Value

She's not a diamond,
In this the truth is known at last.
She's not even blown glass.
Nothing useful,
Nothing good,
She's not even worth the air and blood.
She stays up all night to howl at the moon,
Sleeps too late,
Wakes up well after noon.
Walks graveyards to keep the living at bay,
And while she hears the whispers,
She ignores what they say.

She makes feeble attempts to get better
But still ends up numb.
She's just cubic zirconium.

Honesty Does Not Become Me

I am no good at court intrigue. I don't have the stomach for it.

I try desperately to refuse to play.

Unfortunately, that's what life is, isn't it? One big court full of back-stabbing, cutthroat barons and their whores. And if you don't play? You become the butt of every joke, jibe, and jest. You become the hated, despised, uncouth little heathen that is whispered about constantly behind closed doors and around shadowy corners.

It's almost like you have to be evil to be good.

I don't like to gossip, or spread rumors (should there be a 'u' there?), or pry into people's lives. Secrets stop at me. Oddly, I seem to know everything that goes on.

They treat me like it's a bad thing that I don't play, but when they need to talk, I'm the one they turn to.

The shit I know could shake the walls down to their very foundations.

I am no good at court intrigue. I'm too naïve, I suppose. I feel like we should all just be honest.



But I'm not being honest, either, am I? No. No, I'm not.

Verbal Vomit

It seems I am entirely incapable of actually posting anything these past few months. When I started here, I was averaging nine posts a month, sometimes pushing double digits. The last time I did that was in January, my spurt of New Year's Resolution. And before that? December of 2,00fucking5.

I had a blog before this that my mother murdered. It was called Tears of the Future. I don't think anyone reading me now was there for that. I only had it for...what...six months? But I had a far better track record. I was posting at the very least twice a week. Usually every day before school and then on Saturdays at the library.

Then, one day, my stepfather read something he 'didn't like' and my mother told me to delete it. Delete everything. I free write on my blog. I always have. It's easy, soothing, it helps. So, figure about how many posts I had, and then figure that probably half of them were free writes. I lost...so much of my work with one push of a button, because my FUCKING PARENTS decided they didn't like a poem I wrote. One poem. Out of...a lot. Did they care that I obviously was not well? Did they care that I obviously was trying to work out my anger and frustration and pain and fear in a constructive way? No. They cared about themselves. Just like they always have.

On the plus side, my stepfather is dead now. Which, on one hand, is amazing. Fuck him. On the other, it's unfortunate, because now I can never tell him what a fucking piece of shit he was. What a terrible "parent" he was. What a terrible everything. How he fucked my life up one side and down the other and expected me to say 'thank you, sir.'

I'm not a bad person. I have never been a bad person. Even now, I'm uncomfortable saying these things about a man who abused me since I was eight. I feel guilty, like I should have tried harder to make him love me. One time, when I was in fourth grade, I got in trouble over...something. Who knows. And I had to sit in a chair in time out in the middle of the room. I remember he yelled at me a lot; I was crying hard. After a while, I got up and hugged him. He shoved me back to the chair and told me that he hadn't said I could get up.

Once, when I was younger, second grade I believe, I hadn't cleaned my room. It was pretty messy. Yeah, I know, bad, terrible me, right? I had just given two little gifts to him and my mother and they both loved them. I was in my room, getting ready to clean it, but I got distracted by a book (I had an epic amount of kid's books, fer srs). He slammed the door open and started screaming at me to clean it, took the presents I had just given them and threw them at me. They didn't want them anymore.

I don't know why I'm telling everyone all this. I don't know where this is coming from. In fact, I sat down to make an actual post about something or other.

I can't seem to forgive my mother for sitting idly by while my stepfather abused me. And I can't seem to forgive him for mindfucking my mother into being so docile. It's a vicious circle. And there's no way for me to fix this. She started the circle all over with Carolyn and her mother. Everyone who touched my "family" got fucked.

I should be able to forgive them. That's what a good person would do, right? And I'm supposed to be a good person. Despite everything I've been through, I'm supposed to be a good person. Despite the fact that I've been through one hell after another, despite the fact that I actually SHATTERED under the pressure, despite the fact that I haven't had a home that I can remember, I'm supposed to be a good person. I'm supposed to forgive and let go.

Well I can't. And I don't want to. It's not fair. (But life isn't fair!) Well why the FUCK isn't it ever unfair in my favour?! I do good things, I do things that are a and b the c of d. I am always nice, fair, caring, unbiased. So, Karma, where the fuck are the nice things that are supposed to come my way because of that? What the hell did I ever do to you, bitch? This shit started before I could figure out what the fuck was actually going on in the world! Before I knew the capital of the state I lived in!

When I was very young, I used to draw people that looked like monsters. That wasn't my depiction of people. I actually thought people were monsters. I remember very clearly seeing a drawing of mine on a door and thinking, why doesn't anyone ask me why I drew monsters?

Sometimes I think that there are people in the world who are meant to take the bad breaks for other people. My life got fucked over so some other kid's wouldn't. I took the fall so that some other poor soul wouldn't suffer. Sometimes I get jealous and rage at the universe for making me one of the trash dumps.

Sometimes it's all that keeps me going.

Work in Progress

And I can taste the candy.
Bitter bars of rusted steel,
This girl stands inside
Strength a fable
Illusion
Illuse
Who am I kidding,
With every whispered story of the truth
I fall further away from you.
No deception
(No bitter demon am I)
Yet I am the deceiver
Full of dirt.
Not a real girl;
I can't even be hurt.
And what do I consist of?
Broken bits of glass and blood,
Little creatures that flit in the dark.
Who am I, Sir?
Not yours.
I don't even have a way to breathe
(Not a real girl)
So in this I do deceive.
Silence follows each burst of static
Each exclamation
Across my mouth I feel this plastic
A gag of brilliant proportions muffles screams
And dreams,
Don't you find it handy?
It tastes like candy.

Time Unjust

So in death do we part lips,
So true in truth a silken kiss.
Hush, my darling, my baby divine,
From out my mouth pours sand and time.

Blessed to be a keeper of the clocks,
Cursed, as well, to watch them stop.
One must rise and learn to fall;
Why did it ever have to be her at all?

Bloody devotion, she holds some truth
And the wind will play with shades of blue
While we idly spill thread and beads from out our holes
She hangs, stricken, on the wall.

So in life do we part lips,
So tear stained truth will know this.
Hush, my darling, my wicked sin,
The clock is at it again


Inspiration: time just by DaddiesGurl

Someone Should Have Known

My life is a study in control
Was a study
Was an experiment.
I dealt in greys and stained glass,
My fragile shattering
My fragile blasphemy
My sacred irony.
Listen when I speak to you.
What does your tongue worship
When you look at me?
I will walk your grave
Walk your pain
Soothe your soul.
And somehow I am cast out,
With a thousand gifts and curses
And your whispered threats.
Brilliant studies in control
Which I have yet to learn.
Let my life be an experiment
Or study
Or blasphemy.
I consent.

Platinum Bears

I wrote love songs,
I spread myself onto pages and lay on my face.
Worlds fell from my fingers
Showing the beauty in the darkness;
I thought I had something.
Such interesting disapproval from someone I don't even know.
Is my life summed up this way?
I can taste your desperation behind your eyes
And smell the depression you try to hide.
I will utter my blasphemies.
I wrote love songs...
And I am still misinterpreted.
How is this better or worse than hiding pain?
At least I don't keep it inside.
I will write my love songs and wither away in a corner.

Because I know my place,
I just fucking HATE IT

It's Not Worth It

I wish you cared. I wish anyone cared.

I guess I'll always be this alone

Resume

It's almost audible
A coherent melding of exasperation
And fury
The sound of
Bare bones breaking
My skin holding impossible forms
A stain
Rising to the surface
I bleed internally
Whispering screams behind closed doors
Each click of the lock
Each empty hallway echoes the sound of
Bare bones breaking
And who's to say it's not better
(Modicum of control)
Clasping hands together
Fracturing fingers
Snapping
And it's almost audible
The sound of
Bare bones breaking

This Is Screaming

One day I'm going to wake up,
I'm going to open my eyes.
Thinking that I have somewhere to go with my life,
So pathetic,
I choke on dreams that only taunt me
With sweet kisses.
I want so badly to get better and yet...
I am terrified of losing myself,
Dying and still being alive,
Giving in to that sweet darkness and resuming my watchful days.
Someone, listen, do you think I'm worth it..?
I keep trying to convince myself that I am
But every day I see so many reasons why I should just
Go away,
And it seems so reasonable, so logical, so right,
Giving back what isn't mine:
This life, hers, this shattered life...

Recently I haven't been well,
Recently I haven't been able to keep hold of myself,
Just like before, that vertigo returning
To make me dizzy
So I shatter the mirrors telling me lies.
Recently I've been confronted with who I should be,
Should have been,
And how far off that path I've gotten.
Rather than just living, just being the protector I was made to be,
I've become petty, a dreamer, a wisher,
A fool.
I fell into the way of the world and the world dictates
I must be a girl.
I have to give that back.
Means dividing, means releasing, means everything I've come to desire
I have to give up.

She wants her life back.
It's a steady pressure the last few days,
A steady rhythm choking me to sleep.
I can't stand the thought of being dead that way,
Or being offstage, forgotten.
I don't want to give up what I've taken,
What she left behind
THIS LIFE IS FUCKING MINE
And I refuse to relinquish my hold.
But there's this little voice that whispers
"Just let go"
And I wonder if I can not listen to it,
If I'm strong enough to push through.
It's so right for it to be hers again...


Would anyone care if I wasn't here...

Because messenger has lots of dicks

Lithe pretenses,
Like every dream I ever dreamt.
I'm not some weak powerless little bitch.
Tell me again
How you think you have the answers to my past,
My future, my present in your hands.
Tell me again
How you think you can unlock what I do,
Make it justified how I'm always wrong
And you know better because you're not young.
I've mastered things that you can only dream,
Or nightmare,
Things that you would melt before you touched.
I dreamt away a life that wasn't mine
And you want to tell me how wrong everything I believe
Or do or taste or feel is.
I want to tell you, both of you,
How wrong your point of view is.
You choke on your narrow ways of life
While I accept and take it all in stride,
I may not be better, but I'm definitely not worse,
And you can suck it if you want to bring it up again,
My dear, dearly departed 'friends'

Becoming Eve

I was born in darkness,
Some silent watcher to break a fall,
I was the one made to last through it all.
Incessant ringing in my ears,
Sometimes I wish I wasn't here.
Becoming what the body is,
A journey, confusing and insane,
Unnecessary,
There's no reason to fall into the trap of femininity.
Recombination forcing my hand,
Turning into the first sin,
Turning into a fallible mortal again.
Does anyone have the faintest idea
How hard it is to become
Some thing wrapped in identity.
I was a pure creature,
Leaving the genders to The Others.
Now I'm falling into a pit I don't understand,
A pit that, quite honestly, terrifies me.
What does a pure creature do
When suddenly impurity is the only option?
Either divide and prove unworthy
Or maintain and prove a sin

Forsaken?

Have I been?
Deluding myself into a semblance of self worth,
Have I finally pressed an unforgivable line?
Would I care if I had?
It's almost too much for me to keep dealing with.
I fall into relationships that are so far apart,
We must not meet until I can fly
And who knows how much time must go by,
I am so stupid stupid stupid to think that I can have what I want.
Sudden silences press against my ears
With a tearing in my core I pretend to ignore,
Blatantly hiding behind a twisted façade.
I hold my tongue and let things go on and hope,
Hope that today I will hear something
Or today
Or today
Or today
Or today
Will it be another long silence?

Can I make it through that..?

a l t a r

Bodies atremble in the night
Flashes of light through leather straps
And down with a vengeance
Scarlet blood coursing along her back
(Let go
Let go)
A point past no return, a point of brilliant
Release!
She collapses to her knees
(BREAK ME)
Redemption pouring from slices in rivulets
Raining ecstasy on a carpet of sin
And while she begs for nothing proudly
She awaits salvation to come down again
(Let go
Let go)
Dreamers and desolate souls passing through
She’s come to an altar
(I want to let you ravish me like a demon
Like heaven before the fall)
Eyes raised to the ceiling making shapes in her mind
Press forward into darkness
Slips
What more is there than this?
What more is there than this?
Begging, utterly undone:
BREAK ME

Five Aspects of an Endless Longing

I.
Dreams so sweet I can hardly stand.
My hair tangled around your hand.

Heart beating in my throat,
So painfully loud,
I nearly choke.

My eyes, frightened but fierce with desire,
Searching your face
To fan the flames higher.

A flush paints my cheeks crimson,
A terrified smile haunts my lips,
I bow to your command;
I want no more than this.

II.
In articulo mortis

III.
(La petite mort)

IV.
Tonight I'm going to stare at the stars
And smile to myself.
If my hands were to stray,
If I were to start my dreaming,
It would be your fault.

V.
Feverish with longing,
Yet too afraid to ask,
I wait for you to notice.
I bet you do,
But you wait until I'm crazy,
And I hate that,
While my infatuation grows
In leaps and bounds.

No longer an issue

Should it feel like a hot iron
Exploding in my chest?
A lump of molten rage
Where my heart used to rest?
Unbidden to my mind,
To my idle, empty hands,
Come desires hot as fire
And an ache of pure unrest.
I am alone
Blind fingers grasping at the keys,
Typing teasing taunts
Bringing unsuspecting men to their knees.
Bring me under your command!
And I will serve loyally and true,
But the more you refrain from discipline
The more I drift away from you.



I wrote this on my FetLife. Because. I can. And also I don't have anything more original to say on here, so console yourselves with the fact that I just wrote it today.

Not poetry

What I want and what I have have always been two different things, even when I didn't know it. And it hasn't been shit like "I want a Honda but I have a Chevy," (although that happened, too, I just didn't mind because at least I had a vehicle) no, it's been more profound. Makes me wonder who I pissed off in a previous life. I'm sorry already! Can I catch a break just once?!

Everyone I've ever cared about has always lived in a different state, and even now that I'm living with a friend, there's someone I'd rather be with a thousand miles away (Blue, no offense, love). There are four places I can live in the U.S., none of them any closer to where I want to be, some of them as far as I can go and still stay in the continental. I keep telling myself that life just isn't meant to be fair, this is normal, this is basic shit. And yet...

I've ripped myself apart for everyone I've known, except one, at least once. Should I have to sacrifice like that? Should I have to be broken?

For over a month I thought I'd been abandoned by the only person I haven't changed to please. I'm not sure I can describe what a blow to my confidence that was, or the thoughts that haunted me throughout that time. I'm sick, I'm so fucked up, I'm wrong, I'm worthless, I should have known better. In a funny twist of fate, I hadn't been abandoned, I'd been treated to a taste of something I used to do: a withdrawal from society into my own personal hell. I was broken of it with a dose of someone else's selfishness, but that's another story.

And so I dip my pencil in the water and move on...

I took a walk today under a grey sky with tiny speckles of rain falling on my face. It was decently chill, a pleasant surprise. I meant to write some poems, and did indeed write one, but it was nothing worth sharing; a waste of paper. I haven't managed to write anything exceedingly brilliant in quite a while, not since the night I read a friend's poem and wrote a frenzied response (a highly edited version made it on here, one not written in the heat of the moment). Perhaps I shouldn't push it, maybe beg my muse to speak with me, maybe search for a new one.

I showed a friend a drawing of mine recently. It was a practice sketch of the female form. I've been trying very hard to teach myself to draw better, and while I'm not the worst out there *coughthirdgraderscough*, I'm certainly not an artist. I enjoy drawing, but it will never be anything more than a hobby of mine, and not even one that I do very often. Anyway, I asked for some pointers on how to make it better and my friend said, "Just draw what you see."

But I see words. I see everything as a poem or a story. On my walk, I saw beautiful things that I instantly started crafting a verse for, or turned a quick phrase to capture, much like snapping a photograph. No artist am I, merely a wandering poet.

Passing Through the Woods

Inner turmoil like burning oil
(Refreshing)
Save me from my own desires,
Like a midwinter blaze
I am surrounded by ice.
Teach me something
(Inspirational nonsense)
Teach me something!
I will not beg
No dog, no cowering demon,
Oh, child with a wicked tongue!
Oh, child filled with desire!
No cowering demon am I,
No blistered body shaking,
SHE HAS GROWN HER WINGS
and flies silently away
(This is the day)
Heed!
Four years, two months, six days.
Swing low, sweet chariot,
For I have miles to go before I sleep.

Don't Keep Me in the Dark

Doorways stand open in the night,
I will hold open my hand for only so long a time.
Darkening days, my melody of life,
My melody of moving on to the next chapter.
Who's to say I deserve to be happier?
Mistakes are made and unmade in each hour,
Seconds overlapping to caress the rocks,
The sea speaking
(I shouldn't be shocked)
It's not that I didn't know, it's that I hoped,
And again today I am quietly alone.
Situationaly speaking, it's nothing new,
And I can even understand why it's me who is in this place,
Better me than anyone else.
I wonder if I was merely a distraction from the real world?
YOU asked me that once,
Now I ask you,
JUST TELL ME THE TRUTH:
If you don't want me anymore,
"My apologies for darkening your door".


Four years, two months, eight days

Today's trivia: The first band I ever made on Rock Band was called Darkened Doorway. The second was Orison.

Always On the Outside

Because there's no place for me within.
Stalking rooms with empty noises spewing,
Spouting nothing to be consumed by a void.
I'm not one with whom you should toy.
Something not right, holding on too loose,
And every other word grinds past my vision
Except I missed nothing of the nothing you said.
I a m s i c k
And it's about time I admitted it,
Except this sickness draws certain others near
And then I'm not the only one here,
So is it so wrong to be something else?
I have to stalk these rooms at night, shaded red,
Shaded black, whispering under the screaming vortex
Of the known.
I should just have stayed home
Except this sickness compels me to flee from the silence
And then there I am, letting someone in again,
Hoping that for maybe just a little while
I don't have to be so lonely.
But it doesn't work that way.
Because afterwards, after the possession and depression and
Elation,
After they've gotten what they wanted,
I'm still alone