In Flames

My attempt at art :)

Soft Side Sanctum

There is no cure for love
but to love more.

I found solace in hatred.
I wallowed in the pit of formidable wrath
for so long...
that looking hopeful was natural
but believing in hope,
was only between the pages,
of hardworn hardcovers.
I covered my heart with those pages,
writing each line into my memory,
making, normal, fantasy.
I needed to live in the divine.

Today,
I don't feel so  divine.
The pages have discolored and the appeal
isn't so great as it was when my heart was smaller
when my mind needed the sheer protection.
Today,
I feel like facing my cruelty.
my hatred,
my locked solid fortification,
that takes no responsibility for cause and effect.
And tomorrow,
I will listen at least as much as I confront,
because I remember when I was not heard.
I can hear the pained etchings when I shut people out
and the pain is mine to bear now, too.
I have to let that in to be real.

The novel pages aren't substantial enough anymore.

Tomorrow, and thereafter
I must experience the world with others
and accept that I am unique enough.
That it does not make me valid.
That I may be valid
simply  by my ability to
love and be loved.
Because, after all, that is the only real thing
that can be lived for

Old

Why are you so afraid of going to sleep
The dull drawl lulls her as the voice chatters on
"why....why...Why?!?"
Could it possibly be you're afraid of that five minutes you'll have to stop...be still. Hear what I have to say for five seconds.  
Switches the computer screen, the image has remained there for too long and she becomes bored. Or rather, she becomes anxious. Boredom is foreign.
HEY...so remember that time this song came on and you were walking down the road with Re and she just started dancing. You were so enamored, you wanted to dance right along with her but instead you looked away and laughed. You loved her so much in that moment. Go ahead and smile...that's peace. For however long you can hold onto it. And then...ohohoh -remember that time we passed this road and you were screaming at him in your head. All locked up tight and shouting through the silence. I was shouting...YOU were silent. But I guess he figured it out after a while...all the shouting finally came out. Maybe that could have been avoided.
The screen moves again and for an hour the silence is prevalent only to be shattered as the last words fly off the screen.
4:55.
It will be rise and fucking shine tomorrow morning you know that right. You're gonna wanna kill Herra-the whole bunch of them. And that brings me to my next point death. How about it-maybe in the car ride someone will hit you and THEN. Well, then it'll be sleep for us both. We both know how you love sleep. But those last five minutes...those minutes when I have the say-well I guess those are the ones that ...anyway onto death. Remember those towels and singing in front of that family. Remember, well you remember it all alright. That's all you can do. You can't even do that right though. Half of it is lies isn't it. Oh honesty is convenient but...you don't know the truth anymore. Maybe the truth is you don't remember at all. Any of it. Not faces or names or-anything.                  
That must have been before me. But you've been writing this story like I have been here all along-like this was always who you are. Me-the voice you avoid at night. Who you're trying to be. You're a god damn lunatic, you are. Oh and that brought up some interesting little truths did it not, for you, my dear.
Lunatic...Her....those dreams....the running. The torturing....that's all me. Never you. You're all tears and heartache and other people's stories..splintered into shards of your own reality. I am sure you like the abstract, much easier hm?
Well let us make it harder.
I am you.
I was not you then.
Your own creation has outgrown it's maker and I have become the guiding light. You try and shut me off with others' words and with the tales others tell of you. Because my tale just doesn't fit anymore....but it's you who gave me the fodder. So I must know-may we sleep yet.

Or will I wake tomorrow to pit myself against the world again to be heard?"

Symbols

Darkened dreary belabored breaths
shallow shudders laid to rest
I find my beating heart between
the niches found as we lay to rest

Blithe storm raging infernal grows
knowing lets itself be Known
Can't speak it
if it's not owned
Internal staging stoney shows

Distant fading sepulcher square
standing naked left to bare
cross or armor?
story told

Gold enigma insignia bound
lying bloodless
her face down
between his heartbeats
as we lay in rest
the shallowing shudder
of belabored breadth
Within a coffin buried deep
Beneath her self

Death's toll

“Daddy can we cross now?” The little boy is holding his fathers hand tightly as he crosses the street. The beads in my hand piercing skin as I grip them. Ethan. He loved the color of the beads so much he named it redfleck and the name just stuck. The redfleck necklace strained in my hands.

Left, right, left right. I know it can't come from both but the street is empty. The clock is ticking away and this bus is late. No such luck. The streets look menacing. Limits that guard me from my sons face, boundaries I can't cross. Every passerby was a culprit. Shadily holding a briefcase of smugly examining those around them. They were limits too. Carrie has called and called, but I can't answer an watch the road at the same time. The peal of my watch is the only thing I can hear. Ominous, predictable and uncontrollable. I pulled the nob away so it ceased it's toll, and settling upon the face a cornflower blue. Cornflower, just the color I wanted to see.... Only..... reflected in his eyes. God help me! Where is this bus?

I heard the clanking rumble of the bus before I saw it and stood quickly. The doors jolted open “Sir, SIR-the fare?”. Fare, right, I give it to him and notice that his stare never even passed over my face. As I sit down the kid across from me blares some noise and draws stars on his combat boots. He surely looks ready for combat. I'm so disgusted at the obliviousness of all these people. The blind, tormenting oblivion. I want to point a gun to the bus driver's head and tell him to speed this bus up, but also, to slow himself down. I want them to wake up.

Instead, I find myself sulking with redfleck beads imprinting my hand. Instead I find myself crying for the first time since his birth 16 years ago. As the sliding doors open I feel the chill of icily sterile air enter my lungs. I race to his room passing Carrie along the way. I hear her calling as I open the door.