Look How Far I’ve Come

On April 19th, 2017 at 3:02am I published a post called "Apologies To A Dead Girl." I just reread that post and feel inspired to address the topic I wrote on. That post was a dual story of a conversation I had with a friend and of my inner turmoil about committing suicide. In some …

Aurelia

She is gone away today in the  space under waves of hurricanes  while a howling wind proclaims her name.  An inkwell sea tattoos her frame  with each prophecy of her reign  and down pelts a painful rain. Her cardboard crown shall melt and drown in the  black, black sea without a sound.  For far from …

It’s An Odd Thing

Waking up in the middle of the night (or early morning, call it what you will). Eyes kinda glazed over with sleep dust in your tear ducts, and hair flopped every which way because you lost your elastic as you tossed and turned in your broken sleep. Shirt smelling like sweet sweat at the collar, …

Ivory Eyes

  My eyes are tired of the constant light filtering through my pupils. Too much light. In my mind of shameless shadows, the animal behind my eye sockets drinks tears I do not wish to cry. My retinas are about to burst from a world without colour, only burning white, and my body may follow …

“Black Roses”

Their pestilent stench permeates the air escaping from my lips, to my lungs’ undoubted relief. Within them sits a bushel of black roses embedded in my bronchia. Burnt heads top their fiery death thrones. Like prehistoric beasts sheltered beneath an ocean of unbearable pressure, light does not reach my body’s forlorn depths. But I groom …

Dreams

A mulberry box is home, outfitted with a satin lining like something designed in a far away time, frills and pearls stitched to the seams. My body is a ghastly white slate on which the worms chew their art, excavating the rare soulless skin. There’s a subtle tapping overhead – it’s the rocks shifting, compounding …

The Eternal Meadow

The waning winter light paints the brevity of the sleepy meadow in a peculiar lilac hue as forget-me-nots doze to recollections of dreams long passed. To the north, guided by a softly undulating down, meanders a brook sweet to a parched palette. And an old-growth wood cradles the remaining perimeter of the secluded meadow in …

Waterworks Of The Other World

Weariness overwhelms me, whispering, cajoling me to surrender the richness of wakefulness and succumb to the remnants of my subconscious. It purrs to me from some electric otherworld damning abstract orphans of cognition. Blindly, they fumble about on the crags between my composition of ragged cells: helplessly captured half-way in irrationality, groping for the physicality …