Cutting Intentions

“I just have a couple questions,” whispered the shy breeze that opened the door.

“What is it?” I shuddered from the door’s icy breath.

Sunken, glassy eyes looked at me. About to speak - only hindered breaths escaping - she out-stretched her forearm to expose a shaking secret.

Crimson scars on slit porcelain.

“I didn’t mean to.”

I Can Only Hear My Emotion

“Love is like . . . those orange circus candies.”

“The peanuts?”

“Yeah.”

In unison we allowed our assumptions to access our minds.

Those vibrant sponges of sweetness.

“……How?”

He threw me an appalled glance. Then his hands, frantically, began talking.

“They’re . . . empty calories that . . . get stale over time and . . .”

Alas,

I was deafly in love.

Stress' Day Off Is A Burden

Strolling along the dirt path
in a park,
Gazing lazily at every tree
every squirrel,
Stress is trying to occupy his mind with emptiness.
He desperately flees obligation.

He can't.
Stress can't.

There is no time to spend leisurely.
There is too much to complete.
Stress' mind screams as he stumbles with heavy, chained feet.

A Full Time Job

Still awake from the night, Jealousy never seems to sleep.
She tried again to go to bed, only to lie restless in the dewy hours.
Jealousy,
frustrated,
quickly floods the computer.
She
scans and gossips and criticizes.
She
is
insecure.
Jealousy tries again to go to bed.
Alone.

Hatred Is An Empty Closet

Hatred is an empty closet.
It hungers for hangers
with more than shadows resting on their backs.
Open or concealed, hatred traps its self within its own walls.
Draped in insecurity
while whipping those near enough to nip.
The walls isolate hate yet breed it simultaneously.

Misunderstanding has led to the move.
The residents left the house,
causing the closet to fill with resentment.
It wasn't because of the closet-
but hatred never looks that far behind
before thinking ahead.

Lust Is An Ocean's Wave That Laps At Your Conscience

Lust is an ocean's wave
which wavers
and savers
the shore.
In luscious velvet,
liquid mirror,
Swelling, nagging, rising, and collapsing.
Slowly blending as it glides across the sand.
Instantly soaking all it caresses.
Constantly foaming new messes
of sopping
tangled
salt, seaweed, and shell.

At This Point

I'm trying to escape the thrashings of your split.
I honestly can't deal with it.
Plus an awakening
that's shaking
the sickness inside of me.

--

I have layed it all on the line.
Too bad I'm about to flat-line.
I'm tired of tight-roping.
Jokes on you.

--

The past soils the present.
I want it to stop.
The present is turning to past.
And I stopped wanting it.