restless

Walkabout
In my skin and bone
Feel away awhile,
Poke and glean and see
In no measure am I
This façade.
In no measure are any.

And weary
To the screen come the soul
That bleeds like ink,
Vulnerable to the masses
Of censure’s ever
Watching glare

Maybe she wants her will
Abashed, maybe she wants
No one to hurt when she
Dies. Maybe it is time to
Finally let someone take
Care of her, “Get thee to a
Nunnery,” she hears in
Low tones from Thanos
Who came to her as a child
In dark dreams of comfort.

If she could take
A throat out
With teeth bare
Or press a small,
Clean blade to a
Pulse above a
Soft pink nipple,
Tongue testing
Warmth flowing
She could be
Satiated today
Like no other.

“once inside
your afraid they’d find
nothing to hold on
to?
--Cowboy Junkies
Ring on the sill

And what if she
Is not perfect,
Base humor and
Desires uncommon,
Analytical in depths
Undreamed,
Coldness amidst bright
White passions
Would you admire
Her uniquity?
Or run...

And what if she
Is all you wanted once
Perhaps in March 04’,
The profiling eerily
Too like her almost
Even for her own
Obscure tastes.

And what if once
Inside you find…

Something this way whispers
Murmur of the trees and night
Smiles that meet the lips
Fluidity of motion
Flesh
Crush
Flesh
Desire
Something base akin to thirst,
Hunger in the heart beating
Strong, breaths shallow.
Tactile grinding
Crush
Kill
Crush
Need.

Weep me none o’ that,
I am not the prey.

If you could see me.
Pinky, peachy, apricoty
And all bright smiles
Dazzlingly demure.

A call to all:
Send good thoughts
Accross the way
To Mina on this
We'll call hers, the
First March day...

Journal-esque

Happy day
Spent in thoughts
(Streaming ninety-miles to nothing.)
As are the rest.

Thoughts
I think too much but
It’s not like I can
Stop them. I grew
Up alone in a full
House, don’t think
I’d know what to do
Without them. They
Are just who I am;
Words falling out
Filling the white
Space sweetly.

Forgot how to play silly
Somewhere along the way when
I kept trying
But he kept not listening.
No, still knew how, just stopped doing.
I like the doing.

Set mother aside recently – again.
She never understood how her drama
Just keeps killing me or how history
Really, really can’t be rewritten.

Along that line,
When did my past become a story upon
Which I may reflect, knowing it is has
Formed me wondrously and yet no longer
Affectually. I outgrew it, stormed past
On a blazing day looking ahead. Yet it may
Still hold relevance in knowing me.

Yes I just want to live and love,
Write it all down. Feed my soul
Fortune cookies and alliteration.

Hmmm, yes, today
I think I may
Go a darling
Light strawberry
Blonde.