[x]

Dirty Needlesmy skin is an embarrassment of preconceived genetics
without sensory or proof
and all they could say was
My Dear, it's comatose.

the statistic
recovery
and
relapse
tasting forbidden flavors
mountains of unconsciousness
memory is a sieve

capability in the mouth of my nightmares
organs conjuring art
quiet shocks of color

tremolo voices breed beauty with lightning
misunderstood power
Defiance.

they claimed it was premeditated murder
an idea of expected growth
and efficiency

__________________________
the cadaver is resilient; remaining
simply to leech sleep
from oceans
of abandoned opium

Reality TV 5I have not the time, and to be honest, I was immoral from the very beginning.
There you were, standing glorious and inebriated. I was ill prepared.
I was a child.

It would seem she lacked innards, substance.
I was without my integrity, so really, what was I supposed to do?
Why even label it as wrong? I enjoyed it. I reveled in every short-lived second.

I was a monstrosity, a ghoulish infested fiend.
I was a wily rat-faced rodent.
I was ugly.
I was free.

The Beginning To A Better Ending. That's me, the quiet one popping her fingers in the corner. At the moment I'm feeling acutely awkward. I really don't know anyone in this room except for my "x" and his new girlfriend, not exactly prime candidates for conversation.

I notice Austin: six foot four, quarter-inch shaved hair and patches on a bleachedout jacket. Sam persists that he's hilarious but I've yet to hear his German pornstar impression. He mozzies on over to join our circle, plopping down beside me.

I feel the cool of glass pressing against my wristbone. Someone passes me the pipe. I think her name is Minnie but most people calls her Hollywood. I ignite the n

Crucial PerspectiveWho are you to solidify me?
Crisscross vertigo
sloppy, still shameless.

At least it's easier.
Fuck it.
She knew much more than I could say.

Why wait for assistance?
Get on your feet.

____________

( partially.
please don't make me admit it.
she is slamming through my soul;
unfortunate and profound. )

Crucial filament distorting imagery.
She is a tumor
a malignant mound of flesh.

Spoken with idealistic assurance
Promises projected from warped paradigms
She becomes less of what I see, and more of what I know.

Siamese TwinsPremeditated and cultivated, we sculpted a single persona. But alas Sister, gravitational forces wedged something between.
And the split was massive, irreversible division. Tectonic plates erupted into separate continents.

Now it speaks through me, to personify and perhaps justify all that no longer is. May I serve as living proof - half of all that was.

maybe she's too youngAstrid smelled of plums.  It was a gentle scent, emanating wisps of invigorating pleasure.
She smelled glorious, mouthwatering, delicate.  I couldn't resist such an aroma.
She looked so frail.  She had skin stretched across her limbs in flimsy, translucent layers.
I was terrified of touching her, afraid she'd crumple beneath my fingers.

Her lithe, bird bone fingers caressed my blistered calluses.  Astrid then pressed her icy
palms to my aching flesh.  Silly girl, she was trying to comfort me.

It was wrong.  I felt bloated, my chest inflated with conflic

17-180 micrometersWhen we say hairline
understood as human hair
and
in the average of our daily lives would indicate
such a minuscule matter
microscopic width
indifferent distance

But when it becomes
the keen remoteness between your heart and mine
and the
almost warmth of your sure touch on my doubtful skin
I'd rather be at the apex
while you at the bottom of the
Himalayan mountains
where the cold and view of horizon
would help
lessen the longing

But I
I digress
and I
remind myself
of the 17-180 micrometer
demarcation bar
hairline fracture-esque in appearance
yet gargantuan in sensation
You are the maxillary 3rd mo

Full Speed AheadOver fifty years went by for me
like a great kaleidoscope,
full of wonder and adventure.
I think the next fifty will be the same.

i'm all out of needlesi've always had
the sickness to drown
my holocaust bones
in thick wool. even
as summer dawns, making
my skin a mine for real
gold, i am still
head deep under the
fabric
always
adding a layer of dust
so that the world
may get the wrong image of
my working:
wrapped
in perfect
folds.

always half-finishedi can tell you how much i loathe anyone or anything that lingers, even when they're beautiful. my anxiety disorder can't handle any of that. yet it's been one year and one month and i'm still stuck in reverse.

nauseated is the prettiest emotion i've felt so far because for once, i can see an actual physical rejection, rather than these invisible strings snapping on the inside, but never showing even a blemish on the outside.

my screams have begun to ferment as they remain bottled up in what i imagine to be gruesome-colored vials within the shelves of my intestines. each vial must be carrying individual, heart-straining yelps, yelling and so

The Habitual Offender of One-Sided ConversationsAnd it wasn't necessarily gorgeous by definition. I had to carve and cultivate it into something bearable, something manageable.

The steady flow of conversation was easy enough. I kept blabbing about apple orchids and mandarin oranges. Declaring my denouncements for phony people, those poor folks back home.

-

And suddenly I'm wishing to project the immensity of it all. To describe and relate and let go … But I'm fumbling and stuttering and probably should just shut the fuck up.

I stared her straight in those tawny eyes, hacked a phlegm-wad on her forehead. She glinted sliver, her silhouette quivering and rippling into a reflect

Dandelion Winethe dandelion has made its appeal
to wine and whimsy,
but it's plucked-- regardless of nostalgia.

[i am that lion's ragged blooms, and you are the strong winds that blow my meek seeds away, and he-- he is the brawny child pulling me like another weed passe. and there have been other gardeners with hands mortared in black veins by fertile soil, savaging between tame dalmatian tulips and mums the color of fat tabbies embellished by aureate mornings; there have always been these potted plants prettily set as if all of creation planned them so.]

and its roots remain tucked
In the good earth,
flirting with raindrops and shelved reverie.

[i am t

Birth of PoetryI tangled my fingers in the curls of the universe,
pulled. The earth fell out: round, warm, spinning.

Awkward and shy, she wondered how she got here; how
a rock that got wet and grew moss could be significant.

So I scooped her up in my fingers, breathed her scent:

(lilies and oceans and ozone and forests and fish and birds
and whales and rain and the empty elegance in wolf howls)

death and life. I found chaos
and knew beauty.

caring for p(o)etsscribbling down vicious verses on
tissue napkins while seated at
the corner of a sidewalk cafe is
about as romantic, raw and
honest a p(o)et
-outside of the four corners of your bedpost-
can get

if you've got that person dreading over
drafts and dreams on end
-of you, for you-
consider yourself a new owner
it is now time to
tame this p(o)et's perverse mane
you've got your hands on
a fragile purebred
which can be very tricky for
first timers

Salty Meth WoundsMy heart is elastic, a rubber ball slamming against my sternum.
My heart smokes meth, caustic crystals invigorating muscle.
I am an addict.
I couldn't forget the taste, the very essence of metal against epidermis.
That delectable ooze, strawberries and fire.
Rivulets; rubies glimmering.
My blood is thin, watered-down, salty.
Always salty.
My blood is ill, sickened by malnutrition and overcome with anemia.

I am cancerous, addicted to meth, malnutrition and self-mutilation.
I could never forget the feel, the fires of self-indulgence.
The strawbe

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Reality T.V. 3When I did it.

Not in that way but in some way I guess. Not that I wouldn't be part of that "some" 'cause collectively the picture is a puzzle. "Brick by Brick"
The defense is chipping mortar against nuclear weaponry. Wars of atomic unfairness.

"Shoot." A new .38 will never quite satisfy. I want a .48 Magnum, just like daddy. Harley Davidson memorabilia, always in deep burgundy. Overturned motorcycle;
the beast.

Pause. Choking distance into a cough. Existence throttled by concrete outlines. The fury of blurred boundaries.

Yawning precipice. A cliff that wails for desire. "Take the edge off."
Candy composed of sacch

Obliterating Manzanita MemoryAnd I swear, it was just an attempt at bravery. It wasn't childish boasting or bloated pride, not some polished gloating.
We all evolve, why hate someone for it?

Hypocrisy in crisp optical distortions;
stained-glass photography
kaleidoscope mosaic
segmented murals
__________

(we were made of the same Manzanita.)
And I had failed to anticipate the withdrawals, but surely you could see the ugliness of it?
Hysterical flinching fingers splitting into pine, cedar, oh-so-conspicuous redwoods,
craving the scarlet of flaking, sap-sticky bark.

I settled for a splintered tongue and an off-brand of Pinesole.
__________

Finality. Shipwreck

Pounding Laughter, Bellowing HeadachesAnd recently, I've had an idea or two.  Scratch that, comically strategic.  Motherfucker, you did that on purpose.
She just kinda stared at the damned thing.  She looked at it, and curled her lip, and kinda hoped it would go away.

I am not my own.  There is no resonance of purpose.  The gravity of weighted eclipse.
Shadows in the silky black.  Delicate possession.

Abomination; a single seed.
This 'supposed' image of growth.

Inconspicuous, never mention the poison.  Despondent comatose junkie.
It's called a fucking headache, like sleeping
and

The Water Can't Kill Me, I'm Done With My Dying.Shhhhh. It's been the longest time, and really, all I'd like is for it to be quiet.
I know, not exactly brilliant for a first line, but at least it's honest, at least it's true.

Moisture is critical; they refer to us as "slightly parched" individuals. It'd be incorrect to call it spineless, vertebrae protruding though
cactus laughter
haughty
hardy
hatred.

Fairytales of H2O, hydrogen peroxide, liquid sapphire. And it wasn't that I had the audacity to regret such a thing, I simply embellished a few minor details,
perhaps a moralistic outline,
or two.

Mr. Sandman kept uttering about stigmata, about the dehydrated and the damned. H

Christmas Trees and StolichnayaIt's relatively sluggish, awkward as hell. And lately she's been spending just way too much time with herself. Salt-water baths and so many fuckin' Christmas lists it makes me wanna puke. And I've never been a fan of intentional purging but all this holiday cheer is so exhaustingly nauseating that maybe even a mild case of bulimia might release some pressure.

I gulped Stolichnaya straight from the spout, pissing snide remarks about tradition and nostalgia. And she may have been the Russian princess, but me, I was the ice queen. I was poison envisioned as beauty. My frosty glan

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Reality TV 6

by ~EmaciatedandEpitaphs, Jul 15, 2012, 4:03:37 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

Resilience?  Hah, don't make me laugh.
It's turning into dreamland again.  A blur of
I-don't-care-what-the-fuck-happens.
Sidestepping reality.

Ponderosa pines, mountain's misery
Manzanita.
Shockwaves, thresholds
Log cabins.

Stare into me.  Grisly
And shaken.

I feel her reaching for me.  A scream
Sonic booms
The speed of sound
Emptiness unfurling from my fingers.

Reality TV 6by ~EmaciatedandEpitaphs

Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

I am weaker than I have ever felt myself. Slower. Crippled. Incompetent.
Anxious

Less of what I’ve anticipated, more of what I understand.
Incorrigible lust - I want what I need.

I feel less, more or less just underestimate. It seems less like failure.
More pleasurable, less demanding. Hesitant, still softly inside me.

( less is more )

love 1 1

~~joy 0 0~~

~~wow 0 0~~

~~mad 0 0~~

~~sad 0 0~~

~~fear 0 0~~

~~neutral 0 0~~

!travelgirlxx Jan 11, 2013

So raw. So beautiful in its pain.

~chrysalis-of-glass Aug 14, 2012 Student General Artist

Incredibly beautiful writing, and there is so much raw emotion in this. I think we all feel like that; I certainly know that I can relate, from time to time.

You'll be alright.

*0hgravity Jul 23, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

"Stare into me. Grisly
And shaken."
and the last line I liked the most.

it is all sparse yet revealing. interesting write.

~winterkate Jul 23, 2012 Student Writer

There's some really gorgeous language in here - I like it.

`vespera Jul 20, 2012 Hobbyist Writer

A blur of
I-don't-care-what-the-fuck-happens.
Sidestepping reality. *sigh*

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Reality TV 6

Reality TV 6by ~EmaciatedandEpitaphs

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