Space dance.

PicMonkey Collage

And if I fall from space, that’s okay,
because the galaxies in your eyes
were enough to pinpoint every happy moment
on this fabric of time.

And Saturn’s rings formed the hoop skirt,
that swayed and meshed those galaxies,
creating the rhythm the fabric could dance to.

We are cross-stitch patterns
induced by the hands of mismatched solar tantrums.
While those smaller suns wear capes
and fly among the vast expanse.

Their particles dance around one another,
ignored and unseen in their physical realm.
Their affect taking hold of you in a tight grasp of uncertainties,
toying with whatever moments they can.

They’re beautiful if you can get past their ugly smiles,
and kind if you can ignore their greedy hands.

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Unfinished Scraps | Growing old.

Children’s laughter in a bottle aging like fine wine.
To drink it in reveals spirits and images unseen by adult minds.
Tears of crows feet fall onto the pacifier of time.
Sucking the imagination out of beings of every kind.

Dead skin peels back to reveal pink songs of youth,
forgotten behind time’s painting of seasons.
Carefree thoughts, Christmas lists, and messy fingers, trapped
within nuclei of worry and doubt seep from each new lesion.

PicMonkey Collage

Mother earth.

The sun rose up and made a crown in the sky
Heaven tasted its bliss and the clouds began to cry
Rain poured over the ground and trees below
The soil drank it in, and the flowers began to glow
Souls raising from them, their petals laugh with purity
Embracing the sunshine, an image of obscurity
To the people who can’t recognize their true worth
Not realizing that nature is what gave birth
To the beings that inhabit all of the earth
Including those who try to maintain an image of a God
A creation of those who are trying to go beyond
What they really know is true in their hearts,
Refusing to believe they’re a part of a whole
Cosmic connection, rather than their own separate souls
But I know the truth of how the world works
While others live in shame, forever cursed
To ignore the beauty and reality mirrored in their eyes
Placing a mask over their face, a fancy disguise
Turning their backs on their true master, their maker
But there is a reason we call Her our mother, our taker
Of essence when we pass on into the next dimension
And forever I will love Her for nature’s construction
As I recognize the intricacies of life and death
Appreciate Her fine sculpture, formed in her warm hands
Identify that I am embraced by Her, a child forever loved
Mother Earth loving me, as much as the stars she created above

The inevitable.

In my dreams, restless and calmpop!
I scream at the top of my foresight.
It’s going to happen, I can feel it,
Waiting for the explosion within.

Waking thoughts, bottled up,
The pressure greater each day.
Falling asleep I can feel the slow release,
The inevitable “pop!” of the metaphor.

Agnes-Cecile

 

– – –

Going insane silently. Whispering
secrets to the walls and hoping the
dried red paint doesn’t give me
away.

Or was it the bedsheets that hold
my instanities? I’m not so sure
anymore. The pillows won’t stop
laughing and it’s choking me a
little.

But the door is definitely looking
at me funny, and it seems to be
shrinking.

The breathing underneath the bed
however, is what frightens me the
most.

The room is alive with my
weakness.

~ art by Agnes-Cecile.

Supernova.

supernovaThere are few worlds greater than those
contained in your face.
Smiles that raise the sun and
eyelids that summon the moon as they fall.

Your eyelashes fan the land of skin;
creating cool breezes and torrents of wind
across mountains of features
as divine as the cosmos within.

If happiness is worlds away
then I can touch happiness;
grasp it in my hands and run fingers down its spine.

I could be so bold as to call these worlds mine
but who can contain even a fraction of the cosmos
cupped in their hands,
let alone the macros and micros that you are.

Rivers and oceans would run through my fingers,
oh no.
You are not mine but you are admired by me.
I would not be so bold and attempt to restrain
the supernova that you are destined to be.

Sugar coated pills.

Another medicated mess,
married to the finely
crushed chemicals and
soured honey dripping
capsules.

A powered doughnut, filled
with sweet balanced brain
and finely ground serotonin
sprinkled over the
body.

Until you take the first bite;
the filling seeps out in a
disappointing downpour and
only an empty body is left
coated in “happiness.”

Prison of words.

Words escape without meaning
trying to find their place in my unrefined emotion.
Eventually becoming tired,
they fall into a slumber beneath my tongue.

They rest there confused,
causing my being to ache with their failure.
Unable to wake them,
my body lays motionless in the world I can’t explain.

Frustration lingering in the air,
tastes bitter but I cannot sweeten it with my voice.
The perception of reality dissolves around me,
and I become trapped within myself.

The tears that fall from my eyes,
they are my only escape.
Each a vial of despair,
containing the remorse of each slumbering word.

These tears carry relief,
but no other can understand them like I do.
My body is the prison of words,
and it is here that I feel most alone.

 

Confined by the blue box.

broken silence

There is broken silence between us.

Our voices, liberated by ethanol, jumping from one throat to the other and tumbling down the rabbit hole of digested metaphors that became nothing but the sound of echoed heartache and muffled cries.

In plain English I would say you aren’t listening to the sounds of my voice, the only thoughts in your head are “why me?” and “it’s your fault”.

I would say you aren’t listening and that you never did.

I would say a lot of things if I thought the syllables would fall inside open ears, but instead they tumble and spill in tears, saliva hitting your face as I scream for nothing.

Screaming just to hear you say I hurt you, when I am so clearly crumbling before your eyes. Not only are you deaf, but you are blind, and you think the drink helps you see things clearly but it’s a poison. At least, that’s what I like to think.

I prefer to think the poison is in the bottle and not in your veins.

You tell me I break your heart as you crush mine. There is broken silence between us and the shards are cutting our ties, but neither of us will say anything about it. Instead we will smile, pick up the pieces, and throw them in the recycling.

Much like the bottle that holds your pent up anger, the pieces of our silence and crushed remnants of a heart divided, will be reduced to nothing more than a minor occurrence, reused by you later in a flourish of moments that add up to another cascade of shattered tension and thrown back in to the blue box that is your neglected depression.

I take a deep breath.

There is broken silence between us.

blue box