Protected: Letters to No One

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

untitled (poem)

When the only chance at freedom
lies splattered
on the sidewalk

When God offers no solace
and even
ceases to be

When anger is not a feeling
but an entire
state of being
and
despair is not a condition
but a thought process

When the only way to salvation
is the razor-straight path
of a bullet

Then come and ask me
why I speak of death
as if it is a blessing that will
release me.

Comfort

You spoke to me this morning of our comfortable lives. Comfort, you said, is a feeling so rare. It is just this country, this place that can give comfort. Luxury, you meant, but confused the words. While you buttered your toast, you went on – it is only here the poor can feed themselves with a single green note. No one dies hungry on these lands.

Last night we passed by a child digging scraps from the dumpster. You didnt see him.

Life is good. God is great. What a beautiful world it is to the girl in that emergency ward. You know what happened to her, don’t you?

There is comfort here. Comfort between the legs of children. Comfort in his amputated limbs. Comfort in her black eye. Comfort beneath the chaffed, bare feet. Comfort in the tattered, unwashed clothes. Comfort in disguised prisons. Comfort in the delicate gold chain he makes her wear. Comfort in pounding hearts, beating fists. Comfort in screams, in suffocating silence. Comfort in knowing you are above it all, because you watch from your glass windows and wipe the filth off when they knock your door. Comfort.

Yes, there is comfort here, in this city of god. But for those that don’t believe.

What I Cannot Write Of

I am lost in I’s and You’s – barriers I cannot think past. I cannot write about people. I cannot write about the boy in the street selling candy. I cannot write about his mother. He is an illegitimate child. I cannot write about his father. Does he have one? I cannot write about the girl tagging behind him. Half-sister? Blood. The one he protects with all the might his little body holds.

I cannot write of what I do not know. I cannot write of what I lack in courage to discover. I cannot write about pain, loss, despair (pleasure, fulfillment, hope). I cannot write in truth. I cannot write the truth. The ink of this pen drips with lies. I am young, naive (dishonest, manipulative). What you read here you cannot trust. What you read here you cannot trust.

You once cut your finger along the edge of this page. You once cried and stained the words, mixed the lines. You once slept, crinkled time. You wrote on these pages, your truths in my ink.

Lies.

It is a pain thinking of titles.

You drip. I drip. We drip together in an amalgam of liquidity. Nothing exists now. Everything exists now. Nothing exists now. Everything exists

Now.

We’re swimming in each other, around each other, immiscible. Once in a while a particle of me gets lost in you. We are never one. When we are still you float over me. In movement you break me, and I you. We fuse back together eventually. Sometimes you suffocate me. Sometimes I hold you back. Neither of us is enough.

I awoke to you last night, fearful, not of you but of what you do to me. I awoke to myself. Untrusting. I fell asleep again, clutching a taped shard of glass like an old teddy-bear, rolled in a ball, cocooned.
(I awoke hours later. By myself. With you)

Tonight my weapon is a thin box-cutter. Tomorrow I will have none. It goes like this, once every few weeks. By time I realize blades do not cut through water and mirrors do not bleed. Please know it is not you I do not love.

Letters to No One

Dear God,

I wanted to ask you, being not human and all, if you have any sensation of pain. Maybe this feeling that us humans so often experience was a byproduct of some sort, a glitch in programming lets say…because God, if you loved us, each one of us individually as you claim, *and* you felt pain, none of this would ever happen. I dont see the point of it, in “the greater scheme of things”. That poor child.

I know you’re angry, God, that I’m questioning you like this. But I”m hurt. And I’m disappointed. I dont blame “Satan”. Heck, if you’re simply letting shit happen to prove a point to some outcast then..well…that says enough. It says enough about being loved, valued and whatever the fuck else. So I dont blame Satan. I blame you. Because you’re supposed to be more powerful. Crush Satan if you “love” us. If this isnt just about your pride.

Oops. I called God proud. I think I’d like it in Hell though, seeing as any fuckhead that worships you goes to heaven, regardless of their behaviour. I think all the good people will be in Hell. For being..good…*people*…and not good worshipers. I’d throw some more things at you, but hey, you’re busy managing the universe. You dont have time for this.

Oh wait, you exist outside of time. Right. Either way.

I’m going to go do some good while I’m alive. Make a couple people smile, protect my sister, feed the hungry even..because with all your divinity, you still seem to have got it wrong.

I dont know what more to say.
Stupid idea. stupid letter.

Incoherency – the second literary curse

It hasnt been the best of days.

Well, it has been. For me. But.

There are some things I refuse to talk about but perpetually think about. It’ll take a few days to wear off, at least partially.

I dont want to sleep.

Mom is back home. I’m being all weird around her. She hasnt noticed. Sophie is upset. My sweet Sophie. The darling with a sister who has failed her.

I’m not off the hook yet. This is just a temporary reprieve. I want rest. I want peace. Theres too much to do and too much being asked of me. I have been feeling my heart hammer my chest walls for the past three days. I dont want to sleep.

I need a shower. I dont want to fucking move.

I”m making no sense.

Almost (barely) there

this is getting really fucking tiring.

Moving in any position aside from the one I am in right now, in front of the computer, slaving away, makes me dizzy.

I like to whine, by the way.

Now that I have this shit out of my system, I can continue.

(somebody please kill me)

I HATE 2009

loving this capslock key though.

IT NEVER FUCKING ENDS!

Letters to No One

Dear words,

Please come back. I miss playing with you.

Love,
Your lonesome play-buddy.

Bits of the Day (insert number here)

I’m wasting time -__-

my fingers are fucking chafed and i have only got one frame mounted properly. UGH! I’m taking a break now, though typing may not be the best way to bring peace to my poor fingers. God, I sound self-centered. I have covered the tips with soft charcoal eraser though. It seems to be working.

I am now going to go and flip through (quite literally) my english book to revise the freaking grammar terms we have to memorise for the damn exam today.

I have slept. I am posting that for all concerned parties Sleep that actually counts as sleep and not just tossing and turning in bed and drifting off to some weird tense, scary place. No, I slept through most of yesterday actually.

That is about all for now. I’ll go waste my time some more learning a language I already know.

On a happier note – I seem to be having a good hair day! I have succumb to shallowness.

Anyhow

*poofs*

Untitled (as usual)

Crimson drip
drops on the carpet
she holds up a piece of cardboard
smeared
“abstract -
its what I feel like
beneath you”

The bell ding-dongs between words
so she gathers up her
art
and washes crimson spots
from between the creases
of her skirt and the unpricked
tips
of her fingers

Never
forget to shake hands
curtsy, a little
like the well-bred lady
that you are.
Serve tea,
serve biscuits serve
drinks serve -

You can buy services now
for a mere
twenty dollars

You can buy servitude now
for a mere
kiss

I’m alive

and havent crawled into a hole…which is surprising.

Exam week starts saturday, first one being English. I have the mounting left for a project I have finished. I hate mounting. My hands are sore and i have random paper cuts all over. Stupid hard museum board. I’ve still got 4 pieces to cut out. *sigh*

I dont want to talk about myself.

Honesty

I”m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. Ima fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I”m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I”m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I”m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot. I’m a fucking idiot.

FUCK! I”m a fucking idiot and I wish I could fucking die.