, of course.

I probably shouldn’t have paid too much attention to it

but now that I have, I can’t go back to the days of the unknowing.

I’ve noticed

they’ve stopped calling me mom

am I supposed to be glad? happy? ecstatic?

I don’t know.

I really don’t know anymore

I’m just being right now. I’m not really living.

I laugh - of course.

But I sometimes wonder if perhaps it fake.

Even I can’t tell anymore.

I can’t tell who I wasamwillbe anymore.

Who should I be?

war and ptsd Jan. 10th, 2016 @ 01:13 am
What did the young men, barely adults, feel like when they had to fight in the first horrible war? While, yes, some may have been excited, some may have been proud, I believe that some knew that it wouldn't be just a walk in the park. Why is it, though, that this generation was called the Lost Generation? Why did they have to fight in a war, that wasn't even their war in the first place? Answer me.

Title: "Number 437"
Section: 1/4
Summary: A young man gets drafted into the devastating WW1, and loses the one he loves the most.

Here:Collapse )
Current Mood: frustrated, sad
Current Music: Get Hurt by Gaslight Anthem

The Chronological Plasticity of Isolated Spacetime Dec. 29th, 2015 @ 02:52 am
Outside my window
the seasons speed by.
Long ago so slow,
a childhood minute
endured like hours,
waiting without end.

Time now starts to blur.
A smear of colors,
Xmas red and green
fade to spring pastels,
then verdant summer
to multihued fall.

O, to moderate
the present seconds
and decelerate
the advance of years,
thus to scrutinize
my doubtful future.

More and More Dec. 21st, 2015 @ 04:48 pm
Fractalized demons dance electric in the night
Sunflower children armed ready to fight
Look for the universe
You know the one where they live
Deep under toenails and up to our grins

One step, two steps, three hundred more
More and more I want what’s in store
Look at the vision
Hear with your eyes
More and more I know I can fly

The passage of choice
No voice to this age
The passage of dreams
A scream that will fade

Nothing is different
Nothing is same
We are all pixels
A dot in this game

Multiply and divide
Subtraction and division
Today is the day that this can all be envisioned

"Hey, Paul" Dec. 3rd, 2015 @ 09:50 pm
So, I took this job just west of your old house, out on country roads.
I know that we haven’t spoken in weeks, but
every quiet stretch of pear trees feels like I’m driving to you.
To your porch, where we smoked cigarettes at midnight
and I looked out at the crossroads ahead of us, wearing your Batman shirt.
To your room, your football jersey hanging on your wall like triumph.
To your living room, where we fucked above puppy training pads.
To that place you told me I was not allowed to go ever again.

Remember when your mom asked me for weed?
She needed something for her MS; that disease made her such a bitch
and you told her so.
You took three menthol cigarettes from her pack, and she said “hey, I need those!”
I told you that you could just have some of mine, but you took hers.
She told me once how tan I looked; how did I get that color?
“It’s the Cherokee in me”, I told her. “And bronzing lotion from Victoria’s Secret.”
Her and your dad got in such a fight over the credit card bill that month.

That house, that room
where you pushed me onto the floor and handcuffed me behind my back
and fucked me hard, hard, harder; the morning
unstoppable as it came in bright pink through your window.

I work too close.
Too close to the railroads that chased us
until you let go of my hand
and I stood there,
left to reach out into the dense dew of barns and wildflower.

14/11/15 Nov. 21st, 2015 @ 04:27 pm
her hands resting
on my chest
she keeps
pinching my skin
tight between her fingers
regripping as needed
after several tries
she finally says
deep inhale…
…and let it out

sharp pain invades
almost immediately replaced
by pressure
harsh pressure
forcing fresh pierced skin
into bone
pause a second
then the jewellery goes in
and the pressure returns
crushing my sternum
with metal
that's now imbedded
under my skin

horniness pervading
as the rush of
pain and endorphins peaks
knowing my blood rests
on her hands
i yearn to lick it off
her gloved fingertips
but i restrain myself

i let her clean me off
as if i'm not
quivering inside

pieces of the heart Nov. 18th, 2015 @ 09:30 pm
love showed me the big picture
and now that i know what i am
looking for, the puzzle
is practically solving itself

Friday Nov. 17th, 2015 @ 10:10 am
There are two loaves of bread in my fridge
and one on the top of my microwave. Not much else.
After I dropped you off, I wept over a sandwich made of warm wheat, salsa and potato chips.

I almost visited my father in jail once.
Halfway to the facility, my mother changed her mind
and made me wait in the car.
When I was 21, I fought for someone I loved, and
listen, okay. You don’t know the pin-needling, unsteady grind of being sliced up like an onion
by the man you would die for.

The fight for him almost killed me.
I dropped down to bone and vodka.
I let a different man fuck me every weekend.
I must have tasted so rotten.
I don’t know if I ever found my way out of those woods,
if the onions ever sautéed themselves
and made their way onto someone’s plate.
Can you imagine the flavor?
Decayed pussy and skin-onion sauté?
What the hell are you eating? “Just what’s already eaten you.”

We buy ice cream for your last meal.
Sometimes, I worry that your daughter won’t like me.
I worry that your cell won’t have a window, and we won’t be able to see the same moon.
Your $12 a day ankle tether makes you limp like you’re going through hell.
& who’s the cunt that sent you there?

You’ll get used to that weight, though.
& you’ll get used to me pulling you under
with the empty beer bottles hidden under my bed, my sleeves of need tight at your throat.
You’ll start seeing more of my makeup running down my face
then you will see settled on my eyelashes, and I’m not
pretty when I cry.
I’ll get used to long drives to bad parts of town, your drug-testing schedule,
the public transportation drop-off times.

Later today, I will bathe an 87-year-old woman
who can’t remember her late husbands name.

XYZ Nov. 12th, 2015 @ 11:04 pm
Feeling so hopelessly okay,
I get the pink letters in the mail daily,
Oh, what do they say?
I got a good education,
It pays nothing.
They said we were the generation ready to sell out,
And I’m ready, but who’s buying?
The time has passed but I lived like my time is now,
Because the corners are full and you’ve got to standout.

Who is it that made us hopeless?
I blame participation trophies,
But they stare back and seem happy.
I blame my parent's love,
As much as it carried me through.
I blame there not being enough,
Maybe not enough for me
but there’s plenty for you.

So I ask how you’re doing,
They trained me to fake empathy,
But I really feel bad for you,
In a way I cannot say.
Because that’s not a way you’ll pay.
You’ve got kids,
And they’re doing okay in their private school,
I’ve got to live,
So let's be friends, if just for this call.

I think the end is soon,
It is full of razorblades,
You’ve got to make the cut.
But at the interview,
You couldn’t tell what they were saying,
So you just made it up.

Maybe the idiots are breeding,
But what make you think you’re not a byproduct?
Always thought you were better,
But Chinese from the dumpster
Always tastes a little more sweet
When you can find chopsticks,
In the recycling.
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