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.

chronically claustrophobic

i am, apparently, one of those people who sabotage potentially good things before they even happen.

if you are psychologically setting yourself up to think the things you are thinking then you obviously want to be thinking them. right. maybe the need to experience consistency is so short lived because you are really happy with the constant spontaneity/free will you live by. as soon as you are cornered into potentially consist ant situations we realized, in a claustrophobic state, that at least self sabotage is a form of (personal) control.

or maybe i search for challenges, challenges just happen to come with risk, and if risk is the only thing that keeps you alert enough to be challenged then well . . you've entered a vicious circle and it proves increasingly harder to get out.

so what if i fear that being unchallenged does not equate with stability and comfort but with settling . . i'm to afraid of missing something that could be good for me so i avoid things that could be good for me because i always think there will be something better.

really i am looking for feeling i already have encountered in another face.
and it's pointless and i know this, and yet it does not stop highly caffeinated ramblings before friday night departures into that same spontaneity i have renewed comfort in - at least for now.

really this is just a phase every human being goes through . . i am just over analyzing things.
are we surprised?
no.
god help the over analytical psych. major.


o and,
happy new year.

- - -

turns out maybe my instincts were right on this one.
funny how sometimes we know ourselves more than we are willing to admit.
maybe because we want ourselves to be wrong?

need, anger, despiration

What is flirtation? One might say that it is behavior leading another to believe that sexual intamacy is possible, while preventing that possibility from becoming a certainty.
In other words, flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a garuntee.

- -the unbearable lightness of being
Milan Kundra

Frankenstein

is it wrong to want human closeness - body heat in a matter of speaking?
not heat because you are shivering, just heat because you are numb.
some kind of warped sort of emotional booty call . . .

so what happends if, say, you stock pile it. . . cram as much in a night as you can so that when you look back on it you sort of hate yourself and rebell against wanting to be rid of such numbness.

but in this process arn't you just intiving another sort of novicane into your circulation.
you crave a sense of urgency, risk, sponetineity . . . power. but in that reconstruction of lost feelings, you really assemble some sort of stranger inside yourself to take over when you want to be loved.

and love, we all know is a relative term.

it's craving so much heat that you would die to be cold.

if you reject what you want because you've got to much of it then arn't you back to where you started? and in fulfilling such wants, what if you got more than you bargined for? how do you compinsate for the surplus, that emotional after taste that no matter how you try you can't spit out.

theres you're new numbness.
and that is something you didn't need.

it's those grey areas, and the breaking out from under them thats a bitch.

playing with matches

can you miss someone you (want to)hate? yes, you can. i don't know why your asking when this is obviously how you feel. if you feel it it must be true. right? maybe.


all the things "they say" about pinning and missing are cliche and depressing
and i don't pretened to know what the emotional contract is for the grey area between missing and hating.
(beacause missing isn't loving, and therefore the parallel is squewed, right?)

well what ever it is, it's giving me awful writers block, and a worse headache.

but i decided that i am happier with this piece than i thought i would be when i started it :



hands that sprint
down my spine
like fire
burnt by a flame
i did not light
raw and blisterd
dry regrets
in greasy alabies
your forked tounge
engulfs my ear
(our)battle of sins
circe's game
at which you win
dangerous consistency
i let my hair down for you
behind the walls
i'm the moth
drawn to a candle
that's not hers.

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.