crazynoodle22

Tiny little boxes Each filled up with words that no one else will see. Words about the truth and words about me. Violent awakenings of all the things You shouldn't say, And shouldn't think. All the things I've wrapped in twine and leaves And buried by the creek. All the things I let die on my lips Instead of setting free with my tongue. The lies and the realities that could set me free. But don't, and maybe never will. The things we have been taught to throw away the key to. The important things. All gone. Under earth and out of ears where only lies belong.

As we plow the length and breadth, I am forever afraid that we might crack; Might slip. That we may find our pieces Sliding out From the footholds we once held and The perch where we once sat With our wings tucked up and under, Feathers puffed up against the wind. Oh how that wind now blows And howls a gale through the openings in our soul. Do you feel that we might crumble? Or are you stoic to the last? Holding in what words might tumble And clutching at those feelings past. You were a rain cloud once. Moving slow and sluggish across my sky And I, the wilted flower Only yearned to bask in your storm. The storms have past

You came in the flood like a bedraggled spirit Chattering Shivering And soaked through your skin. You offered me nothing Spoke only drowned words. You lay at my feet Barren. Wasted. But never did you beg shelter from me. I took you in and washed you dry I clothed you in skin And wrapped you in arms. I murmured to you with buttoned lips Sung words with my heart beat And the thrum of my soul. Through the silence We grew In the mist of the rain and the tumult, Stoic and humble We twined limb by limb. Upwards. Forwards. It is only together that we mend. To perish, to flourish. All the same in the end.

They call you the illusionist Master of tricks and blinding grace I am at your whim As I watch your hands drift and form grim shapes. They are the makers of my doom The specter I hold dear. At their touch I find reprieve At their absence, I am lost. Absolution. That is what I seek But their solemnity is broken by the push of harsh reality. How they twist and change; Those eloquent fingers now gnarled and garish Talons and claws burst forth from flesh. As the curtain slips and the mirage begins to fade The facade finally shows it's cracks. Oh, dear beauty. Now your only mask.

She slept for three days. Fitfully at first, her breast heaving with the weight of bad dreams, eyelids dancing like possessed demons on a fiery hearth while the life in her ebbed and flowed, unsure as to whether it wanted to retreat or stay put. He would watch her fit and spasm, looking broken like a sparrow caught in a hurricane; smooth her feathery hair when it became tangled and stood up, as if possessed with the spirit of a dancing serpent. When she lay still he would apply the cold compress to her immaculate brow, pressing gently to expel its cool moistness, turning it when her fevered skin would melt that coolness to damp warmth. He sl

She was beautiful. He could lose every part of himself in those pale green eyes. Those eyes, that held all the sadness of the world in their watery depths. He loved her, knowing full well that she may never look upon him with a  love in equal. She was hard. So much harder than he. Made tough by circumstance And cold, by a relentless rain. She was a rock from which he could dredge no blood. Yet in rare moments she would unbridle herself; When glimpsing true beauty she would begin to weep. It was then that he wished that he could bottle those tears and keep them. A tiny vile filled with white hot noise. Remenants of a heart that s

My heart felt some things probably mean nothing And I am more than willing to admit that I am romanticizing things that do not exist I want to be open and loving. Accepting. Sometimes I even want to be a normal girl. But normalcy was never my strong suit Nor something towards I particularly strived. I feel I can be a thorn in the side. An itch unscratchable. I feel I am burdensome in my anxiety and my woes That usually I keep so bottled up inside. Hence why they seem to come bubbling out at the most inopportune of times. Such a lovely life I lead And yet within me there is almost no capacity to be grateful for what I have. All I