Questions For An Old Friend

We grew up clutched in the same arms,
raised with the same guidance.
We walked different sides of
the same path, our hands linked
on our mutual journey.
When did we become so divided?
When did the double helix that
conjoined us become undone?
Why, now, must we be glaring at each other
from different sides of the same mirror?
I don't know what love means anymore
if I still love you.
Can love be pain and criticism,
laced with spite and ulterior motives?
It shouldn't be.
How can you stand back and let
someone tear down the essence of
your very being?
Insult the essence of the very people
who brought you up?
Defend them?
Do you even know who you are anymore?
Tear me down for defending what's right,
what you once knew as right,
to try to silence me.
By DNA we are one.
By moral standpoint, you stand
miles and miles from me, a mere speck
in my sight. A mere speck of dust
that I brush from the cover of a
family photo album, as I reminisce
the days when we stood in diapers
at a windowsill, wondering
at the world outside,
when we shared toys and cooked
plastic gourmet meals at our play kitchen.

Subconscious Destruction

The feelings of both anticipation and dread
have not ceased to ravage me,
lying dormant inside of me until my body is
ready to rest, then sinking it's teeth into my brain.
The venom of these juxtaposed emotions
poisons my subconscious mind;
each night I dream of violence, executed
with a startling serenity that I could
never muster in consciousness.

Asleep, I become the monster I envy
in my waking hours - the monster
who knows no law, only equity.
In slumber I am my own monster,
with blood on my knuckles as
I sip a chilled glass of milk.
Each night I dream of violence, justified
by my victim's own indiscretions that I could
never confront in consciousness.

There is total peace within me as I
drive my foot into the jaw of this
half conscious woman - her demeanor remains
undisturbed; still and expressionless as
I attempt to unravel her from the spool that
tangles her with my life, and the end of a beloved friend's.
Each night I dream of violence, invalidated
by a lack of weight in my fists that should
never be an obstacle in consciousness.

A death sentence is placed on the cheek of
the ultimate offender as she awaits my arrival,
as she awaits my relentless blows.
As she awaits the same bitter end she inflicted on
someone undeserving of an ending at all,
whose life was meant to grow and improve and illuminate, so
each night I dream of violence, reflected
in my mind as a midnight movie that could
rewind itself and torment me, even in consciousness.

Self Portrait With Headphones

Eyes that reflect no light,
only notes. All sound is dissolved in a
water-color wash of brown and peach,
curls coiled around white wires.

A glimpse of a serene smile framed
in golden patterns, strokes of a brush
occasionally interrupted by the subtle
vibrations of thought and bass.

A deep blue background behind
this girl seeking solace in surrounding
silence, finding herself below her skin
as her eardrums rumble.

That serene smile gradually becomes
turbulent, remaining a smile only
to mask true emotions,
eclipsed in time on a canvas.

Manufactured

Spinning over again and again
like a ferris wheel in an abandoned amusement park,
emitting light, except this light is swallowed by the sky,
leaving only the familiar haunting jingle that creeps
across the desolate grounds and into a pocket in the back of my mind
that resembles those of my blue jeans; where my hand finds its way
as I fidget at the backs of long lines,
awaiting my turn to fall off of the conveyor belt
(where I've been carried along my whole life)
and into my pretty cardboard box with one word on the side reading
"Educated"...
and there are no cries of protest as I am carried along to my
"destiny," a hole that has no face.

Wax

"This poem is concerned with language on a very plain level."
- John Ashbery

Beneath me I feel anger lurking, this
recognizable pang that sets fire to me, so I write a poem.
My words ball up inside of me, a fist that is
constantly opening and closing, and I'm concerned
that if I release them with
the intensity they strike me with, will the language
burn the reader, too? I can't go on
with these words and thoughts scorching my mind, a
tiny tealight candle melting through the very
thoughts that lit it. Other than the inferno, my mind is plain,
infested with usual thoughts, the balance level.

Figures

Shadowed angels hover above me like dark

shimmering clouds, affixed to my existence -

as his ends are fastened to my beginnings,

as his slumbering figure is clutched to mine on sleepy

Sunday evenings. The angelic shadows press

down on the air around me, and their words are

whispered to me in slight delays of the clock’s hand,

or whiffs of familiar scent carried

to me in gentle gusts of wind.

Their silent tears fall, cleansing my vision,

and I can see their pure intentions, floating

across the glassy surfaces of my eyes,

tiny islands set deeply in the irises.

My prayers slip from my lips and -

in solid darkness on late nights,

when crystals form in the corners of my eyes -

are intercepted from above,

then buried in the tilled soil of a rosebed.

No wings are ever displayed;

only coincidences alert me of their activity,

of their constant unspoken presence

in my life,

of their subtle protection and

gestures in vague directions.

Under Personal Attack

[A tiny hole, a little puncture wound from the past, right in the center of my chest.]

Every time I cry, there is a tapping on my ribs, something asking to be released. There is something or someone huge inside of me, begging to come out. It grows, fed by my uneasiness and my despair. As it grows, I feel weighted, carrying with me my own sadness and the heavy being that lives inside of me. It's anger at being imprisoned shreds through my organs; I no longer have an appetite or a pulse, just this thing, easing it's way into my veins. It rearranges my thoughts, out of order and then back again, until I can't take it anymore - I don't want to think anymore. It grows fingers, and they curl up into a fist, tightening in my chest, and then the next feeling is familiar; I know it just wants to be free. It presses on my tiny puncture wound, trying to push it's way out, twisting and jabbing, but the hole won't open any further. The pain is absolutely unbearable.

Juxtaposition

It only happens at night, when there are no other thought left in my mind. This juxtaposed mixture of excitement and anger that begins to well up inside of me as I lay watching shadows crawl across the ceiling, or the breath be drawn into his lungs, causing his chest to gently rise and fall as he sleep beside me. A feeling of both anticipation and dread. Why has it continued to ravage me these passed few nights, laying dormant inside of me until my body is ready to rest, then sinking it's teeth into my brain? I cannot escape it when I finally fall asleep, either - it's venom poisons my subconscious mind, as well. Dreams of violence executed with such a startling serenity; blood on my knuckles as I sip a chilled glass of milk, total peace within me as I drive my foot into the jaw of this half conscious woman. I wake up empty, half wishing it's happened, half glad my fists are clean. When thoughts do begin to trickle into my mind again, the anger slides slowly back into place, a rusty deadbolt that was only unlatched as I dreamed. I don't wish to be angry anymore, but for every reason I cannot simply let the anger go. And even if I tried to let it go, would it really leave me?

Darkened Guardians (work in progress)

Shadowed angels hover above me like dark
shimmering clouds affixed to my existence -
as his ends are fastened to my beginnings,
as my slumbering figure is clutched to his on sleepy

Sunday evenings. The angelic shadows press
down on the air around me, and their words are
whispered to me in slight delays of the clock's hand,
or whiffs of a familiar scent carried
to me in gentle gusts of wind.

Their silent tears fall, cleansing my vision,
and I can see their pure intentions, floating
across the glassy surfaces of my eyes,
tiny islands set deeply in the irises.

My prayers slip from my lips and -
in solid darkness on late nights,
when crystals form in the corners of my eyes -
are intercepted from above,
then buried in the tilled soil of a rose bed.

Summer Nights Till Fall

We lived for those moments on our concrete stoop,

Where our days became ashes in a filter and

Our nights fell in the middle of the street where we stood,

Palms out to allow our usually clenched fists to slacken.

How does my entire world manage to wrap itself around him?

I wasn’t looking when I found this infatuation, and

I didn’t expect to find his eyes right in front of mine

When I lifted my gaze…

We know the time when we escape in the evening,

Trip down familiar hills, then climb to the top again,

Rest on the curb in front of Radio Social at midnight,

Spend the night awake with my dearest.

The First Day Of Senior Year Is My Birthday

I've had this blog now since the 9th grade. I'm going to start my senior year in five days. At the beginning of every high school year, I get to look back on the things I've written that mean the most to me here, and that means so much. I know there's hardly anybody reading any of this. And I know that the few people who have probably don't even know me. I don't do this so people can read my shit. I do this so I have somewhere to go. Somewhere to put my work that has been overlooked by my professors, simply skimmed over and told it needs to be improved. This will be the last time I do this, looking at everything I've done before I start a new school year. This is the last school year. This is the last time I run a lap around this flaming track. The last time I have to give a shit about what I wear and who's going to see it. Twelve years, and the thirteenth is about to begin. And while I'm afraid, I think I might actually have a chance.

Roses

It reminds me of Roses; how they release psychic energy and send the people around them into chaos. I felt something, not in my head but in my gut, that made me rage in silence. Violent thoughts for a half of a reason, but they wouldn't subside. Unease settling in my gut, resting there like dust on a mantle piece until the world and the people around me drew a deep breath and sent that dust swirling into the air. I could feel it; something bad and chaotic approaching, like storm clouds perched on the horizon, waiting to break. And they broke, raining havoc.

Battered Artist

I see myself reflected in my craft. I touch the pen and feel my pulse, I see my future; anything I will ever be, clutched tightly between my fingers. Scribbling words, everything I've ever wanted, I've ever seen, I've ever yearned for, woven between lines on a page. I sit here in this room, the only one breathing in this class full of drones, silently protesting against the low buzz of monotony that is surrounding me. A number is placed in front of me - a single number - and it slowly crawls off of the page it is printed on and starts towards me, tries to envelop me, wrapping it's cold edges around my throat, pries the pen from my hand, covers my eyes. It holds tightly to me, and as I struggle to breathe, I recite words that I've written and committed to memory, words that sound like nothing but are everything; are my oxygen to breathe and my sorrow to hide, my smoke to exhale and watch swirl in shafts of light sliding in through a closed window. Ink flows like silk on paper, and I am the pen spilling my soul onto the page, scrawled words melting into each other.

Gone at 3 A.M.

I get off of the bus alone, walk about seven minutes to my house with the bright red doors, a gold key turned in a gold doorknob. Behind turned doors I fade, expelling smoke from my lungs, then a short prayer after my next breath. My thoughts melt from my eyes to the floor. I step into the puddle and fall into a pool, beneath the tiles, beneath my conscious being. I find memories of him, of us, crystallized and hung from plastic coral reefs. I see ribbons of blood twirling in the soft current, but I can't find the source of the bleeding.

I pace restlessly back on the surface, images of blood and water and smoke materializing behind my eyelids as I let out a breathy sigh. I see his lips in the stars and I fill my lungs again with smoke in hopes of him meeting me halfway, just on the outside of the atmosphere, but I keep ending up alone above the world, above the soil our love sprouted from. Even when I'm high up, closer to God than I've ever been before, I fear His hand will suddenly shift its delicate touch to something much heavier, and I fear bending beneath His palm. So there in the atmosphere, I beg for His mercy, for both me and my love.

He couldn't meet me in the sky, so he finds me in my dreams. I crawl beneath the blankets, and my pillow hums me a familiar lullaby. I sink below the sheets, and I keep sinking until I land softly in his arms. His presence wraps itself around me, and the world surrounding him is bright and colorful, the sun's light tinted with silver. He speaks to me and I see his lips moving, but I can't hear anything. His words penetrate my chest, oozing into the hollow space just below my throat, soothing me; healing me. The gold lining his pupils is vibrant, casting a warm glow across my face as he looks into my eyes.

(Work In Progress)

On the most serious note...

I think I found my soul mate.