Cool, quiet,and still mornings; alone.
A chord striking, resonating, and going silent.
Pale light still warm enough to touch faces.
A pit in your stomach, nowhere to go.
Fall, fall, September;
Autumn sadness, stillness,
Peace and horror.
Burning, burning, bonfires and leaves;
Passions singing, sang, and then falter.
You'll never know their love again.
The sky is beautiful, blissful, and so are you.
As beautiful as it is to cry,
It cuts so softly so much deeper
Since I gave up faking
And started listening to your whisper
Its smoother going down
But gets me so much faster now,
Those feelings that I'd missed
And that I pretended missed me somehow
Her every word is something sweet. She speaks so sensibly and smiles, And cares like caring is a treat Too tempting to stay away from. To taste her mind would nourish you, And reason out those foolish tricks That frightened you into pushing away The parts of you you're missing. And beauty hardly describes her face; The life, the light behind her eyes That permeates in any place She goes to be alive in. She's sweet enough to drown in, To swallow down until you're sick. It's hard to put the bottle down When it insists you drink it. Apples and honey make a snack So tempting its hard to turn away. As one should never lack for love, Having lacked, it still gives me stomach pains.
Men, women, and persons;
You enigmas of violence, misery, sex, and boredom;
How are you feeling?
To what end is your violence?
To what depth does your misery brood?
What comfort have you found in sex?
What madness does your boredom uproot?
If you're honest, I would guess, every answer, some way, stems from love.
Acknowledge this with me if you expect my intimacy.
Asleep in your dream They whisper in your ear As if they were beside you Delicately, dulcetly, in the voice of a kiss "Show us who you are,..." They tear away your covers, And you'll probably awake.
Clear your muddled, cluttered head
And have a slice of honeyed bread
To take into your secret room
Where your tea is hot and your flowers bloom.
There, you’ll think and have a smoke,
Text a friend with a random joke,
Watch the birds and people go by
From the window on the other side,
Start the first lines of a poem,
And just feel fully alive and alone.
Scars make martyrs and monsters.
Idolizing the villains who were yesterday’s anti-heroes
Waiting for them to burn their capacity to create.
The angels burn brightly, softly, sensationally,
To follow chaotically into a second fall.
Exactly as dulcetly as they first sang,
They clash crassly against some new foe,
But the only ones standing in their way
Are the ones burning as brightly as they.
Faces, fingers, scalps, and skin
By silver knives and blunted hammers
Stripped from many and made whole again.
The Human Ideal and depraved’s obsession,
Perfection in a women’s form,
Assembled with passion, ardor, and precision
From stolen bodily possessions and one pair of volunteered eyes.
Her mother blinded, her father fanatic,
The night dreary when she came alive,
The mind of a girl with the body of an angel,
A gift to the world, the artist’s nightmare and scientist’s prize.
By design, incomparable to any other being,
At sight, overwhelming one’s sensitivities to shape and light,
And having glimsed her, any obscurrance of her face induced pain
In the heart so profound whole crowds were made to cry.
Musicians and poets wrote nothing more but about her,
Some despaired knowing what they could never have or be,
Multitudes gathered daily to witness and adore her,
All the while laying cash and other gifts at her maker’s feet.
The living embodyment of faultless beauty
Drew wealth and satiation into her father’s hands,
Admired by all the world for merely existing,
Her mother, whose eyes she had, became her only friend.
The crowds, left outside constantly yearning,
Grew more restless, depressed, and frenzied every day,
Bewitched every moment she allowed them her presence,
Dead to all pleasure while she was away.
In time, sight alone wasn’t enough to ease their torment,
And an unprecedented emptiness stole their collective minds,
Demands to be loved by the being that was perfect
Grew from callous whispers to a full-blown battle cry,
But the angel, who was a girl, hardly loved a soul,
The consuming gaze of strangers seperated her from all
But the mother, being blind, who saw her without desiring
And the father who idealized her as art’s true and final form.
The final levy broke, and the people flooded their home,
Cornering her in the attic where she’d only recently been born,
The crowd shouted unanimously for the love that they deserved,
With guns, torches, and hungry eyes prepared to take by force.
There is no way to love anyone by choice, the angel knew,
But when so many want your life there’s little you can do,
Ascending down the letter, every voice was silenced,
Scalpel in her hand, she did what was required.
She slid the steel past her cornea and cut the optic nerve,
One after the other and offered them to her observers,
“My mother’s eyes are the only gift I ever truly loved,
Take them and know I’ve given you all I have.”
Torches were dropped, legs fell away as if broken,
A stifled cry echoed loudly and gave way to screams unrestrained,
Many shots were fired into the temples of their holders,
And many more gave in, weeping into the devouring flames.
The house erupted, the blinded angel bleeding, motionless,
Suffocating, sweltering, and without thought of escape.
A pair of arms found her, above them all the most devoted,
The eyeless mother, holding tight as the world fell away.
Idealism and romance raised me to care,
But authority raised me to be compliant and indifferent.
What forces us to conform and behave
Breaks our hearts and deadens our empathetic sentiments.
When you choose to live for love,
You’re at odds with all those who will take whatever you can give.
The Ideas you cherish like equality and justice
Only matter to them as weapons to be selectively implemented.
We take an unequal share of the world’s pain.
You can carry it as your own or you can choose to inflict it.
But the totality of human suffering
Rarely moves individuals as much as all the pursuit of satisfaction.
To us, who’re ruled by those who don’t love one another,
You’re more an idea or a number than anything like what we’d call “a life.”
You can’t lie when you’re reduced to an integer,
But you can’t assert yourself as anything worth cherishing either.
Could I ever be loved as completely
As the honesty of your sincerest introspection?
Mortality and eternity,
Subjects so situated in time
That occupy my emptiness
The way I wish I was admired.
Could I fill your mind
And terrify your sense of being
In such a way as to change
The reality of your inner quiet?
People are like night skies,
Shifting their position and meaning,
So when you gaze at me
I hope you think of what you’re not seeing.
We are mysterious and complicated things,
Too important for casual recognition,
And if I’m ever to be loved again
It must be worth our fullest attention.