pulses through the blood
as heavy intoxication catalyzes her shortness of breath.
a wet finger tip falls
from her inner lip
caresses her chin,
down her body
creating a path along her chest
that glistens from the dim artificial light.
the heat of her body
against the cold cement floor.
resonates in his chest,
slipping down his throat.
their eyes meet;
and she learns his name.
why can’t the worlds combine?
one falls over her imperfect cheekbone,
then they begin to tear apart her beauty,
as they strip off the make up,
the make up that hides her from reality,
that hides her true self.
have these smiles been a facade?
hiding her inner pain,
and the world?
She attempted to leave her solitude,
and try the social atmostphere,
but it failed her,
she can no longer recognize her own reflection.
as she strips her outer being,
the tears begin to collect and
flood her consciousness,
she contemplates old rituals,
while they seemed so painful,
they yeilded her successes.
“why can’t these two worlds collide?”
she screems at her more recognizable reflection.
why can’t the warmth she has felt
be coupled with the success trhough pain she latched onto before?
she cannot understand,
but realizes that these embers she has enjoyed
are merely the greed she loaths,
she has become what she hates,
and lost her progress in the process.
can she go back?
is there a way to make up for the lost time?
the lost scores?
the lost life?
it matters not,
for she will retreat back into the darkness,
into the solitude,
and find her resting place.
lost meaning in creation
...down a hole, she crept. into the crevice, she hid, and behind a rose colored pane, she disappeared...
human beings spend so much time creating themselves. every stitch placed just so, every color so distinct that none other like it could ever exist. but what happens when you become so [un]wrapped with fabric, and colors, and threads, and needles, that you loose the pattern? you climb through the sheets, desperately trying to regain structure, to remember why this shade of purple exists, why its complementary color is stitched through the heart, where the patterns break and begin.. reanalyzing. restructuring. regaining. redefining. the mind begins to rewrite explanations of why certain edges are rough, and why many stitches are out of place. eventually one knows not who they are, nor what they’ve created. anxiety haunts every action, hesitation marks every word spoken, and tears color every pillow. how can one believe they regret nothing, yet also feel as if everything went wrong? the yearning for a new beginning, a new chance...change.
“my life begins tomorrow” is a dangerous statement that is too often believed.
the one thing he taught me was to reach beyond my grasp: never satisfied, always yearning...
take a deep breath little girl,
hold on just a little bit tighter;
your little hands can barely fit
around the rope that is holding it all together,
but just a little bit more,
it’s up to you.
in a whirlwind of fluttering thoughts,
and anticipated inabilities,
she pictures the world
as if she had just let go.
almost begging for an outside force
to give her the strength
to let go,
and walk away;
would be easier she thought.
We only do what benefits us,
in a world where heroism is a lie,
and courage is merely self preservation.
she draws into herself,
grasps firmly with one hand,
and with the other,
reaches as far as her little bones and tendons allow.
tears are for another day,
inabilites are luxuries you cannot afford,
and asking for help was a failed attempt
of joining the masses.
The fluttering thoughts
go into a box,
a box that she only wishes she could lock,
and focus resumes to the course ahead.
..in the back of her head
she prays someone notices,
but realizes that this is the sick truth of the myth they call martyrdom.
preventing a chronic condidtion
deep impact, tissue damage, immune responce.
cells gather to the site: inflamation
tender to the touch, swollen; the grusome appearance is only matched by the excruciation of the subjective pain.
as the tissues begin to rebuild, and the inflamation begins to dissipate, the wound appears worse, although the pain has begun to subside.
entering subacute, insome moments, one feels fully healed, at others you fear that the damage is much deeper than the initial onset.
back and fourth,
the injury fluctuates between the acute and subacute: tenderness, swelling, bruising, relief, ache, sharp, dull.
in subacute, body work is then indicated, and can give relief,
when performed properly, positive results yeilded, healing is guided and assisted;
misuse or improper treatment can mediate further strain, and send you back to the previous stage: acute, and often worse than the initial injury.
your body learns new ways to interact: guarding, adoption of other muscles, restraint.
some muscles are strengthened, others become damaged.
when untreated, initial injury breeds chronic patterns;
patterns that misalign,
and pull farther from the homeostatic regime.
back and forth,
acute and subacute,
just praying for the proper treatment principle to prevent the chronic condition.
i painted a beautiful picture,
a piece i had to hide,
perfect grace with every stroke,
and exquisite composure of every hue.
i framed it in highest quality,
not a penny to be spared,
and emptied a hidden room,
to secretly display the newly created treasure,
and admire it all alone.
you crept into the the depths of hidden spaces,
broke the lock off the door,
ripped the work from the wall,
and in pieces,
left it on the ground, without a look backwards,
without a sound.
the framing was ruined,
the glass shattered, so perfectly,
to shred through the woven canvas,
and leave but mauled fragments to mark its existence.
upon finding my dream in dissassembled parts,
i cried tears that i didn’t know could live,
i picked up the pieces,
and using only the best of glues,
began to put my perfect work back to together.
i was able to do it,
mend the fibers,
hide the lines.
restore the luster of every color,
erase the travisty that had occured.
i thought that the piece reliving
would engulf the tragedy,
and no memory could exist,
but that of my perfect picture,
of the awe that once had lived.
but there’s a problem you see,
for when all was mended, i realized,
i had re-assembled it upsidedown.
a new look on something that had always existed.
a new vantage on a old work,
into a mess.
and again i had a realization,
it wasn’t the vantage blocking the view,
creating beautiful imagery,
a perfect work.
it had been a mess all along.
away and towards
she sits amongst the ashes, taking note of the bodies piled around her. they contiue to fall as she walks: always running, always running. refusing to be amongst the dead she’s left behind, refusing to fall into their loss of self, loss of life. she runs; accelerates, on a path leading no where. false destinations arise from false prophets, she believes in them only for a place to go, realizing the nothingness that lies within those locations. once at an end of a dream, she shatters and falls apart, only to find the peices, and with alchemy create something new; a new path forms, and she runs again from the ashes, always running, always running. both away and towards.
living in the moment?
i fell asleep.
and within that sleep, became more lusid than ever before.
a certain form of clarity arises from the calm and collected sentiments that have recently taken hold.
smiles are no longer lies,
though they may decieve reason.
a life laid out in front of me,
now holds a different meaning.
forward is no longer a designated direction.
not sure what tomarrow will be,
nor even what tonight means,
but short term frames are meaningless;
living in long term allows forward, backward,
and static movement along a scale
and of life.