It doesn’t care about the lives it grinds under the treads
I’ve wasted it and it’ll lay me to waste
It’s big
It’s bitter
It hurts to swallow
But it goes down regardless
Whether you’re ready or not
It goes down and won’t come back up
Dissolving into the blood stream, it will cycle on repeat
It’ll pull at your heart strings but it won’t turn the hands of a clock
If your footing can be found, you’re in business- if not, around and around
Can’t stop, won’t stop until you gain ground and turn around, moving forward
__
For me, I feel it’s over and there is not a way around the long trek back home
My feet hurt from pacing back and forth without a sense of direction
Fighting to understand why my self-worth is dwindling and my opinion invested in others
People tell me that I am awesome. People say that I am sweet.
But I can’t keep promises to myself. I don’t like this person when we’re alone.
Influencia
Wish my influence would show like a neon glow, turn the lights on, hold them up to the light and see the students glow when you flip the switch downwards. If you could spray people with a fine mist of unsmelly liquid and turn the lights off so someone could see who’ve they touched and who they haven’t- need to work on finding the formula.
Why I cried out randomly at 12:12
Sometimes, staring at the ceiling, thinking about my life, it touches me. Mortality touches me. Or should I say Lady Death pulls back the veil and I see the ultimate possibility of my life. Nothing. I believe in nothing and therefore nothing will follow when I die. The weight of this discovery…nonexistent. Instead it falls, it all falls inward, it all is a black hole.
Chair
haven’t been writing lately. decided I would write about a chair until I wanted to stop. Then work got in the way. WELL anywho, here ya go.
There wasn’t another chair like it. You could buy the base, you could buy the exact chair it was years ago but it wouldn’t be the same. If you did buy another one “like” it, you’d be disappointed. Funny how people will covet the worn out threads of the working man and opt for the washed out jeans in some drive to match their attire. But they didn’t earn it. You see jeans pre-ripped and shirts pre-sliced like the race wants to dress up in costume every day and doesn’t mind spending a dollar or fifty on something ripped without a story. “I bought this” not “I made it this way” or “The funniest thing happened”. When did manufactured time elaspses become so popular?
The chair wouldn’t care about this nonsense. The chair would sit and be a chair. Though now it is so much more. The person who sat in that chair, the stoic man with brittle bones who led so many strays from the flock to victory is now dead. He taught them how to earn a living and earn it the right way. He taught youngsters to center themselves and ignore friends and pressures from family. The man is now dead but the chair remains.
Where is this chair going to go? This is the reason for the current discussion.
Thoughts Not Words is another project for my Artist Books class at MICA. It is a coptic stitch book with envelopes as pages. Each page is addressed to someone in my life, but not by name. Inside there are small notes of thoughts that I mean say to them at some point, but either haven’t had the courage or haven’t felt it was the right time.
(via fuckyeahbookarts)
Was and Now
Was flat
and now
I’ve folded.
Was a puddle
but now
I’m muddled.
Was sharp
and now
I’m gutted.
It seems
that I’m
now screwed.
White Lillian: Part One
Lily grabbed her softest bunny and Harley clutched his favorite car.
It was a 1955 Ford Thunderbird Convertible. Harley repeated this fact repeatedly under his breath, a low whisper.
Lily’s ears twitched as his constant mantra buzzed about her.
“Keep quiet Harley. We aren’t supposed to talk or it won’t work.”
Her little brother kept chanting.
Their parents touched their shoulders, the signal to advance to the platform where the rift hovered.
Kneeling carefully onto the soft grass, Lily made sure not to muddy up her dress. Her head lowered in reverence and she spoke the words of offering.
When I drink, I …
I’m self-destructive, but not explosive. Well, rarely. Spirits have been known to gang up and strip away the restraints biting into my conscience. Fist break out like probes trying to understand the landscape. They’ve found lust, anger and overall all over pain.
Did you know blood can boil and the brain get fried? Too many drinks, too many laughs, too much curiosity lingering in the hands. Next day is sloppy seconds but it slowly pulls into reverse with minimal cranial carnage. A headache. Hair of the dog. Right as rain.
Until next time.
Every now and then
Maybe it was the way the wind felt or the pounding in my head but everything was pulsing, throbbing, barely living. No movement, no steps forward, no upward climb. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Nothing but beating, pounding, relentless, rhythmic. Flashes of insect mandibles, chewing and crushing and squeezing. Feelings of disgust rose under my lungs, shoved my guts down until I thought I’d shit my pants.
This is what the fear is like.
When I was little, images of decapitates bodies, fingers being cut off and legs being chopped at with axes would flash through my mind. Each one would be resolved with glue or tape, bringing the pieces back together again. Stopping the blood flow. Making it look reasonable and believable though it would slump over and rot in the mean time, in my mind in real time fashion.
That is what the calm was like.
A Bite: House sit
In afterglow they took rest and let beating hearts sink into their chests as they took long breaths. The ceiling pulsed, fan blades twirled.
She pushed up onto her elbows and felt her sore shoulder muscles burn. The breezy conditions caused a lick of cold to lay up her thigh and to her crotch.
“Oh shit,” she whispered, turning slowly off the bed and landing on her feet beside the bed.
A stain on the bed, a faint pink but blazing on the white sheet. It stared at her. She stared back.
“You always make me bleed, damnit.” The right corner of her lips curled in a smirk.
He looked over at the blemish on the bed and rolled off, pulling at the corners.
“Let’s get it off and get it clean.”
Down the stairs, careful to take it slow, to make sure she didn’t roll down into a flurry of bruises and pain.
They decided they would flip the mattress. Blood and lubrication had seeped through the sheet onto the mattress.
The Lovegoods would be back that afternoon, fresh from vacation and ready to cuddle with their two dogs.
She passed the pups, laying in their crates in the dining room.
Nothing was left on the sheet after a quick application of stain remover and a furious scrub. Water shot out in streams as the washer loaded. A smack emitted as the cold metal lid fell.
Up the stairs to the guest bedroom, sure with the feet, she crept across the carpeted floor.
Inside the room, he was packing.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“They’re here.”
“So?”
His pace didn’t slow. Veins on his head were pulsing.
“Calm down,” she half-whispered. “I can explain that I needed you here to clean up.”
It seemed that all his clothes had been gathered. Her arms fell beside her side and her gaze scanned the room. She started to pack, looked outside. The Lovegood’s little girl was playing in the yard, parents sleepily gathering luggage onto the sidewalk.
Picking up her one bag, already packed (except for her discarded clothing), the pink stain stared at her.
“You didn’t even flip the bed.”
“NO!”
His finger dug into her wrist and she pulled from him. Without thought, her hand stung as it slapped him hard against the cheek, sending him backward.
In a mood of defiance and sense of right, the mattress was lifted. Inside she saw what he feared. It stood on her hands like a massive jaw being pried open. She hadn’t expected to see carnage within. Blood splatter and darker bits and lighter bits embedded in the soft fibers.
She dropped it, gasping, stifled screams. The washer began to agitate the detergent down stairs. It churned and sputtered, like her guts at present.
Calm, collected, but fearful eyes located her clothing and got dressed.
She didn’t know what awaited her downstairs.
“Oh Alice, we’re back from our vacation!,” Mrs. Lovegood exclaimed.
NMR: Done
365 micros are done. Time to sort through it all. I’m late getting it done…but it’s done and many of the micros are reminders of what I’ve gone through. A post about highlights, reflections and what not will come later. For now, I sort through the rubble.
Until Next Time
Sky rushed up and the ground fell, skull cracked on the old stone below.
Warmth from my chest spurted out from the bullet wound.
Heart beat filled my ears, it raced and slowed and muffled the world.
Footsteps sounded like turns of the page.
Challenger looked down, lowered onto his haunches and stared into my chest.
“Any last words now that you’ve fallen?”
Chest tightened with the flood of blood.
“An honor to fight. An honor to die. I did neither alone.”
He hit the ground.
“Not fair.”
“Who read you the rules?”
We died with smirks on our faces.
may peace find me
A year down the road, she thought.
A year and she still felt like she was circling a drain.
Down from a foggy top, a chain ran down and met her grasp. It was comprised of friends and family, holding on to each other to hold on to her.
They held her with their eyes. There she was safe. There she was protected.
But she needed to break away. She needed them to blink her away for awhile.
So she spit in their eye (it was all she could think to do) and she swam away.
“May peace find me.”
