precious little meltdown

feel you move me, use me
harsh focus in the rolling heat
inspired to evaporate
give me something i can use
tear it out of me
i'm screaming
give artistry to bleeding
crave me, blame me
with porcelain eyes
and dahlia smile
replace me.
round my edges
make me see through.
break me like you love to
leave before i'm cold.
your pire to fidelity
exchange me, erase me.
leave a mark, invisible
make it deep, make it breath.
twist this scene into your puppet strings
see how i splinter?
scatter me, rearrange me
suspend me here - make something out of me.

give me somebody to dance for

i think i forgot.
i forgot why i do this, and every now and then when i get a glimpse of someone inspiring and passionate i remember that that is how i was and how i still want to be.
i don't even know how to get back there anymore.

i don't know what happened to me, or my priorities.

i think i need a change of scenery, something new to inspire me. safe from routine and the same nagging voices.

it's not that i am externally motivated necessarily, its just that i am effect by all the negativity i am around. it's atmosphere that motivates me, not people - that's it.

i hate that i am powerless to change my surroundings for another semester and hate that i am subject to these surroundings. the impatience, and the judgment, and the goddamn politics of this place are killing me.

no, you know what's killing me?
i forgot and i can't remember - not without help.

i don't want to be helped. that's the thing of it -
not wanting what you need.

how do you get around that?

hold your breath

need to see the muse in me?
want to find a song in me?

hold your breath
you know how
we've learned not to expect
what we want
burn your bridges with inspiration
clingto starving dreams
and move to the bright lights
where steal turns mute
disbelievers
the roaring smog
full of whats best for you
it's impracticle
to crave believers
please over look these eyes,
these ripping seams.

maybe's not a deep breath
no, could be's not a song.

we put ourselves in these places, where we know we could be happy. where we will be inspired and enticed, even though we know that it can't happen. or that - for what ever reason - it wont happen.
but maybe it's enough to see that you could be happy.
prospect - renews hope? atleast alittle.

i prefer the worst of you

You’re fangs are laced
With poisonous metaphors.
Grace this porcelain
with the scar you ache to leave,
stain this claustrophobic bitterness
with deception.
In low tones
that draw me closer to the kill.
Look at these medusa eyes
craving inspiration from the dark
Grace the light,an invisible shadow.
Meet me half way,
you’re winning my game,
polished marble won’t turn to stone.
Melt me with immortality.
My life in your hands, my heart in your teeth.

who destroys you

people are funny. maybe people are selfish. or just pathetic.

you see someone and expect to get your entire conscience mind seductively ripped out and shoved in a blender, when in fact there is noripping or blending.

but because you had braced yourself for it, and in a sick way almost looked forward to such consistency, you almost craved it.

crave is a delicate term, crave implies addiction, and who are we if we crave what deteriorates us (in an over dramatic emotional sense)
because such deterioration is dependable and comfortable?

but i am not deteriorating, berating myself for a lack of moral sense, or even feeling the least bit betrayed.

it was like storing up the anticipation for a later date, "hey right now i just want to sit next to you and be near you, but i know you know i want to fuck you."

it's a strategy, like in any other game, to keep you wanting more, clever and effective and in some cases completely unintentional.
and maybe i should not analyze these steps and appreciate the fact that i maintained some form of emotional clarity tonight, and realize that monthly midnight phone calls and stolen evenings don't constitute anything near love, but part of me feels a need too.

because over thinking means you are churning emotions, i want to hang on to something that i define as tangible and for once not accept it only to harden myself to it.

i guess that sometimes it's enough just to call, because i know you have nothing to say but wanted to call because a call means "I'm still here, and i hope you didn't forget me" - in both a sentimental and sinister context - because if you are thinking, (or missing? which may or may not equal craving?) then you are still caring. and maybe that is the only point that was important to communicate.

and maybe we are growing up, or maybe we are tired of hurting each other in the same ways.
i know, and have always known that it's okay not to talk, and just have conversations with your eyes. read each others minds, and take pleasure in just that simple fact . . knowing someone without saying a word. even if words are necessary.

sometimes you just want to know that a person is within reach, even if you are not reaching for them.
. . simple minded consistency and all that jazz.

never mind

bare yourself
in/to stolen moments
foster an interal monster
you carry glutton in that basket
feeding something hollow
fading to a distant
. . never mind
starving from the inside
"the better to emaciate you my dear"
attack the numbness
for a curse, for a cure
such foreign novicane
to make you beautiful
thriving on sensation, shatters the mirror
ferocious denial looks through the pieces
you're the wolf.
you're the cape.

almost honest, once

(take two)

hummor the hell out of me "baby"
let's cheapen the act
to stolen moments
before we count back
beats to sleep too
heat to forget our names too
we're hollow, we're cheating
making and breaking
this game apart.
we'll take this to pieces
fragments with which i'll haunt you
i'm poision to your illusions
cowardace brings out your eyes, "baby"
if you won't dance
there are others behind you.


- - - - - -


(take one)

i'm desprately independant
clinging to night mind excuses
we'll push this inclination to belief
don't look for her here
i'm poision to your illusions

no canvas for your paint brush
i'll be exactly what you expected
familiar and disdainfully opaque
i feel what you're to blind to see
but i still turn you on


fill me with whatever you want to say
in this space so bare, hollow
you should try and smile
oh "baby", if you don't want to dance
there are other's in line behind you.

i'm trying to beat this writers block
it's a skitzophrenick idea that needs some work . . but its a start.