The Oracle’s Metamorphosis

I don’t feel like a human much anymore.
An empty that has become so familiar one would think you were always this way.
Not a single care to finish what I start because I learned that all ends the same.
Is this depression? Is this enlightenment?
I do not feel concerned, feeling very little as I write.
Not a word moves me, not a tear quakes me.
I stare forward, blank, and mildly irritated.
Do not wrap your arms around me in pity, do not rub my back and say you love me. I do not want love; I find no solace in your words of affection.
I desire only shallow things now, my dreams now a dress I have packed at the bottom of a chest and hid in the attics of my mind.
On the exhale, I feel solid, just as I do on the inhale.
No visions when I close my eyes, no pleasure envelops me as I smile.
I’m so small.
Like a child in the palm of a hand, curling up close, trying to stay warm.
I am the Eskimo, alone in their hut, wrapped tight in animal skins, knees pulled to my chest.
The world is but a rose petal held to the light, veins and intricacies with an opaque shield behind, hiding a word I will never quite know.
And I stare blankly at the world before me, unphased by it’s detail, taken aback by its predictability.
I take my pairs of hands up to my ears, my mouth, and my eyes, cloaking all in voluntary night.
And with that, a grin carves into my stomach and opens wide to laugh grimly.
I stifle a chuckle at its absurdity and we both embrace ignorance as one being.
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I don’t need a fucking therapist

I only find solace in the deep repertoires and intricate folds of my bygone brain
I like to curl up like a pillbug and feel my breath, shaky, blow down my calves and thighs, leaving trickles of condensed sweat after the 34th exhale
My dreams are empty, when I finally shut my left side down, because the right has been hammered and tinkered and tossed into an alley more times than I can count
.
For this and for that, pertains to what, when and, why…
People make no sense to me as they question the asphalt and the dirty gray skies in hopes of tearing the dark apart with their endless inquiries
.
I watch these silly scholars and gold-trimmed caps go about, rushing, with expensive silken robes and half-chipped spectacles
Rolls of scrolls and skull-thick books spewed across the floor and in their hands, their clean, silken, soft white hands
I wonder, too, what they find solace in, always running about like that
.
But in the pit of my ignorance, I feel no need for answers, I am safe
I feel nothing but dark and cool air with my hot breath and the sound of my incessant heart beating
.
Here, I am well-kept. Here, I am relaxed
For I only find solace in the deep repertoires and intricate folds of my long-dead, bygone brain.

I am the Wind.

I am the wind.

They all know I have many I love.

As I dance through their hair.

And whisper sweet-nothings into their ears.

For only a moment, we are close, we are one.

Until I leave them breathless, reaching out with mouth agape before their arms slowly fall back to their sides.

They know I have an agenda, a life not subservient to theirs.

A life of adventure and rush and joy and I will not wait for no one.

So all they have left is to smile at our memories, a mutual understanding.

And on certain blustering days, I find my way back to their hair.

And decorate it with tangles of sweet, fickle memory.

Twisted

She soft like the sheets beneath my skin so I press my face into her and breathe her in
.
Intoxicating, so damn invigorating
My fingers fly into a frenzy with a desire to dig deep into her sides and hear her squeal
.
To feel her beneath me, squirming under my grip
The light of the window pane shining sharp into her bloodshot eyes
Tears and snot and purple lips
.
I bury my face into her chest and look up into her eyes.
She’s crying, god she’s crying.
Sobbing between gasps of anesthesia, eyes rolling back, struggling to stay awake.
.
And I fucking love it.

Ambrosia

Like slivers cut from soft soap moons
Shower down like the gentlest of hail
Lightly flickering eyes, fireflies, fire dies
.
To breathe past the smoke and contamination
A flutter of fear is born within the sleeping, heaving chest of the dreaming
I cannot venture past the hazy woods for nothing is what lies past
.
Eyes yellow, green, black, blue
Bruises on my heart, mud on your shoe
Hold me tight, o’ strange foreign god
And let me unfold the cloth bound tight ’round your eyes
.
Crave and carry, a corpse box upon me
You are the sullen, silent breath that hurts me so
I desire nothing but to crush your heart and soul, but wander here no longer
.
Goodnight moon, goodnight stars
Goodnight Venus, goodnight mars
Goodnight, goodnight, goodnight

Autumn: Soft Wake Ups

Magic things like cinnamon spells and sugared witch’s kisses that decorate your head and neck and ankles
Like little pools of pristine water lakes dusted with specks of golds and coppers and deep, burning reds
Hands wrapped in knitted ribbons, mingling their warmth with crisp, cool air, cheeks blotted bright red with the last of summer’s readied roses
Billowing gusts and whispering drafts that make their way through the window and past the house, carrying an air of memory on their lips
How the world dances sweetly under the soft glow of the sugar moon, sweeping the ends of her day and night dress over the sky with every spin and step and graceful twirl
The sun is but a visitor here, watching impatiently as the fog and ice and stillness clasp their hands together and frolic lightly onto the tips of fingertips and noses
Midnight hours and fairy-tales and desires to kiss the moon bless the dreams of all who listen very closely
Warm and wholesome meals to eat, hearty suppers and plump, soft sweets fill the bellies of the happy and the joyful, the plucky and the merry
And so like little pools of pristine water lakes, a glimmering time is born into the hands of dreamers all alike in smile and thought
With magic things like cinnamon spells and witch’s kisses to plague you gently in the kindest way during every autumn night and every autumn day

A Young God’s Reprimands

I loved him past the tears he shed upon my head that drowned me in a sticky sort of web.
I would hold my arms up to reach his face and whisper for him to open his eyes and we would gaze silently into each other’s abyss.
When he would float too far past the Milky Ways and nebulas, I would be his tether back to Earth, ready to accept him back home.
I just…love him so much. I wanted to see him always well.
I would take his tears, his pains, his fears, I would take it all if it meant him breathing fresh air for only just a few moments, if meant him sleeping sound for just one more night.
But now, I am the regret and disgust left in shambles on his doorstep, ready for the mailman to ship me back to space where I will bite the nubs of my nails clean off my fingers in confusion and frustration for a thousand more light years to come.
If I loved too deeply, why was I not pulled up before my oxygen tank ran out?
If I cared too much, why feed me more and more honeycombs from your dead, rotten fingers?
But I may just overestimate myself too much, darling.
Perhaps, in your eyes, I was not enough to quench your inquisitive values, your fairytales of water-walking men, and perfect matrimony.
You have taunted my urge for perfection so much that you never realized your own imperfection in your lust for something so unreal and unobtainable.
Gods, how I hate the feeling of sweetly-dipped memories we shared, of tongue against tongue, forbidden fruit to mouth.
How lucky you are, child of hell, that you were given the power to taste my every feature with your eyes and your mouth, the very first might I add and-
No, no, no; this is not about you so hush your seething, forked tongue before I pull your ill-grown teeth right out your jaws with my fathers’ rusted pliers.
You evil little snake, devil of a man who crept into my temple and ravished the bodies of my oracles, I curse your very existence as you plague my origins with your depravity.
I see you, seeking out the freshest of the batch, tugging the robes from their shoulders and biting their necks while calling them ‘kisses’. The way you look into their eyes as you forget the goodness in your heart and take, and take, and take.
You spineless, coward, little, insignificant waste of breath, how I wish to snuff your light out, but your candle’s wick is far too stubborn to bend for any love of yours, too stubborn to even tilt for me.
May your bow-legged limbs stretch to the farthest ends of earth and snap and shatter into pieces you will never find.
May your jaws become weak, just like the teeth inside, and become unhinged for eternity, the same way you do when you lusted for my body.
And may your mind, yes your mind, become consumed by the ghosts of my oracles as I feast upon the remains of your shambled corpse for you are my greatest love and deepest hate and no one deserves to experience you but me.

Mail Another Death Black Threat

Disgusting colors dress your face
Unmatched, mispatched gallons of paint
To be poured upon your grave and all those who near it
Shall know your filthy and unclean spirit
.
Empty voice in life and quiet tomb in death
A name no whisper would ever love or ever be kept
On golden records, stacking 5′ something high
No lover shall adorn it, no, not even I
.
To sweep out the dust from under your bed
Crumpled tissues, all used, my god, what a mess
The paralyzed kittens lay in creaks of your desk
Once shimmering promises lie, but now’s just regret
.
The unsightly chipped feature of your roaring beast creature
Always hot and bothered, steam pouring from its orfices
Musty old smells fill the throat where we sat
Where you once held my throat and made out in the back
.
Can’t hush these lips no longer with your pietous lies
Your senses must be dulled so wash out your eyes
Under the earth is where you lay, under your god, becoming the fray
.
And so please rise, oh galliant believers
Weeping as pedophilic priests do say,
“Here lies the body of What’s-his-face
And here stands his most beautiful and unforgiving mistake”

Eclipsing

I feel the earth turn slowly in my favor,
and the moon and sun become mute,
to face the universe with a new found purpose,
and accept its flaws in whole.
From Pluto, to Mercury, to every galaxy in our cluster,
from what lies beyond the present and eternity,
extend your arms to grasp the entirety of creation,
lest it be living, dead, or so on,
and turn every particle to a being of light,
so that it beams and gleams and sparkles.
Thus when the time acceptance comes to an end,
and the earth returns to its steady course,
the sun and moon shall yawn their gifts upon our tiny world,
so life shall, again, march on.

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