Call me a cynic;
but, I find it difficult
to write about something
that this country
doesn’t really know.
I don’t write about
how terrible it is
to menstruate;
I don’t have the experience.
I’ll praise those who fought
and died for a cause
they believed in,
because that’s a noble thing
that I can get behind.
But, for me, it’s hard
to talk about freedom
because I don’t think we know it.
We have a lot more privilege
and far less restriction;
but, that’s something
on the fast track for change.

Either way,
I’ll light some fires,
pop caps off of
bottles and shells,
and praise the fallen
for giving me a day off,
because this is America,
land of the free and
home of the obliviously enslaved,
and that’s what this country
was founded on.

I’ve been perched atop roofs to escape the sound of the devil’s hooves, and I am behooved to say that I did not find heaven; but instead the faint glow of the local seven eleven.

I feel the necessity to say I
can make it through anything if I
pretend that nothing can effect me
to any lasting or permanent extent.
Be assured that I will eventually be
happy in the place I’m in
for I believe that these trials
all have their own purpose in making the shape
of the person I am destined to become.
You don’t have to waste thoughts over me.
It’s just something that happens;
already, I can feel the change
happening in my head. I’m going to be fine.

I’m ready to let myself go. I’m ready to float on high with clouds and angels. I’m ready to touch the stars and empty spaces. I’m ready to lose myself. I’m ready to be everything and nothing. I’m ready to exist.

hearts are supposed
to be red, right?
so why,
if you’d be so kind to explain,
is mine riddled with purple?
was it the torment?
was it the pain?
are they the bruises
that i’ve endured?
perhaps they’re the spots
that i poked too hard
to check if it was
still beating.
it’s still a heart, though.
red and beating,
purple and throbbing.

I can force my expression, but not your impression.

flawsstitchedwithgoodintentions:

Typically, I’m not one to scribe rhythmically, at least not purposefully, but tonight instead of writing analytically, I’m going to flow liberally, lyrically, chaotically, linguistically…actually, I think I’d be better off composing literally, logically, carefully, and authentically. It would serve my purpose, not that I have artistically decided to lay anything down categorically, in fact I’m penning bombastically, quite conversationally, and at the same time continually making internally fueled conjectures causatively and consequentially leading me in all the right wrong directions. Directionally, the words were written lackadaisically, thoughtlessly composed, cryptically laced with meaning, and conceptually lost on those who don’t know me intimately, essentially lost on all. Personally, I believe in proceeding civilly, but coincidentally, these letters are flowing viciously, though fumbling carelessly from my fingers. Honestly, I’m done writing so erratically, I much prefer dispatching my dismally prepared emotions in forms epigrammatically. And yes, this was enigmatically laced to be taken equivocally.

They were climbing slow,

Carefully placing each step

On stairs in darkness.

With only the light

Flickering in the distance

To guide their journey

She shivered, her hand

Trembling within his strong grasp.

He paused, holding her.

Upon meeting their eyes,

He touched her chin and whispered,

“Don’t worry, I’m here.”

At those words, she fell,

Collapsed into his chest, breaths

And heartbeats rapid.

She would say nothing,

But calmed herself enough to

Pull away again.

Her resolve solid,

She took his hand yet again

And trudged up the stairs.

It was cold and damp.

The dark swallowed all light, but

The one far beyond.

They wouldn’t stop though,

He supported her every

Worried, careful step.

Finally, they reached

The landing. A beacon shone

Across dark waters.

He’d set up a place

For them to be together:

Chair, table, roses.

He grinned at himself,

Proud of what he’d accomplished.

Then he looked at her.

He saw the tear there,

Glistening  against her skin.

He thought it was joy.

Of course, he couldn’t

See the knife held behind him,

Just light at the end.

I saw a rose bush today

Toppled over, lifeless

Crushed beneath the

Weight of its own beauty.

I thought of you.

Typically, I’m not one to scribe rhythmically, at least not purposefully, but tonight instead of writing analytically, I’m going to flow liberally, lyrically, chaotically, linguistically…actually, I think I’d be better off composing literally, logically, carefully, and authentically. It would serve my purpose, not that I have artistically decided to lay anything down categorically, in fact I’m penning bombastically, quite conversationally, and at the same time continually making internally fueled conjectures causatively and consequentially leading me in all the right wrong directions. Directionally, the words were written lackadaisically, thoughtlessly composed, cryptically laced with meaning, and conceptually lost on those who don’t know me intimately, essentially lost on all. Personally, I believe in proceeding civilly, but coincidentally, these letters are flowing viciously, though fumbling carelessly from my fingers. Honestly, I’m done writing so erratically, I much prefer dispatching my dismally prepared emotions in forms epigrammatically. And yes, this was enigmatically laced to be taken equivocally.