Can you blame me?

The journey was long,

but I, ignorant to its failure before inception.

trudged through murky waters,

meandered, lost, in dense woods,

and risked my sanity every footstep.

It started with lies,

bound in thousands of pages

of fairy tales being retold

as if they were authentic.  

So I believed it all, each word kissed

so sweetly that the bitterness of reality 

never hit my lips, until this moment.

Quixotic me believed a shadowed hand

would be stable enough to grasp

as my balance became rattled,

but even the earth knows 

that the sun burns out eventually,

leaving the world a barren wasteland.

My naivete and blindness created 

a paradox of hope and sensibility,

a promise of happiness 

that was quickly realized into melancholy,

and a confidence stricken into fear.

The closer to death I became,

tilting at windmills.

Warmth

The sun no longer warms my skin

as I lie, weakened, beneath its smile,

pressing its face closer to mine

to kiss it with fiery extinction

No fog appears upon the mirror glass

while my lips press up against it

crushing their power forward 

like a bulldozer, relentless and cold

Movements rigid and uniform 

Bend knee, push forward, slam ground

Switch leg, repeat.  Progress measured

by the steps taken and almost complete.

Voiceless whines of chains and gears

screech behind a vacuous shell,

Metallic clangs of organs dropping

to the feet of a hollowed statue

The sun hides in the wake of the horizon

Piercing with pain through the flesh

That you stripped from me,

When all this time I thought I was human.

The Day

The sun creeps through the window,
nudging my head, lifting my eyelids,
and stares at me... "wake up."
I roll over on my uncomfortable bed,
which springs me upright to gaze at the wall,
whiter than Antarctic snow, reflecting
the rays of the sun into my already pounding head.
My body feels feeble, lethargic and heavy.
I skip breakfast, because I fail to see the point,
and trudge myself to work, arms akimbo for eight hours,
blankly watching my colleagues and employees,
smiles across their faces, laughs filling the air,
and I feel colder than I did when the sun
rudely crashed its way into my room... "wake up."
I refuse to forgive the sun for that.
Once the clock hands form their joyous vogue,
One on the twelve and the other on the five,
I set a world record in hundred meter hurdles,
leaping people and parked vehicles until I am behind the wheel.
Then I set another world record in waiting;
the traffic, stopped on the highway,
as if there were a broken traffic light stuck on red,
horns freely sounding like a world cup football match,
and air stale, because why would my air conditioner work?
The sun breaks through the windshield... "wake up."
I hate you sun.  Are you going to sleep yet?
The road, like quicksand, steals my time,
and the radio sounds more like nagging than music.
While I pull up, breaks screech at my driveway,
I trip towards the front door, which does not unlock,
frantically pounding to crash through the wood
that stands firmly between me and my comfort.
Finally it becomes ajar and I tackle through
like an NFL linebacker to the inside.
Protected by the roof and blinds, the sun no longer
has nay power against me as I slide into bed
and I lie in his arms...
and it is the best day ever.

Barbed Wire

There is a barbed wire fence around my home,
It is not necessary, but it still stands there,
pointed and vigilant like a night watchman,
waiting for company that it can quickly deny access.

It has stood for years now, in the desolate town I live,
No neighbor has questioned its existence,
But instead accepted its silver wrapped coils
And allowed me to lie in the middle, watching out the window.

Through windy weather it rattles, like an old wooden shutter,
Smacking against a house in a twister,
Yet it has never fallen, and continues its duty
Protecting a home that needs not protection.

But when there is no cloud in the sky, it stands there,
shimmering in the rays of the sun,
lonely without enemies to jab mercilessly,
it is not tall nor proud, but rather droops back to my house.

The barbed wire fence hugs my home tightly,
It strangles the paneling, caressing the molding lumber,
It smiles as it shakes my hand to greet me,
Leaving it bleeding red, dripping down the sides.

The Flower

In my hand I hold, morose, a flower slowly withered,

Fighting through a brutal storm, a darkened sullen blizzard

Waiting, dying, acceding to the clasp of reaper's touch,

Strangled without hope to breathe through the hands of salted clutch.

Drained of all vitality, the nighttime sky caressing,

the corpse, stigma of my pride, lies weak while decompressing,

Rooted under moonlit swamps, it cried tears of confession,

Petals drift down to the mud, a beautiful succession,

Thorns, they prick and puncture to release their recollections,
Through skin and heart alike they pain with harsh imperfections,
Each jagged piece digging, bleeding, midnight fast approaching,
Deep beneath a layer of dirt, waiting, dawn encroaching,

A grave with tombstone missing greets my flushed and hazel eyes,
Another lovers evening ends with elegant demise.

Norwegian Sun

You are my Norwegian sun,
in the summer your warmth is
powerful and omnipresent,
caressing my skin lightly,
always vigilant of fears
while whispering my name.

You are courageous,
flirtatious and irresistible,
never releasing my body
from your arms and running
my hair through your fingers,
burning my sensibility.

And in the winter you are barren,
cold as the moon who replaces you,
aloof, separated by millions of miles,
clouds our impasse
and the snow drifts lazily down
to my Norwegian night.

Broken Mirror

I do not like to look at my face,

drooping and wrinkling where once

it was youthful and vibrant.

The harsh reality is not worth

the time that has escaped me

to note the scars and blemishes

that mark my face like a rock slide

that tumbled down a mountainside.

It is a frightening image to see

every morning, the halitosis 

fogging the shining glass as I peek

through to see frazzled hair

and rough skin patches.

I am not what I used to be and

it pains me to think that it gets worse

than what I see already

through the broken glass 

of my bathroom mirror.

Poison

I sip the poison, not under false pretenses,
but the curiosity of its colors allure my taste buds,
fooling me in belief that happiness is liquid.
Like a metallic glass of water, its jagged edges
cut my throat, mixing blood and toxins
while my body slowly weakens.
I drink it to drench my system,
coat my stomach in hopes that it will quench me,
and make me invincible, a superhero; it fails.
Foam overflowing from my mouth,
a visual cry of irregularity and despair,
are shadowed by my own desires to continue drinking.
It pierces its silver daggers through my heart
and spills green and black ooze
masquerading as my blood.
I douse my throat with the venom,
deepening its destruction, creating a black hole,
leaving me an empty shell of who I was, leaving me
fragile, empty and numb.

Have You?

Have you ever put a knife's edge to your throat

and dragged it slowly against your coarse skin

so that the serrated blade grabs you until you rip?

Have you ever done this while looking in mirror

to watch the blood taint the stainless steel

and lazily drip down the side of your neck?

Have you ever told someone to watch you

and press his tongue to the scarlet drops, cleaning

the salty surface as he takes the final slice across?

Have you ever smiled and laughed so loudly

that it draws a crowd, gazing at the spectacle

of your life escaping from your body?

Have you ever caught blood from your unhinged head

in a clear plastic cup, painting it red with each splash,

and try to replace it pouring out like Victoria Falls?

Have you ever died with millions watching

as you struggle to gasp for air, crash to your knees

and with your last bit of life watch them walk by?

Trapped

We have built a wall,
so high and extensive,
impossible to traverse,
that we have accepted
its obstinate visage as part
of our natural landscape.

We have complacency
knowing that agreement,
no matter how unreasonable,
protects us from indulgence
and introspection which may
contradict artificiality.

We have allowed masses
to be ostracized,
cast beyond bricks and mortar,
to protect a facade
established by men
who grew fearing entropy.

We have hidden ourselves
in a bastille,
caressing the bars daily,
indoctrinated under guises
that the fortress enables
a free and fair mind.

We have lived here for ages
inside a stone chamber
which no one agrees upon,
but that has become stronger
through the convictions
of a shackled societal mind.

My Memory

My memory is fading,
Sheered wool off a sheep,
Onto another man's shoulders,
Line by line erased from me
and whispered by you,
solemnly swear, I do.

The fletching out my body bright
conceals the anguish piercing
a postmodernist tragicomedy
gazed upon by a fearful audience
unaware of the rain that poured
and the rainbow that appeared.

My memory is fading,
though my face still optimistic,
to conceal the writhing torment
underneath my skin,
communication between synapses
snapped, I do.

The fountain of youth still evades
my aging consciousness,
and my body aches
to return to my thoughts
instead of with scarabs
tickling my numbing memory.

Love Ya

His eyes- completely hollow and glazed-

greet mine with a "hey,"

a painful salutation like a sword to the throat.

His smile- non-existent at the moment-

our bodies entangle in a sandpaper hug,

skin ripped from our bodies covering them in blood.

His voice- flat and unmoved-

lacking conviction as it claims "good,"

which has turned to be just the accepted social response.

His hands- sweaty and shaking-

anxious and tapping the palms of our hands,

slipping away like grabbing eels in the sea, escaping.

His legs- bouncing and relentless-

matching his hand's fidgety nuances,

confused which one should lead the other towards the door.

His heart- normal and paced-

a humdrum melodic reminder repeating 

like every annoying clock's swinging pendulum.

He holds me longer than usual-

An odd rush of pain burns through us-

He kisses me on the cheek- "Love ya."

Adonis

He is a modern Adonis;
whose knowledge of his perfection
stretches across his face,
without clumsiness,
unscathed by weathering time
nor by warring mortal envy.
It is just a lustful warning
of the thirty two jagged
blood soaked teeth it conceals.
He dangles the corpses
of his victims, an open challenge,
while staring with eyes of
muddied crystals, luring innocence,
like songs of sirens,
to be frozen to sculptures,
hardened carcasses of desire,
and broken to pieces
without a strand of hair
falling out of place.
Gravitating towards him
surrounded by a pit of quicksand,
I walk to board the river Styx
and leave my sanity with Hades.

My Bitter Rival

O, my bitter rival, the dark blue above,
an ocean, losing warriors to gravity,
deluges my body in brackish filth
to purge the clarity from my mind.
His biting chill gnaws my bones,
languishing any strength
that filled its hollowed out architecture.
The obscurity masks the pained countenances
fleeting, like whispers of a cyclone.
I listen, cautiously with anxiety,
through the silence of humdrum
pitter patter pounding terra firma,
awaiting the temblor to shatter my tenderness
as a jolt, swift and numbing,
shocks the body into submission,
without coercion nor persuasion,
and returns whimsically to the undeniable tranquility
and serenity of disjointed body and soul.
A stormy bitter rival, O dark blue above,
drowning with displeasure and reviving with delight.

Death's Hand

Death's hand is on my shoulder,
     I am not afraid
     I am not happy
     I simply exist.

He holds it there for a while,
     I do not question
     I do not cry
     I simply exist.

I hear his warm laugh in my ear,
     I will not shutter
     I will not flinch
     I simply exist.

Death's touch is cold like fire,
     I feel not burned
     I feel not frozen
     I simply exist.

Death looks at me, eyes empty sockets,
     I can not see
     I can not move
     I simply exist.

He kisses softly my lips like razors,
     I bleed
     I crumble
     I die.

The Return of Morning

Morning strikes; she is a viper

digging her fangs deep into my veins

and poisoning my breath and paralyzing me.

My antidote a poison, kiss of death,

quickening the process of my demise

as the toxins fill my body twice as strong.

A placebo taken daily for weeks

does nothing to protect, weakens my immunity,

my pupils shrink to the glaring light,

and heat boils my blood, painfully welcomed.

My antidote simmers in the hot springs

enjoying the blissful sauna across his frigid skin,

dried and cracking to allow the venom access

to my veins, rolling and rushing, 

and becoming absorbed throughout my body.

Morning clasps; she is a viper

unaware of time, unlike me

worried as each minute, tick-tock, slowly passes.

He, unhurried, leisurely strolls beside her,

King and Queen united to mock the pained

jester and every second further, tick-tock, 

they laugh and deride his displeasure,

Schadenfreude, they caused and savor,

as my breath shortens with tighter lungs.

The bitter saliva mixes harshly with my blood,

the antidote just dancing in the frothy reaction

like a child in a bubble bath, maniacally cackling,

as the majestic duo filter through my body

quicker than ever before, and she abandons 

her carcass in my rotting flesh.

Morning rests; she is a viper

finished poisoning her victim and patient,

allowing the plan to consummate with time

and the antidote to finish me with no chance

of survival.  He will course through my veins

and arteries like sewage, my body pitiful,

heart weakened and organs ceasing.

My sanctuary and peace erupts in war

with no chance of victory for the defense.

My antidote slays me limb by limb

as the viper mistress cackles with supremacy.

I try to hide myself in the darkness

where her light cannot reach but my antidote

lures me to her radiance as my vitality

is dripping on the carpeted floor.

He kisses me; he is the poison

that feeds the fiery anguish inflicted by the serpent.

He riles my senses to shambles 

and I crash into the hard slab mattress again.

His smile transforms to a sneer

and he punctures my skin from the inside.

Strong and deceptive he scorches my nerves

and suffocates me with depression.

Tears of toxic torment drip maliciously downward

Tearing through my skin and scaring the remains

with a sharp infected dagger, my antidote.

He pummels through me, the antagonist of my nightmares,

destroying any hope of reconstruction

without reason, and couples with the morning,

viper of death, so they can escape together.

Who

I thought she liked me, but she liked him
Of course she did, although he doesn't return the feelings
and he is in love with this other girl and she doesn't know yet
that she actually loves him back...
But then it will never happen because it is the wrong place
and wrong time, but they will argue about it for a while.

But I still like her, even though she doesn't feel the same,
because she is still doing that let-me-lead-you-on thing
since she can, and I cannot blame her even though
I am annoyed by all of that...
But she still wants that guy who is into that other girl
that lives down the street from him, 'cause that always works.

It is this giant mess of confusion of who likes who
where the reciprocity of it all is nonexistent... and frustrating.

Caressing Touch

Lacerate my spleen

let the ooze of stale optimism

and dreams seep 

out into the cold rancor 

of your breath.

Obliterate my heart

splitting it to chambers

to capture the rotting

rust of my veins and

suffocate my lungs.

Leave me to die

in the ground near a swamp

to not be visited

no tombstone or memory

just destruction.

Anonymity

Dear reader,

I do not really know what to call this.

Perhaps it is best labeled as prose,

or an anonymous letter to an anonymous reader,

where the grammar and structure have been contorted

to fit more of what I want it to,

instead of formality.

It originally was intended as a beautiful poem,

rhythmically leaping from word to word,

rhyming scheme of ABAB,

something that would have made Wordsworth proud.

But instead, it is this.

People told me that I would never make it 

as a writer, and even if I did who would have cared?

Profound words must obey a character limit

and include some sort of ingenious 

humorous and spiritual social motif that perpetuates

itself to be replicated, and I do not have that.

All I have is an uncommon thought,

that is reviled by my own peers

and ignored by the growing societal commonality,

which implores the detachment of person and name

and allows anonymity to persist,

instead of creating characters in smoke and mirrors.

The nightmare of recognition propagates itself

to surpass our dreams of invisibility since the screams

of true identification cannot permeate through 

a faded idea of hearsay, and so we grow as 

monsters ransacking through darkness for light.

In brevity I write this to explain

that the anonymity that I am falling from is not desired,

but rather a conscription to fight with the world

by using weapons of designation.

However, the fantasy of my existence 

relies on something more than my signature.

Cheers,

Anonymous

Peacock

He meanders upon the stage without a care of the audience,

who await the performance of promised perfection,

and he stands in the center, with a timid twist of his head.

He humbly bows, before the show begins, and flashes a bright array of colors,

purples, blues, yellows and greens, blending naturally with the sky,

beautiful and magnificent like no other spectacle in the known world.

His eyes piercing the hearts of his admirers, confused and enticed,
and he begins his routine traipse across the floor.

He entrances them with his rhythmic gait, forwards and backwards,

encircling the onlookers with a swift flutter of his feathers.
Although no smile is dressed upon his visage, each step pounds
a melodic wisp of optimistic allure, enchanting and capturing,
whispering a sound sweeter than a rose petal's kiss
caressing the heart of every spectator, and silence fills the air.
He commands the landscape, without intention,
and the world waits, patiently, for his eyes to see colors.

Morning

Morning strikes; she is a viper
digging her fangs deep into my veins
and poisoning my breath and paralyzing me.
I pray silently for her release,
As the toxins fill my body and drool escapes my lips.
Subdued, with no strength to shake her,
She strikes continually as I bleed
on my bed, clutching my wound
for no other reason than the consoling contact.
She does not care, she digs deeper
as my eyes roll to the back of my head.
The heat boils my blood, a warm sensation,
both welcoming and nauseating.  I am dizzy
in pain, she pulls me to my feet, latched on
and becoming absorbed into my skin.

Morning clasps; she is a viper
unaware of time, unlike me
worried as each minute, tick-tock, slowly passes,
She swims through the lava pumping through my heart.
A loud buzz rings and my mind pounds,
the familiar pain that is no more welcoming than yesterday.
She slithers slower each second, tick-tock,
numbing every organ she entangles,
my breath shortening with tighter lungs,
and intestines growing with discontent and bile.
She weakens but never unhinges her jaw
from the power she possesses, majestic queen,
coiled on her throne of pinks and yellows,
rising her head to infuse her bitter saliva
and sheds to abandon her carcass in my rotting flesh.

Morning rests; she is a viper
finished poisoning her victim and patient,
allowing the plan to consummate with time.
Her grin, larger than the Cheshire cat, is met
with mine, opposing her happiness with illness.
I cannot sit, my jitters have awoken me
and my eyes prop open from her dry skinned touch
frightening my senses into alertness.
She is calm, atop her kingdom that once was mine
and the cushioned mattress beneath me no longer.
I quiver, frantically searching for strength in darkness
that hides in the corner of the closet but she follows,
she is one with me, she is the light that brings death,
a viper poisoning the vitality that is itching
to drip on the carpeted floor.

He kisses me; he is the antidote
for the fiery anguish inflicted by the serpent.
He settles my senses so I can walk, and yet I stay in his arms,
with his kiss to evaporate the venom within my veins
and smile to revitalize my heart with beats once more.
He, the royal king, sits beside her on her throne,
as I am in awe of his strength, his beauty,
his splendor, his courage. His touch soothes
the scorched skin of my arms and face,
and covers me with a blanket of protection.
He rushes through me, the hero of my dreams,
rebuilding my weakness and destruction
without reason beyond the kindness of his heart
and the morning, viper of death,
she never can reach me with my antidote

New Year's Resolution

He put on his sweatpants, slovenly, without much forethought as to whom he may stumble into outside of his dreary cavern.  Although he did not drink the night before, since he was arbitrarily turning over a new leaf with the rest of the world, he walked with a drunken gait or a child's first steps on the sidewalk with intent of going to the store.  Murmurs to himself echo through the empty street as the rest of the town were still in disbelief that a new year has come and gone without so much as a blink of their eyes.  

"Hey there!" a shout from a few meters forward rings.  Still fuzzy with night vision, he ignores the shouts thinking they are not for him.  "I said, 'hey!'" the voice more perturbed than earlier speaks.  "Don't you remember me?  From high school?  It's Leah Vice."  She is nonplus from the lack of response.  "Alex... that's you right Alex?"

He looks at her with a spurious smile and nods, without anything more than the previous murmurs to himself.  She continues the one-sided conversation, "How have you been?"  He struggles to find audible words and instead shrugs halfheartedly back to her.  "Well, I have been great!  I have been on a new diet and lost twenty pounds, started a new career as a radio host and am starting to finally realize how happy I can be.  Oh, and I just got engaged."  The words just filter through his skull without much retention, like water through a colander.  He barely gives another nod, although it seems as if he is nodding off and instead is about to go to sleep.  "Well, you look ... um ... it was ... nice .... seeing you!"

Her stuttering was unnoticed by Alex, at this point disappointed that his life has never turned out to be the way that he dreamed it years ago in grammar school.  Every year was the same masquerade of dreams and hopes that by March would be demolished and burnt on the ground of his dungeon.  He sighed, heavily.  About five minutes pass as he arrives at the local convenience store.  He grabs his essentials, pays the clerk and walks back out into the blinding luminescence.  He shrugs once more passing a puddle and looking into his unshaven, scruffy face.  The short walk ends as he throws the bag of recently purchased items onto the table and walks into his cavern.   He sits, slouching slightly, and begins to type a story.  He types in... "New Year's Resolution"