Dangerous Consistency

you know, that feeling when your stomach feels like its folding in on itself as it shoves "i told you so" up your throat?

it's a pattern that you thrive on, but the only thing to starve your nerves, rattle your senses. . .

say this tends to happen frequently, almost like clock work and it's the only thing consistant - really - in your life. the pattern by which you have defined a certin/many emotions.

so right on cue, you run when things start to look like they do around this time, and you find and hide in something complelty void of feeling, not sensation by anymeans, or inspiration for that matter, just in a substantial and intentional lack of valid emotion.

how do you not become jaded?
and if you are determined not to become jaded, how do you not become hollow?

and if, even if now - in increasingly clearer hindsight - you would still go back in all these falimliar peices, to the same, predictable eval, then what are you?
what can you be?

who are you without the one(s) who broke you down, taught you to pretend?

and by pretend i guess i mean "play this game"
and by that i mean,
the one who taught you the right words and the right touch to get into someone's soul just enough to break their heart without ever bearing yours.

who are you without your weakness?

rapunzle

printed prose which
raise scars for your pleasure
i write brail for the deaf
but you want light reading tonight
paper cuts,
frozen open from
reread erotic epistle
melting for familiar friction between us
i am a prisoner
shackled to my own responses
victim of your 34 c/sent posion
reluctant words penned
in fire for your senses
if your bite's on my neck
i'll know you liked what i wrote.

postarity

(w)here home is nothing more than a phrase,
a cheap rhyme with a gold crown.

somewhere inbetween
postarity and guilt

writing just to write
killing ink, wasting trees.

if it's real it's covered in plastic
a camouflagued and hollow shell

all that's overpriced has aftertaste.
eat your words with a smile

they won't hear it if you bleed
nothing to feel when you scream

sweating in a sweater because "you're cold"
body heat is not the (stone.)

it's something between
postarity and guilt.

what do you want me to say?

put your hands on my hips
and i'll dance for you.
pull me in, take a bow
i've got strings on you
feel your lies
grow and splinter
i'll run my fingers
down your hollow spine
we'll, like vines
on these walls,
intertwine
a stone soft face
those hands will taste
your own i fear
upon a stolen stare
from [my] medusa eyes
an old cold fixture
adorns an eden of
second hand thorns
my sincere regrets pinochio.

what she said, not what she meant.

i'm supposed to be somewhere right now, and i am not.
i am supposed to be in the same place every tuesday from 3-9 and i am always without fail.


i sat here, wanting to write something to motivate me to go. i'm not even nessicairily avoiding insperation, or la ack there of. i just sat here, numb, completly void of any valid emotion watching the numbers change on the digital clock at the bottom of the screen.

i have these kinds of days, where i can't face the mirror, where i know that i will see everything i hate if i look.
i'm supposed to utilize the mirror to analize my every flaw for 6 hours today - everyday.
the compulsion to shatter glass is never so strong as when surrounded by ill motivated, ill educated, ill looking toothpicks, while you are none of the above.

the feeling that you are stalling, wasting your time and it's not anything you yourself can do about it sends one to fall deeper into their own mind, which is at times all-consuming.
it shouldn't be wrong to take a break.
but you'll feel awful either way.

i'll say i got "sick" - something i ate.
really i won't have gone because i would have gotten sick had i been traped, claustrophobic, in the mirrors for 6 hours.

it's that dangerously consisten feeling of wanting to run, so fast, out of the room just to get away from yourself, that no one sees, but i know almost everyone experiances - at some pointe, with something, someone. it's there and we all identify with it. but rarely know how to cope,healthily, with it.

what do you do when half of what you thrive upon terrifies you?
when sometimes it opens parts of your mind you don't acknowledge because you know they are harmful.
sometimes, you just can't face it, can't look at whats infront of you and feel like you should, like you used too.
and you hate those around you, and you hate yourself for letting such a superficial detail effect you, but it effects you because you won't adress the real problem, the real fear, and the real actions you need and can take to make things atleast a fraction easier of your mind- ultimatly you blame yourself.

because ultimatly you're your own worst enemy,
and anytime you need to find her, she's in the mirror mocking the foundationg of everything you want.

terrific.
thanks.

die with the season

is it ironic that my favorite season is the one in which everything changes, falls, and decays?
but if you think about it, everything does that - - love, self image, people, circumstance, personal development, relationships, life. - - what doesn't grow, change, fall away and decay?

really?

something - anything - starts growing, metaphoricly, literally, it starts changing, most likely for the better as it's cognitivly pleasing. the change sets in, you feel acustomed to it, maybe you even like it. the minuet you start to anticipate liking what you see, is the moment it starts to fade away, fall out of your sight. and when something falls away and you can't see it, it will rot, wether in your memory, from your memory, or literally, it will decompose into some other - normally usefull but potentially harmful - product.

the decay is the product of the change.
but why does falling have to mean deteriorating?
does wanting change have to mean loosing something in return?

where's the saccharine heat? the bitter cold?
do you even miss them when they are gone?
and what does it mean to transition?

maybe the fall is a time of rebirth, reguvination.
or maybe its a time for death.

forgiving?
disapointing.

half full or empty? - and from where are you looking?

solid gold to
fun house glass
scars (the)carbon hope.
a self inflicted
tragic flaw
compulsive fear
makes dibelievers feel.

turn around and look
strangers eyes
in a stranger face
(w.)after taste of
bite size words
eaten past the date

we will fall away
rot in the mirror
loosing color?
make me bleed
with stale desent

- just the start of a thought