Breaking Through□□□ T E A R □□□□□□□□□□□□□ D O W N □□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□ E A C H □□□□□□□□□□□□□W A L L □□□□
Sense MemoryI developed taste.We lost touch.
Short and SweetPainting cardinalsThe artist is unawareOf her own beauty
WondermentSome days, I find myself counting the s e c o n d s and the thump thump thump of my heart and pondering quietly what I could have should have would have said were I better braver stronger and a lot l e s s like me but all I can manage now is . . . . . . . I'm sorry I miss you I love you i love you i love you
Dear DeathDeath, your schedules are a messAnd your timing nonethelessYou touch people I careAbout but one you keep to spareThe one who's in coma for weeksWith pale skin and hollow cheeks.But still lifeless sleep blocksNot all the epileptic shocks.Death, why don't you end this pain?Even if she wakes againA fighter she's notThe drugs and pills are all she's got.While she hovers life goes onHer husband tries to be strongTo prepare a lifeHe has to live without his wifeDeath, your delay gives me hellShe is merely more than a shellThe muscles decreaseIs it selfish to ask for peace?
Purpose.Purpose.What would a story be?If there was no one there to read it.What would dreams be?If there was no one there to conceive it.What would a picture be?If there was no one there to see it.What would a secret be?If there was no one there to keep it.What would love be?If there was no one there to feel it.What would a song be?If there was no one there to sing it.What would the truth be?If there was no one there to admit it.What would advice be?If there was no one there to give it.What would life be?If there was no one there to live it.Kela Lewis-Morin
On Platonic LoveThat love is beautiful,The apple on the tree,Which endures every famine,Yet lets the apple be.That love is plentiful,The sea that hugs the shore,Which meets solely at the brink, Yet returns ever more.That love is contentful,The twine of You and Me, Which clasp our eternal strings,Yet ne'er to become We.
flightless words and paper heartsearly mornings drizzled with requiemsfor the dreams I didn't haveleave me hollow,weightless,and weightedall at once.the hollow resides in my bones -I nestle my head in ungracious kneesand wraploose gripped arms around me.but heat never finds me,never graces myweak spine with a kissand I ache.my head is full of weightlessas words mull and lose their meaning.and I write.and I write.but, flightless words look uglywhen they crash into my paperafter spilling fromempty bones.and weighted eyes strain to seefighting, blinking,attempting to lure words withstrings that dangle fish hooksdown the back of my throat.my voice is scarred, my eyes are tired,and I wonder what they whisperwhen they catch you in their stare.because my brain is keeping secrets from me - I can't remember the dreams that bruise my womb and punch out my paper heart.but when nightmares aren't separatedfrom dreams in your vocabulary,maybe you deserve a mindof deceitand a he
Variable TruthI do not know my futureI cannot see the vagaries ofTime's tidesThe ebbs and flows elude meYet, for all the uncertaintiesin all the chaos ofdistance traveledtime spentandsouls lost andgained,there is one string that I can followone thread that shines for me andthrough methat pulses in time with my heartYoursI swear, even across this expansethis eternityI can almost seeyou
StarlightI walk along a road of dreamspaved withexpectations andwishesstepping on stones of starry-eyedwonderandregretalive for all my failings andcontent for my lack of fulfillmentalways uplifted and upliftingupon this winding, wendingslow-spiral upwardsTreading on hope and faith with whatgraceI can manageas awash in lucidityas the stellar nurseries of mychildhoodWould you believe that I saw it all with myheart,not my eyes?
justit started out as a message of honest to god tearshonest to god honestyand she was saying she was saying she wasa mistake and we were we were mistakingmeaningless signs for road signs to somewhere wherethe great elsewhereand a qu-quiet whisper-per transformedtwisted twisted and bent and bled andher voice her voice became this monster this monster offeedback and static and feedback and feedback and heartache(the sound of heartache rips the space between your ears till you are nothing left but lightness and heaviness all in one space all in one spaceand you can't breathe you can't breathe you can't fucking breathe or hear or see or taste a goddamn thing)it was all noise noise noise noise no-oise-sebouncing in the fissures of a love-torn mindand it was it was the sensation of falling awaythen the greatness of the jumbled sounddissipated like a f o gandyou saw along the path w
Messsage in a bottleSometimes people cry out for help,I think we all have witnessed it,We watch them break,We watch their tears,And we see something in their eyes,The last piece of hope,The hope that as well could be a message in a bottle.Who will ever know if someone noticed that tiny little bottle in the ocean,Or if they did,Did they pick it up?I have seen a lot of bottles in my time,And most of the time I pick them up,But I notice quite a few times I don´t,It is like they become invisible,Even if they scream loudly right in front of you,I think something is wrong,Why do we leave the bottle in the ocean?I clearly can see they need help,And I see it,I really do,How can you pretend not to?
words for the anxiousinescapable fingers curled cage upon her facelips, red and parted, shine through phalangeal barsgentle nostril flair as she expels airand inhalesfluttering hair draped, touching tangled thoughts draining darkness creeps up her throat , encompassingher whole being to shake muscles aching and tensed bymuffled murmurs (indecipherable, unimportant)her trembling chingiving in to terror of some unknown threat still present and reflected in wet eyestears trapped in surface tension shimmergasp over the lump in her throat obstacles for oxygenmind is losinglost
and we wondered how she spends her daysmost days, she is afraid to be.some days, she looks into the sky and sees herself fallingand then ceasing to be."one day" she says, "one day I will beafraid to bedead."
nonsensefake and finethe fucking farce--frenching fallacies is fancied philosophyfor fatherless fools.
Between Heaven and HellEveryone has a story to tellThe time and place the falls from grace.We all walk at our own paceforever attempting to win the illusionary race.So I took the time, to sit and rewind....granted pause to the cause, reflections of the mind.Years upon years slowly drifted on by...Journeys left behind slumbering alongside the road of unknown,collecting dirt and debris, anxiously awaiting to be set free, but could not flee...no one to save me and turn the key.Everything has a time and a place within the enchanted space.A story to tell of heaven and hell...Realise this upon states of bliss,In the beginning we all fell--in the end we all shall fall.Can no longer ignore the ancient call.
DisintegratingI was never one of the birds,Just silly enough to look into the skyAnd pretend.There's a man I know; he's forgotten a piece of himself, I think.He says he can't fold the butterflies anymore.He's lying, I promiseAnd I love him anyway.I never understood him when he said I was made of soot.The hurricane boy's at my window again. HeComes to me late at night and taps on the glass."The weather is so lovely this evening," he tells me.I go outside and he trades me his rainwater tearsFor all the beats my heart has skipped.He keeps them in manilla envelopes and hides themUnder his bed.I've become addicted to the dreaming, to make-believing I'm blind and deaf for a little while.It's starting to be too difficult for me to tell which is wakingAnd which is sleeping any longer.My chronic day-dreamingIs getting worse. I can't even remember them, and I'm losing trackOf the days.Maybe if I close me eyesFor just a few minutes more.