Spaced Pages.

Just like a lullaby in an ambulence,
I'm listening to the wind behind my ears;
When the static is loud and the cars passing seem to be on mute.
The kind of tremble you hear right after coming up for air;
you've been underwater for a long time now,
The silence has changed
and the noise is much
more than still.

And when you're lost you're safe.
I don't want to believe there's a bad man,
I don't want to believe I'm running...

These are some of the things left un-said.

This, she’s living with soft spoken benevolence and quiet afflictions.

She’s wonderment in the cities she lives in. With every step there’s a distress, of not knowing where you’re headed, or where you’re feet are going land next.

 The fellow children around her skirts with similar disabilities don’t exactly know what they’re in for. Sure there’s mutiny out doors, but inside is a whole other matter, and each human being is battling demons alongside each other.

 There’s being deaf and mute, losing one ear and three fingers, maybe a toe or two. But in what sense is there happiness in not being able to taste the colors and see the hues, hear the honey bees atop the petals. Fake petals though they may be, but being a bee is no less inspiring than looking through foggy glass.

  Frame by frame by frame and you still only have a blank picture on your film strip. She’s just like your favorite movie and all you have to do is ignore her and forget. With her eyes on the verge of being colorless, and her voice no longer extravagant, the only thing she has left is her broken body; abused by the many passer-bys that don’t give a shit. In the state houses where she’s been acknowledged for her superiority in the terms of hearing much more than you think, there’s always a quote in the headlines; she’s the most beautiful woman in the room. Broken, maybe, but what can one say about someone so disenchanted about her sight; about losing her gorgeous amber eyes.

  The blind girl’s eyes are the size of the moon; can’t anyone see the shimmer and distant light, like a star, in those languid eyes?

  Forget romance, no one’s holding her hands; she’s better off walking alone. Sure she’s hurt all day, but the nights are easier without an angry lover, swaying from corner to corner, and broken bottles up to his knees. All he see’s is his blind little doe, helpless when she doesn’t know about his own destruction. Facing things with all her might and invocation; where did it begin…when does it all end?

I'll go in and out of your life
like swimming through a sea of needles
and we all bleed sometimes

just another institute in the pages of grease
nothing to find stained, torn, or shredded
but when has there ever been peace?

Oceans'll push this paper airplane
until it sinks beneath the surface
what do you have to lose
when all you had was nothing, precious

But again, it's hopeless
to ever attach any comfort
still better off to be cold
and alone than to be abandoned

I wish it were that easy
to travel through time
as we do people's lives
maybe we could fix a meal together
the stars and I

But what's flying like
and opening up your mind
I want to see inside the creativity
and make my own self-portrait

There are things I can do
make you sick
make you ill
well it's all a crying shame
that I hate to see me in you, babbo

speak louder, please
I can't hear you over my screaming,
it's just that difficult to be heard
in a world where you're nothing
and nothing ever stops you

Let's make it a memory
to be free

My heart
its taken root
and I'm trembling;
trying to choke down the feeling.
and my body is fragile
I'm hoping it's not too fragile for you.
For I've discovered something
That I don't have the name for.
This is all going much too quickly
and the time is passing all too slow
I want the desire
and it's there
it's there, oh how I know
but what kind of monster doesn't know
how to control her victims
doesn't know how to face that black cat; mirrored fear
just the thought of you touching my skin
is shivering, it's cold and delighting.
My skin isn't pretty
no not at all in any way
with the tainted flesh and swollen scars
it's all too unfasinating
don't let your eyes deceive
the white and tannish colors
I want to see the outer colors that you'll treat me to
not just what I'm used to.
So take me, baby
just take me deeper in still
because you're still screaming misses
and I'm still catching your kisses
--
I want that day
where you kiss me like rain
and distract the torment
from the weight in my brain
--
I miss you
I miss you
Let's try something new
Tonight, we're taking root

  She’s some kind of mystery, with thick make-up and tangled fingers, twisted together in pages and pages of letters.

She’s a writer, a goddess in her mirror and an invisible monster in the dark. Still you find yourself spellbound…

Entranced to a degree of ire familiarity that looms in above the smoke screens.

When you look at her it’s like looking into a train wreck; a beautiful performance of fire and destruction…you can’t take your eyes off her.

  As of recently, she’s the only one in the room; the smoke-infested ballroom, swelling with music.

       She pleads with you to dance, all night, everyday, tomorrow and the next month over; she expects you to dance with broken legs, disfigured in a canopy of cloth.

  It’s rapped so violently because you haven’t told anyone about your “accident”.

You haven’t told anyone you broke them yourself as a coping mechanism.

       This woman, this mysterious being, talks with her hands; making pictures explode into the air around the ballrooms she’s invited to. She’s making pictures appear right in front of you, pictures that glitter out into colors, shapes; they spill and splatter onto the canvases inside your eyes. This is a tool she uses against you and me, she tells us stories and steals the inspiration from our bodies, making it harder and harder to walk on our own. But with you teaching the beauty of flowing hands and broken legs, you conspire a new idea in the minds of clones; of people she’s already shattered into oblivion…her own little universe of ruin.

      You have to keep recycling yourself, making new the lost promises, breaking yourself down into a mold that once stood strong before this mystic. Everyone is talking backwards and you’re trying to vomit out the gibberish through your vocal cords to get everyone’s attention, all you need is for them to listen. All you need is for the rush of things stop, that’s all. Pain; nothing to fear, you’ve got the pain bundled up inside you. Fear; we all fear too much about everything, no such fear will be in us tonight. If only you got them to listen…then it’d be all right.

  Here comes the bitter disappointment, you can see it in the sky…

With so much water filling the gutters and wind breathing through soaked jackets, no one is opening their eyes to see the puddles in front of them.

     Teenagers packing cigarettes to get the warmth from the burn..

Burning down houses and churches, sucking the smoke through the filters, sucking the cold from bone and skin.

    This is what she wanted, and she wants more; to rip open the caged-in hearts of people she’ll never forget. The world is turning into a zombie-modeled ideal from the mysterious woman, and all you have to do is get people to listen, then it will all end.

  Hope? Check.

  Faith? Straining.

Where does it all end or begin? When do we turn the pages?

When did the future switch from being a promise to being a threat? It’s that strange feeling you get when you’re falling, barely slipping off. That same feeling you get when you’re telling yourself to “Run, run, run, run, run”. That there isn’t anyone to stop you from falling or running but you're scared doing it alone.

  Before you started falling you were climbing to a better place; before you started running you were happy with the silence. Do you ever wonder about the woman; if there was kindness within her she might have felt the same way?

In the story atmosphere the words pop out from their small-life tales
When the universe crashes like waves in a hurricane, and we know it’s time to leave, we get that story atmosphere, and that begins all books in smattered clarity.
Only the authors, only the giants, know what is put into each art, each work; for some it’s a whole lifetime of troubling ties to skittish acquaintances and for the others it’s the changing seasons that get them motivated.
But, for me, it’s every aspect, every fallen piece to the puzzles we endure.
I know not what to make of war, culture, or religion, but as for the present, I’m speeding through time tables, medicine bottles; soaking up respects and noticing universal colors and combinations.
It’s not much to say for myself, but I can hardly be heard above everyone else…
It’s enough for me to picture living in someone else’s body but, I’m happy for my own, sometimes, and that’s all I can manage at a time
Before we were created, how do you think we were imagined? When we cried did we cry from being pushed past our limits, or because we weren’t used to changes? I can say I feared new scrapes on the knee, but what else are we to find out, something new that hurts much more than falling a small ways down?

(ps. I have no idea if this is finished)

There was a package at the door, singing about brown eyes and sunshine.
but it was from Texas, so I gave it to my mother. I'm not sure she remembers what happened there.
I talk about glass all the time and I quote favorite songs. I'm sure it doesn't matter though; I lost everything you ever gave me. Then I pushed the glass out. 

I am somewhere else but the rest of me is here and is resting. I am off, and I don’t want to come back yet. I am off somewhere by myself and no one knows I am gone.

Texas, where the air is thick and stale in one little house. Seeping through the ground, the animals, that house, your skin. There from Texas we got a phone call, and maybe that's where the glass came from. My mother and I, we went to everyone's room with the news, such sad news. And I'm sure she remembers that...somewhere somewhere in her mind she remembers all the tears, the mouthfull of news that came through the telephone.
My cheeks stained with a light red and I wasn't even positive what had happened until the flowers where being ordered and that black dress.
 In that house a lack of light threw off the focus and we all learned to see in the dark, or go blind. This was a different house though, far away from Texas where the stale air couldn't reach us. But the scent of dying flowers floated in wherever we went that day. 
I'll open my chest and take the heart from it, the last beating organ that meant love in this house. I'll empty my head of all the thoughts and I'll take myself back to where you were last. (I'll wake up)...

And I was back in Texas,
cheeks, light red,
black dress,
and air, so thick

Do you see it too?

When eyes meet and hands meet and thoughts all mend and meet together

The feeling of the stars shining and looking down at you with admiration

That feeling like nothing else exists

Do you feel it too?

There’s no other love than illusion

An addiction to what we feel like when people are together

The people that make your days seem better. Seem brighter

Have you ever felt so hot in the cheeks?

That it just doesn’t matter to anyone else

Because it’s just two people

Meshed together and thinking the same thoughts

Like you’re one, like you’re whole in that moment

When black goes to black goes to black

And right back again, right back at the every first square

And the blackness disappears and all you have is white

On white, on white on white again

But that’s okay

For a while that’s all that’s tolerable

When you want nothing else but warmth from another body

Another person to sit there and listen

And be willing to speak about life as life is.

Comforting each other in an existence of both our minds

Yes, it’s us I’m talking about

It’s that feeling you give me and my cheeks are so red it’s like fire

But I don’t think about anything except your love

And thinking that maybe, just maybe it’s for me to hold onto

I just want to be with you and your fears

Erasing the torment

Escaping the thoughts that hurt us both

It’s weakness in the knees

Makes me feel real for a while

Do you see it too?

I read through a mountain range of love

And a desert of defiance;

Knowing that I have nothing and everything to live for

And I know that with nothing holding me together

Books will be there to hold me up and drag me along until the end of my days…

Hatred-induced, though my spirit is I can call to freedoms in unknown places,

I want to travel so bad it almost hurts to think about another day in this hell.

Love is no longer on my mind

No ‘forever love’ to think about, nothing to accompany the pounding in my head,

Nothing to set in next to the headaches and fuck-ups of every day things;

Sure my thoughts are clouded with selfishness

But each time I edge into selflessness I can’t escape the raw fact that I’ve always been crowded with it.

You don’t have to understand the languages I tend to spit out through a scarred mouth

But at least you’ll listen, and that’s all I really needed

From day one of destruction

To day 23 when I pull a trigger, jump a cliff, swallow a bottle, or sleep so deep no nightmare could wake me.

This is for you Darling, this is me speaking through my lies you hear when I try talking;

The truth is harder to get out when a voice as weak as mine starts spouting words.

Picking_Scabs

Forward. Forward. White turns to blue, brush-strokes, always brush-strokes across the page, the canvas, the cut-out of wood from a fallen tree. Here's blue, the middle holds the key; just yellow, just a reflection of red, of purple, of orange at the edge. Where does the hair on the brushes fall next; the carpet, the chair, or back on the canvas?

  It’s all wrong. It’s all wrong. I don’t know what to do about my mistakes. Painting over everything is like a bird that can’t fly; a broken swing. I’m just sitting here, my unfinished work stares back at me like a victim in a murder of half-wit inspiration. I’m sorry, I fail myself all the time. I haven’t finished a single piece.

  And the paint still stares back at me, deserving to be put on something; a masterpiece. My own tools deserve more than me. The title for this doesn’t fit. You can’t mix those two…what am I thinking. I am no creator, only of mistakes. What is that, a double negative? You just can’t mix the two, I’ve said this. The glue will warp the image, you’re pathetic, and I can’t believe you’re actually going through with this. And it’s all my fault if the paint gets on the carpet again, isn’t it? (We can't go on blaming the cat for this mess).

   You think you’re crazy? You started this story with a theme about brush-strokes, and that was all wrong. It’s wrong and it doesn’t fit with the second half; this is the second half, the part where yourself argues with you and you confuse the writer, which is you and now your writing is awful like your unfinished pieces. What were you thinking starting this? That somebody would read this and finally understand where you are exactly as you process your thoughts at 1 in the morning?

They don’t want to see this, honey.

  From what it seems there could be another twist at the end of all this and you’ll end up being the victimized work you still haven’t finished.

  Or is that who I’m supposed to be; your other half, your anger, your almost-there-not-quite-done-yet ideals…everything you can’t hold in yourself?

  Of course I’m wrong though, because you’re you and I’m you and everything in this is you, so what does it matter which is me where and where I am?