incomplete thoughts
im missing you @ 6:58 a.m. on 2003-03-11
Some things I jotted down while on hiatus....incomplete thoughts...
Guilt comes close
with this seventy eight year death
and grievance, printed near on the menu.
My lifes path condemned
for its honesty
and absence of ecclasiastication
and tendency of sacrilegious rebirth
and close convexity to hell,
"or something like it"?
It never felt too good-
to be deprived of truth.
denied of humanity,
and censored of love.
or cradled by a pin-cushion of trivial disquise.
stripped of trust
and maliciously held to a basket of moldy black lies.
damn the one who labels this,
a curse word of misrepresentation.
damn the one who can't understand,
that I'm a living affirmation
of what I fight for.
If only I had smaller things to live on,
I could swing with doing dishes as a sole complication
but I realize, for some, even it is painful.
If only slit wrists, slashed limbs and bleeding hearts
could become free-spirited.
instead of a dying attempt for someone to hear
instead of a crying attempt at humanity
and hiding behind fear.
when love isn't enough.
I once knew dry eyes
when I knew bright clothes and
fake smiles.
and was a believer of the Arabian night.
and the meaning of white,
as goodness.
Until I discovered the purity of all,
won't catch me when I fall.
and I wouldn't dare it to.
The fear of love is on standby.
just a few years until I have to face
my civil rights.
my weakness doesn't stand a chance.
my strength, a taunting dance-
that makes it seem simple.
Though, it never has been.
Even deviance comes with a high price
because the world is one costly bacteria,
complete with infinite "check-out" lines
and deep, empty, air tight,...
minds.
labels strive
rusted spears into
my naked heart.
one of those times
when murder is not a crime
but an art.
I say, I've been there too,
but that means nothing to you.
and that's what I get
for being a girl with a metallic backbone
in a world
that whines.
beneath a gray tuxedo,
she hid her thick cigars
and womanhood.
Late night liquers-
a companion to her
artistic revival
and unlikely survival.
of femininity
and persona, and
of Bohemia.
eraser burns
on my forearm
remind me of the day
when kids did that sort of thing.
I have so many scars.
my right thumb reminds me of the oven cooking skills that I lost at birth
and the biopsy marks keep me from forgetting my kidhood.
I should have known I never would.
because wrecks and golden labrador accidents
left me with holes for knees.
and ungodly pleas
for supermodel legs,
I'd never have.
or ever want.
Imperfect you,
remind me.
Love isn't always
smiles.
or bliss.
or just like This.