A Rhyme Out of the Psychotic

Hannibal the cannibal is fascinating.
Maybe because she's procrastinating.
She knows how love hurts.
You, she doesn't want to desert.
She closed her eyes and breathed.
With exhaust, she's been bequeathed.
The pain, you can see in her eyes,
But she always has on a disguise.
You had it once but you lost,
Somewhere in the very last frost.
Everything wasn't turned around.
Now, absolutely nothing sound.
This poem is getting tiring.
Maybe it's because she's desiring
The right words to tell you,
That "forever" was with who?


J.

Untitled II

And I couldn't stand to look into his dark, deep eyes so I hid but it was all a game to him and so unbearably cute but I really couldn't stand it. And he was so playful and I adore him and miss that part of my life (which is probably why I reminisce so much I suppose). Embarrassed? No, not at all. Impressing? I'm trying as hard as I can to hide that I'm trying.  I get to be the me I wanna be with him and I can be a kid (like he told me I could be) and stress free. Like biting and running around like we're the only ones on the ground and jumping up and down as if at any moment a star could be ours. But I could have a grown conversation and I feel like I'm wrapped in happiness in his world. Only to soon find out I'd be quickly unwrapped from any kind of happiness and left out in the cold...

J.

An Unexpecting Victim

An unexpecting victim
of the powerful stream of love.
I drank from it.
I can't tell if it's potion or poison.
Maybe one day I'll know.
More of the water exuding through the pores of my skin.
Basking in the sunshine of happiness.
Bathing in the love.
Until the leaves start changing colors.
And the stream freezes over.
An unexpecting victim
in a dark alley of twists and wrong turns.

The winds of feelings and change.

Flowing through my hair.

The line from that song..

"your hair looks so good over my shoulder"

playing slowly in my head.

Pictures of my hair over your shoulder dancing through my mind.

Like the leaves dancing around the stream.

An unexpecting victim

of these goosebumps I'm getting.

I can't tell if it's the cold from the frozen stream seeping through the soles of my shoes

or the thought of you, in all of your wonder and amazement.
Everything I wish I could see in my reflection when I look into the stream,

I see when I look at you.

I feel you when you look at me.

Something I've been missing.

An unexpecting victim

of happiness brought by thee.
And you let the stream sweep you off your feet;
not expecting to be a victim
until you hit the rocks.
And then everything hits you.
But you're mind is like the gizzard of a bird.
Filled with rocks. Trying to digest everything.
But humans don't have that.
So it doesn't work.
Try hydrogen peroxide; your parents lied to you.
IT STINGS.

J.

Momentary Mute Messages

The "OMG! What on earth is he talking about!?" in a terrified kind of way. With the "Eek! I have no idea (but I'm secretly [yet completely obviously] glad I'm not you)." conversation in about ten tremendously loud heartbeats with solely our eyes across wet rags and soap suds. Or the "I LOVE YOU! Say something." and the unreadable (so maybe it's just wishful thinking), "You know. And you know the deal." blank stare. Followed by the fishtale headspin the human brain is painfully capable of because that deal was never agreed upon. All within the split seconds of my slightly delayed (yet still fairly quick) reflexes that make my neck snap around the moment the chance arrives after meeting your beautifully cold eyes. And the "Can't you see I'd just like you to leave now?" glare which is entirely a one-sided conversation for it's obviously not reciprocated. Or let's go for the looking down because you're trying to hold back tears but desperately trying to send an ESP message with "-.-. .- -. / -.-- --- ..- / .--. .-.. . .- ... . / .--- ..- ... - / .... --- .-.. -.. / -- ." which reads just like that because they never get the message. Maybe it's the "I really adore you and I know my eyes can't smile but if they could they would be grinning. I like this." while your mind is racing like a Nascar driver at Daytona. And all you can see back is "You're cute. *twinkle*twinkle*" which is nice but.. Well, but. Mostly it's the messages behind your own eyelids that are so unclearly clear. I know that doesn't make sense and if you think that it does, you're wrong because it doesn't. It's not supposed to make sense. The loudest silent messages are the ones we always never want to hear. And the ones we laugh about crying about. Along with the ones we smile at while our heart is shattering into a gazillion small huge pieces. Those messages.


J.

Rotting

Tree branches scraping across windows; making wretched noises that sound like scared, hurt puppies. Perhaps occurring in the same place where squirrels are in possible danger of taking the same descent downward that I would be obligated to take if ever I were engulfed in beautifully painful flames. But that's only a hopefully unlikely 'if'. In addition to a fallen dead cat that he claimed was a dog (but I know better. Plus I went (in sorrow) and checked the repulsive site, but shh). It's poor dead body broken and wet; it's rotting process being sped up by maggots (like you) and flies. Lying defaced, denied and disregarded like the trash from Whataburger lying next to it, sharing the same rock. That, plus the torture I endure almost every night I manage to brokenly crawl to the door of the place I once loved. Now when I get in it's like I'm, no, I AM trapped in a(n)  horror movie inescapable life. Called my own. But someone manages to lock the door on my every attempt to escape and only when I can (literally) no longer go without oxygen do they unlock the door and allow me to gasp in the hot Texas air that feels just about as choking as his hands did around my neck one time. Only he kissed me and apologized; this hateful air is so much less apologetic. Along with you. In my dreams. And seemingly out of them (I don't dare say in real life). I hate that my memories are being contaminated like the pollution that makes us stay inside for recess contaminates the air. Or like the water will be once the cat's rotting corpse eventually slips into the pool at the bottom of the currently silent waterfall. Silent. So unlike my tears that seem to be taking the place of that waterfall; running along my contaminated cheeks that will hopefully become clean with help from the dark purple and pink pills. Or perhaps I'm just as hopeless as my scratched window (maybe even like the squirrel that may fall off); trapped in that land of horrors; or rotting away with only maggots to be close to along side that white and orange striped back on a rock at the bottom of a waterfall.


J.

Sugar Plum Princess

As you lay your head, crooked against rough, green pleather, the sun's rays seem to lay their hands around your cheek and caress it like the too rough hands had done so gently. 'And visions of sugar plums danced in your head' but it's not that time of year though you wish you could be the sugar plum princess through every season. But then the light appears too bright in the stereo-typical interrogation or worse yet when you've lost all your marbles. But the light doesn't help you find them, it just reminds you that people are convinced you've indeed lost them; but you actually know where they are, they're just hidden from the spot-light somewhere else and you won't tell anyone, shhh.

J.

Words on the Door

I don't dare raise a hand to that foggy door because I know exactly what I'll write and even if I resist writing it, I know exactly what I'll think (which I think too much already) and want to write it. But I can't because I wanna say it but I can't. And I want, I want, I want,  but this is so much more; this is I need and I hate that but I'm terrible and it's true. The door knows it all and when I leave it, it feels so sorry for me that its arms of steam wrap me up and hold me; if only for a moment until the mist clears from my eyes and from the room. And they promise me they'll make the words on the door disappear soon. And maybe if they were just a little more buff and could speak just a little louder they would promise me that they would make all my pains go away; like the words on the door. Just like the words on the door...

J.

Unimaginative

And it's like I've got to hold onto something for dear life even though things are changing so much. But she's really not that pretty with her hair pulled back and I realized the month marker in the hospital (and would have been okay with the unintelligent lady with the mesmerizing accent telling me something devastating) but I didn't cry in that moment because on the moon there's no gravity to pull down my tears. But my world will keep spinning no matter how I decorate. Maybe I should start to replay a different quote and even though I lay on my hand so abnormally, I'd really like to strangle the barks in mid night air. Because I wish for time in between and the drum I hear is not the beat I feel and the circle I see is not the loop I'm in. But don't let someone else decide your emotions because even though I tried to help I don't know what I'm doing because the lady with the voice of a child and the nice white coat hasn't helped. The cat that she spoke of was her only companion but who could tell you it's this and that? With the hands and the eyes all a part of the body attached to the brain with the mind and that feeling all the way through. Who knows what I'm saying? It's dyslexia of the nervous system stemmed from the chemical makeup in the brain that isn't quite right. Or so I told her as I tried explaining the problem through a neutral third party that I know had some effect from multiple sources who witnessed the aftermath. But when does it end? He wonders as I try to reassure him but at the same time, I'm stripping it all away. Not knowing what he really wants but knowing that I'd like to know for myself the answer to the question to which I led him falsely astray...

J.

One sentence in my world

And the fireflies lit up the field in between the trees and all around us as I took the turns speeding without the brakes and wishful thinking (that was soon crushed by one too close and the sight of an empty court) still in my head as I ignored my responsibilities towards you and only played a song that wasn't painful (which made me skip way too many) and depending on what was next as the sweat dripped down my face and refusing to tie my hair back because I welcomed the wind (no matter how polluted) to come and tangle my hair.

J.

Our Caslte Out The Window

And everything seems wrong and bad and painful. You've learned to stand when standing isn't easy. But the memory of learning that makes you miss everything and tears threaten to come again and maybe you're just finished with it; finished with standing when it's not easy. Through the droopy eyelids and the fogged up pupils, avoiding the perception of the thing that makes your eyes the saddest of all, you look out to your castle and it's standing. So go there. And let there be no gravity there; no gravity of any kind. There will be no options; no standing or falling. Just floating. Maybe you're floating in tears here but go to your castle and float in happiness...

J.


Photo credit: David Plunkett