Recurring dreams, like motifs I
Know not how to control; recurring thoughts
Appearing in the melodies of my voice
And in the movement of my body, yet
Presented as if never fondled by the
Hands of my mind. He says in a sigh,
"I love you," which brings the questions
Flooding, overflowing, and there is no other
Response:
I love you, also. Did you know? When
I hear your heart beat louder than your
Voice, I know you are still feeling. I've
Said it more than once and ample times a day,
And in so many ways. Did you know?

I thought it was easy enough for me, claiming
Some heinous ability and everyone still believing
Me. Produce one or two lines of poetic
Rambles and I can continue in my lie. Though
Her mind has traveled much longer, and many
More times, down the tendrils of creativity that
It, by now, knows its way. A path has been conveniently
Worn into the gutter, unfortunately I remain lost
In my journeys.
Congratulations, you’re again, in another way, my superior,
Idol.

My nails grow each day like my mind broadens
And the sun rises and sets and does again over
The shady, broken horizon. My nails have also
Faded, once black like night, no light or love to
See there, now clear. But, as the end approaches,
Will my nail polish chip off as easily as it did before?
I don’t know, for nothing is certain, like how much
Blood will drip from your finger tip when you
Squeeze it once you’ve pricked it by a safety pin.
Oh, look at me now, vaguely attempting to reach your
Shallow mind with trivial questions which, most likely,
Have never, moreover, will never apply to you.

Do you believe that if I enjoy looking at the
Sweet, supple curves her body does show, that
I am odd because you would never?
Dare you persecute
Out of the ordinary?
What if I pricked a few hairs from your golden
Head? Would you yell and scream like a banshee,
Punish me,
Give me what I want? Only a twisted mind
Would care to stare
At the luscious curls your hair makes as it
Falls to your bosom like the rain from the
Thunderous sky.

So don’t look at me if that is
Truly how you feel.

Recycle my words and remake my ideas,
Do you really think it will be as good
As my masterpiece?
Your hands will never match the deformations
Of my own. You do not deserve the writer’s bumps
Or the aches, the early…creeping…arthritis.
The only thing you deserve (because of the simple
Fact that you even dare to read my
Scrambled thoughts, automatically because
Your soul is reaching out for some cavity
Fulfillment) is to read, aloud if you so please,
My offerings.
And in every word I write I offer to you
And alternative way of thinking, perceiving
The wretched world in which we inevitably dwell.
In your eyes, are my attempts purely trivial?

Tell me if so.

Or tell me if you care at all, if by chance
My meaningless words strike you in some odd
Way, in some odd place…
If they make you think at all,
Believe in others or spark hatred of love.
Tell me if so.

I don’t remember your eyes meeting mine,
It was so long ago the sun and moon
Graced the sky at the same moment,
So long ago the grass was covered
(Suffocated) by the (hands of deadly) cement.
What figure should I see reflect in your eyes
If you desired to, once again, look into the
Depths of my sobbing soul. If you, once again,
Decided to dissect me, take me apart and
Reconstruct me like a puzzle anew, would
Your eyes burn ?
I don’t know.
Did I ever know? Once the knowledge of life
May have graced my mind, dancing upon
My tender thoughts. But now, I do not know.

Is she tired yet? She has been following the
Ribbon my thoughts have painted upon the floor.
I am tired of speaking, writing, never
Ending one thought: fleeting feelings.
Sharp eye.

Recurring ideas: recycle writing.
Recurring dreams: unreceived message.
Do you still love me? I remember, still, the
First time you said it, not “I love you,”…
But, “I already am.”
I already am.
I already am.
Are you still?

And I still feel numb, still thawing from
The chill which froze my veins like little
Strands of icicle running through my body,
Through my limbs, to my heart.
I had a dream once, you know,
In this slip of consciousness you
Ripped out my porcelain heart and
Thrashed it upon the marble floor,
There it shattered, broken into pieces at your feet.
So I sit idly beside my window, watching the passers-by
Fumble down the street in their confusion.

If I were to call upon you in the middle of
The hour in the middle of the night,
Interrupting your unconscious prayers,
Would you love me still?
Or if I appeared to you as an
Angel on your shoulder (yourself as the
Devil, obviously, no questions) would you listen
To me intent fully?

The single fibers which mold together to
Form the thread of hope which keeps me
Pendulous off the cliff of life (it keeps
Me worried of the breaking point, all destruction,
My apocalypse)
Above the fiery pit of ever burning eternity
(The passageway to purgatory).
You have also your own threat which all in
Life is dependant on, yet you worry not.
I’ve gone in and out of fatal fevers
Fretting my demise, yet you worry not.

The cruel mirror taints you willingly
(I’ve been told) with outrageous figures appearing
Beside you (which in “reality” are not existing),
Are you existing?
Is this feeling (which deforms and defiles you) existing?
Be it inside of your or externally, rippling
Into your surroundings. Are you existing still?

Rather, darling, I’d like to ask,
Are you smiling still? In the grave land
I’ve seem you walk with crosses held against
Your breast, a smile your only disguise.
I’ve watched you lean upon the tombstones
Of strangers
And spit upon their grave, smiling still.
I’ve seen you stand upon their grave
And dig your cruel heel into the sacred dirt
Which holds their souls beneath the earth.

I wish I could start over.
“Are you existing still?” Was I
Ever? To shed my skin or die and come back again,
Improved. But it all starts with
And ending, how do I end what inside
Feels it has never started? Coerced into
“Feelings” I would have (gladly) never
Experienced. “Are you existing still?” I’d
Ask myself, as I’ve asked you before…
“Was I ever?”