We end up regretting the things we don't do.

Sunday, 22 November 2009

  • (32 of 90)

    my immune system is M.I.A. 
    i lost her somewhere back in the waves
    after the walls caved in,
    gravitating toward each other

    in a foreign place, now
    i miss her, california, the sun and the sand and the sex
    under helicopter search lights
    in parks, behind trees
    bare ass slapping
    while the moon watches
    and we make love like planets make stars

    it's too damn cold
    to strip down to our bones
    in missouri's winter breeze

    we must settle for a bed
    a car, couch, floor, wall
    (walls)

    and hope to god they don't decide to move i(o)n.




Saturday, 21 November 2009

  • panacea (31 of 90)


    my stomach turns as i slip into chalk white skin,
    eyes blotted out with numbers
    i beckon, taunt, and pull at him
    flaunting side-effects and promise
    of taking away the edge
    heartbreak brings
    leaving numb limbs
    and journals filled with smeared blue ink
    the blood of a writer, of an artist,
    of a man searching
    for the pieces of himself
    he swears he lost (she stole) 
    and i want nothing but to help him see
    they're there,
    at the bottom of this bo(dy)ttle

    [they're there].
  • 30 of 90

    i dream of long pearly teeth
    fangs like his words, arranged
    in perfect symmetry

    they draw blood like the sunrise
    against my skin
    reminding me of california
    and the pacific tides,
    how they consume
    all negative thoughts
    but leave you
    capsized on peril sands.

    i dream of ways to catch the moon as i fall
    out in space, dissipated and raw,
    afraid of those long pearly teeth
    made up of his words, piercing two perfect holes
    in the side of my slender, olive neck.

    they draw blood.
    (i'm alive)






Friday, 20 November 2009

  • shine (29 of 90)

    there are days when the sun is a burden
    it creeps onto these pages and wipes away
    all letters, thoughts, and ideas
    clever as they may be
    they can never win a fight with big orange

    there are days when i stop
    place my hands into pockets
    and wander around the great halls of this world
    in search for something i will never know
    nor ever find

    today i am sore
    from tightly bound stories erected
    by fellow wandering souls, in need of an escape
    route, a backroad to a place
    somewhat like home.

    today i am not afraid of silence, echoes
    of a breaking heart, of my fear
    these things have already consumed me countless
    friday afternoons, heavy with the dread
    of another  sad weekend spent curled up in bed.

    today, i am bare against the skyline, big orange
    casting shadows on my bones,
    defining gorgeous possibility
    and what it means to finally heal.

Thursday, 19 November 2009

  • (28 of 90)



    bare trees blanket the skyline now, stretching
    thin limbs to mars
    waiting for me to spew something wondrous
    but i refuse

    i refuse to tell you what you want to hear
    because you beg and plead for it
    because you say you need to hear me profess
    something lively, something hollow
    about the way your face shines
    at night, with the covers pulled tight
    around your neck

    they say to live like you're dying
    to lie and lie and lie and lie
    but have you been with the wasting?
    you won't find wild life there,
    only sad depressed expressions
    and eyes pleading for false, fiery words. 

    instead, i bring you biased honesty
    about the way your cerulean eyes (always cerulean)
    make my heart palpitate
    in ways doctors can never understand

    and how your lips move to form dreams and sentences
    made of golden thoughts, philosophy and brilliance

    how you keep my feet moving
    every day i can't bring myself to meet
    another damn sunrise.


    (this is all you get in 90 seconds... had to stop before i was finished =P) 

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

  • we are all carpenters here (27 of 90)


    it seems things break in sets of four,
    the good things that support the life we live
    deteriorate like normal structures
    weathered with age and time and karma
    with rust as the only warning sign
    of what happens when we forget
    to care and love and dream
    of ways to maintain
    instead of watching
    as our homes collapse,
    our hopes fall,
    and we are left
    to rebuild
    castles
    into threadbare shacks.



    Currently
    Opaline
    By Dishwalla
    see related

Monday, 16 November 2009

  • 26 of 90

    i try to write their story, our story, my story
    the one about death, love, and war
    illusions of the mind
    controlled by the heart

    i wait for the words to arrange themselves
    into something spectacular, but they jumble
    into a mess of hope and letters
    smeared across another wasted page

    and my characters look at me with confusion
    as to why they are no longer speaking, feeling, changing
    why i now hide myself behind 90 seconds
    of pointless poetry
    instead of bringing them back to life
    before they die again. 

    so i lie to them, to quiet them, giving promise
    of one day going back and carving them into something beautiful
    memorable, something real and alive

    like the pain i feel inside, every damn time
    i sit down to write
    their story, our story, my story
    the one about death, love, and war
    the one that reveals how

    the mind believes what the heart wants it to.

Saturday, 14 November 2009

  • 25 of 90

    i start my days with hot showers and grinding hips,
    locking doors, unlocking corridors
    full of dread and the bitter taste of her
    constant complaining, another damn
    gnat that won't leave assumption
    alone.

    i enter codes and log special things
    under letters and numbers, with sloppy
    illiterate signatures
    full of repetition and the sweet taste
    of twelve hours finally fading
    into another gorgeous
    sunday. 


    (so frustrated with writers block these past few days.  and work.  oh yes, work.)

Friday, 13 November 2009

  • 24 of 90

    some nights my mind is too fatigued
    to give the creepy crawlies much emotion

    they try to scare, scare, scare
    as i lie perfectly still and watch
    his paper skin turn to hair and teeth and mean
    mean sounds
    as my lungs implode into a mess
    pandoras chest
    chest
    chest
    chest

    of repetitive failed attempts to keep
    keep breathing,
    echoing
    past present future
    grasps on what could be reality

    but in the morning, it's just me and lost dreams
    sinking into swollen bones and yellow, egyptian cotton sheets.

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

  • shopkeeper (23 of 90)

    every day i pace a seven thousand square foot cell,
    lined with green bars and gawking, wrinkled faces
    for twelve hours, every day
    i am without sunshine, only steel doors
    and long corridors
    phones that never stop
    ringing
    feet that never stop
    moving
    my orange jump suit
    is made of denim and sweat,
    twenty-two years pouring
    running a little prison of my own, with boxes
    and treasures, and attractive entrapment
    while my smile hangs
    affixed with epoxy.

    why, it's what makes the world go round. 

    --x--
    (i go back to school january 11th... how i will run a store at the same time, and write two novels-- yes, illusions, along with the book of poetry, is back on the table-- baffles me)


fallingingreen

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    • Name: Rhiannon
    • Country: United States
    • State: Missouri
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    • Birthday: 9/25/1987
    • Gender: Female
    • Member Since: 7/5/2004
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About Me

  • Mystery. Learning. We all have our trials and tribulations; it's how we deal with them that helps define the person we are. When it all comes crashing down, it's either laugh or cry... and, personally, I'd rather laugh. Because life goes on...

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