The Haunting

these words should be free, unshackled, without form and rising out of a void like creation from chaos and a big bang. instead the visions arrange themselves around the language of pauses in commas semicolons and sighs. oft repeated. same words, same vision, same nightmare, same color.

the words inside are wilder than the strange winds that whirl around the unsuspecting soul caught in a pillar of lust impervious to everything but the sense of touch. Or the thought and vision of it.

these words surround you and hold you captive in their silence. for right now the only answer is to ignore these alphabet conjugations and forget what you see in the spaces and the shadows.

For what do you see but the words stifled by hauntings of hands that traced letters and secrets and drew patterns on your body? What do you see? Too many words you wrote on the other's skin, that now there can be no more?

shadow play behind closed eyes

What do you see when you close your eyes? Do you see what I see? And if you do, tell me - how do you sleep at night, if you sleep at all? And if you sleep, how do you keep yourself from gettin trapped in a nightmare, from screaming and waking up in fear?

This worries me - if you don't see what I see, then are the visions that keep you awake worse than the colors and the gray that torments me? Is it a longer shadow? A darker, colder fear? Then I am the weak one, for giving in to my lesser nightmare, for waking in a cold sweat from a more bearable fire.

And i am ashamed.

On Writing (and Not Writing)

scribble. why do i write? b'cuz its a visual form of speech? so are the blank pages a direct result of silence?

a place where the bridge doesn't burn...

...cuz there wasn't a bridge?

Just a river flowing by, running by, as if it desperately had someplace to go to, someone to meet. And the sound of the water as it hits the shoreline- 'wish-wash, wish-wash...' yeah, you wish and and you wish and then it gets washed away. All that remains is mud.

This place is quiet. I am alone - there's just the river, the wind and the sky. And the birds for company. Night approaches and brings along a gentle rain. No stars. Not a single star. And thoughts go dark...

There is the temptation to walk into the water, or to walk away and never return. Then I suddenly see a kingfisher and forget the thought. Temporarily. I toy with the idea - on and off. Every movement is a fight against it, for though the mind is dead and has given up, the body wants to survive. In moments like these, you realize they are separate entities...and you know if the body gets too tired to fight, then walkin into the river is...no longer an option, but an action already taken.

Darkness is here. And even if there were a bridge, I wouldn't have been able to see it. I still can't see it. So now I just will myself not to look for it, tell myself to forget looking for it for there is none. And try to just breathe...one breath at a time.

Stillborn

If words could kill a person, break down a life, can't it also define one, make it whole? For God is in the words; or is he in the spaces between the letters and the lines of text, holding it all together so we can make sense out of it? Then by tearing apart these words, do we break God into bits?

I try, I tear, I try again
and it doesn't make sense,
I tear it all apart
and then there is great silence.
But no peace. No peace.
So I save a sentence a word a syllable
in a sigh
and it tears apart something inside
giving birth to
stillborn screams.
Do I dare try again?

Why I asked you for an autumn leaf...

When I think of autumn, I think of somebody with hands who does not want me to die.
- The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison

So would you then pick up that dying leaf and breathe life and color into its veins? For me?