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Scarecrow Green W. Body ImageSCARECROW
the trees are still green.
ive got a boy in each ear screaming in a strained falsetto, "find god, then fuck, rub war paint over your collar and choke those dreams of adolescent fancy!"
maybe not in that order.
i feel that those might be reasonable demands.
if not, ill stay a virgin forever and stop posting my barely lucid projections on cross walk buttons so the world can join me in confusion.
ive decided to marry myself to this moment, a rubber band ring on my finger and everything.
i cant tell if theyre asking for a fire or a union.
all i can hear is sex and murder, a whisper of masturbation.
the feral cry signifies a busted climax so maybe these boys are in love and the songs merely rut against each other.
its a valid enough theory.
a part of me hopes that they become beautiful monsters when the lights go out.
for them my heart goes.
today ive decided not to believe in love.
its a silly little thing, not suitable for children my age
"just jealous 'cause we're young and in love."
im jotting this down overlooking stairs to the concrete people playing evergreen games until the grass hits and feet sink against the movement.
my fear is the position to topple into bodily harm, she told me because my statements were laced, hardly contrary to the truth. and my knees are buckling, body sways forward and panic spray paints my senses 'til they're all bright yellow. i fall backwards on my ass, knees pressed tight to my chest so i can breathe normal again.
luckily no ones noticed that its happened for the third time tonight.
it might be a bit cliche to proclaim myself toeing the edges of our small existence 63 percent of the time.
eyes closed and learning how to meditate, recite the best poem ever written to the better half of my memory that sits in the dark until special moments when i wish to remember how to make decisions based on my mistakes.
this is different.
im listening to someone else's favorite song, strike to my ski
Sunglassesi look down and my hands are clasped, the light washing over them in broken stretches, intervals like broken clockwork. fingers interlocked atop the plaid fabric draped down and around my hips.
for the past hour or so ive been writing in my head.
about boys and girls.
those who i have, haven't, should've and desperately want to kiss. im 16, so honestly, theres nothing else for me to write about.
i wanted to start this with a sentence in my mental draft that would state, more or less, 'i tell him i love him but im not sure by what definition i hold it, perhaps whichever he feels it to be.'
something like that.
its about a boy who ive kissed despite knowing just how much i should not have. because my decision making skills are just about as flawed as my parents' are.
i guess i wouldve gotten all poetic about it too. about the songs hes sang to me and how hes just a stepping stone that i paused at, knowing it was merely 'til i truly get what i want (sniff, i say, 'what i had'), but no mat
Blackbirdthe sound of breathing over labored guitar chords.
he says 'rooftop', i think E minor, maybe binary code.
its just that simple.
with an arpeggio inhale and the positioning of awkward fingertips.
now hes humming something i cant discern and the song is supposed to be about lonliness, he says, a thin mouth tilted up in the corner.
'lovely melancholy' i say to myself.
but i hear moonlight and silver glinting off earlobes, hollowed in the dark.
dont believe theyre lonely, more but reaching out from the edges.
scribbles in the corner of papers with outstretched arms, to use figurative language.
a tendency to ask what i am writing, always thinking it be about himself (8th grade memories floating like notebook paper, i remember, small smile and bright eyes.)
right now the sound is repetition, shifting soft and to a feeling--green grass like comforters and arena seating.
and i can hear what this is asking for, a mirror imaged and a sideways glance through crowds.
to break his concentration, th
Counter Topi need to make that night seem more poetic when i write it down.
inject some sorry romanticism into those few moments.
felt like i had no face and even with the lilt of eyebrows, creases in the corners of my forced smile, the expression wouldnt have mattered anyway.
they dont explain it to you in those middle school classes.
the overwhelming sense of power found in sometimes hazel eyes, bright in dimly-lit rooms.
yet crippled in knowing how these things tend to mean nothing.
how my knees give out and quiver.
how in the minutes before, my lips mirrored the action, trying not to weep for the need of piteous decisions.
and voices are obsolete.
but breathing means everything.
i might actually call that my own, unless imagination runs wild and my skin goes blank for an open canvas---close your eyes and see anyone else you want to hold.
theres nothing at all beautiful to see when i let myself be picked apart for the sake of wanting someone i cant have, even when hes looping his perfect finge
Criss-Cross Designthe light has then adjusted
some twenty times since
weve been staring
with hair caught behind cold ears
and the irises expanding
for there is no way
to go blind in these rooms
with white-washed vision
blotting out dark figures
as they might rise slowly
in some distance
but you might switch these lines
to different angles
looking out windows
see the dull drone
of brown eyes
against brick walls
im writing your movement
as i stare at this pen
conjuring some demon
kill you dead
with the unrelenting desire
of this swirling madness
out the tip and over the page
so i could draw the distance
of just where you migh
be looking and write
those lines back to my eyes
and my mouth
because they are both open, staring
as you look anywhere but for me
Adenei've got a safety pin fastened through a collar and a name i dont know fit under the swollen rasp of my dry tongue.
the name like peril, little girls in sunday dresses, celestial in the songs they sing.
as if i knew that definition.
maybe stringing descriptions along branches and stuck with metal points, rusting red through the sides.
spelling out letters with stick tips in teh dirt and memorizing lines on her knees, with her hands upon the ground.
with hair threaded through like loops about her fingertips, passed through pink tinged lips and breathin in her air through filters, left there speechless.
reflecting the sun and leaving their sketches on tree trunks.
the countours gold, eyes closed and blind to the moment.
spit at her feet and found mud squished through toes, causing dissension among the ranks.
and she speaks quietly to the pins in her shoulders that whatever youre seeing, its not happening.
i say Adene, you draw a picture and the lines overlap.
running like water.
We Can See Thisive found out that these lives are like movies and the voices set are scripted pieces of beauty.
my gaze, taciturn, green grass in graveyards.
lifting his chin with the tips of my fingers.
as if holding the pose, fighting breath under water.
and walking away, found an exit through hanging branches of willows wilting in the heat of some lost summer.
the glances then fashioned are disguised 'round my fingers in trying to remember why i could not look away as he tread over flowers, skipping over their stories held in the words chipped into cold stone.
unless laying on the park bench and closing my eyes, finding letters encrypted in the stones thrown at my feet.
if set to the chorus of the soundtracks so celluloid, you could find our names up in the lights of grocery store tabloids.
because we are stars.
pretending out way through the moment of fake love, shielding faces from sunlight in late afternoons.
Hair Clip in Those Bedroomsdarling
i can hear the quirk in your voice
so i know its not okay
and im not gonna tell you i approve
but hes gone on an ego trip
and it extends beyond the hours of jet lag
that pulls you into his arms
from whence he might throw you upon the ground
to hear his drunken hero stories
the fatigue breathes alcohol into his thoughts
and theres that girl that we know
the one that i love more than the world
who whispers two names into everyones ear
and plays off the repercussions as her innocence
so lets all nod and call this okay
i remember the summer
when we smiled
as they played out the night in the comfort of bedrooms
it was okay wasnt it
the dialogue of deception
and hes lining your ears with it
its not the soar of piano concertos
and sonnets spoken with the bow of stringed instruments
if he looks you in the eyes with sunflowers in your vision
know to stare away
because is it not preconceived in the hours that he travels back in time
back to you
to whisper that hes not sure of what you ar
...there are these
clutching the ridges
and it gets harder to
as they strangle me like
Darker today.There is nothing more terrifying
Than looking at yourself
And wondering how
You could love
There is nothing more dark
Than looking at yourself
And feeling like
You are just
It's a livingI have a tourniquet a needle and some coffee
I can´t sleep, I don´t want to, you can´t make me
I don´t need to rest, these dreams aren´t even worth it
They are just earth worm drivel that my mind produces way to inconsistent
To not give a fuck about my happiness is something my teachers taught me
Work ethic like an office cubicle mutant with a constantly melting bum knee
I have a gun named Final Option that is best friends with my whiskey concoctions
It gives a cold feeling every time I push a part of my heart inside of that bottle
Give me another cigarette before sunrise
Because I need another factor to lower life signs
I truly wasted my youth collecting tear sacs
But I can´t think of something to regret. Imagination lacks
I have a tourniquet a needle and some coffee
I can´t sleep because I was told not to leave
I have sewn myself by the cranium to this desk
This is my home and prison, where nothing has meant something yet.
DecomposingTeaching us to feel
and then breaking us down.
War within ourselves
becomes war for anyone near.
Silence becomes powering
Love becomes hateful
Hate becomes common
Pain becomes a new friend.
The world is upside down
spinning on the regrets
revolving on the lies
burning out like an old cigarette.
Poisoned desire becomes the air we breathe
intoxicating the things we know
brainwashing the things that used to be pure
like another violet blow.
Take the vile and shoot down the iodine
veins are burning and bloods corrupted
another lie to the dying world,
becoming what isn't normal.
Completely and utterly exposed to what we fear
trying to fight for the impossible.
A small step to a hopeful glory
is a mans dream to fight another mans will.
'cutting word'I. she was a lady,
with violets in her hair,
waiting to be found.
II. a simple woman,
edged with a lonely lost soul,
on the widow's peak.
III. she watches the sea,
the woman in the black dress.
he won't come back home.
drunk surgeonsloving lilts pursed
swung past curses
filtered off-kilter quips
toward unsynced hearses
ripped surfaces stilted
four verses stitched perfect
warded plundering urges
greed guardedly courtshipped
and thoroughly burdened
My Flaws are MineFlaws are nothing more than stepping stones towards truly utilizing your talent
I now sore above them with an outlook that shows my pathetic past, now much better handled
I’m in love with my mistakes, and I let them bloom in my technique where the craft is my garden
And no I’m not begging for pardon for what is rightfully wrong, I’m just going to keep growing on
There is beauty in flaw, because nothing could be more honest then imperfection
There is no makeup you could apply that is strong enough for misdirection
Every battle scar is a reminder of your lifestyle you should let those flags fly
If you laugh at the sting failures turns into lessons that will guide you on the next try
Lest we forget that an artist element is self expression among other things deemed meaningless
We prove to ourselves that there is something worth hearing, seeing, feeling to get off our chest
When you’re done counting blessings count your scars and know, in the end they all will show
Small and SimpleWhen you’re in the middle of the forest,
Don’t worry about the miles ahead
When you’re in the middle of the ocean
Don’t miss the shore behind
Just put one foot in front of the other
Sooner than you know
Your trial shall be over.
For in small and simple things
Do great things come to pass.
100 Theme Challange 15: SilenceMusicians are scared of silence
It means to only perecieve throug open eyelids
Kinda like a form of torture meditation
Suffering because the noise space remains vaccant
A nervous scream will pierce the quiet heart
With some energy that brings sound via art
It's painfully loud, but the distortion feels good
Crank it to eleventh heaven, make it as loud as it should
"Louder!" "What?" "Louder! I need it violent!"
I'll do about anything as long as I dont have to hear the silence
I jump on the airwaves and stir them to a storm
I make the molecules riot inside. They had it coming all along
Melting Into My Sighttoday it rained, hard and cold and making puddles everywhere
the concrete glistened maybe shone with the
wet sparkle of small pools left here
and there-- with ripples sounding
through windows, hiding in the sky
i stood on the cool set of grey
beneath frozen toes in broken shoes
and watched through curtains
of small and shiny bullets
falling from air
my eyes wandered through the scope of staircases
how they differentiate
cracks and bruises of something
supposed to be unbreakable
when i lay underneath and hope
i do not die
before fully realizing the extent
of self-imposed importance through streams of misery
but everything is grey--even
being as it is
and i can hear the sound
of tires arbitrarily sliding
over wet ground
and again i hope i do not die
suspended above them
flying away from scattered phobias
just like wet leaves on the ground
everything reminds me of my mortality
and absent faith
how i dont wish to meet fallibility with unseeing eyes
girls crying, those who think im beautifu
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