Relentless

I walked through the valley of the shadow.
And it was not the shadow of death,
but the shadow of life that wishes it was death.
Of the resurrected faults and open skin.
It is a valley of hauntings and familiar oddities.
The demons are comrades, the blades are common.
The leaves fall, blood red, into the puddles of shimmering water,
that give a reflection of what doesn't want to be seen.
And their image screams"give in give in"
"cry cry".
And they are relentless in their battery until they are echoing through the trees and over hills
and mountains.
They are relentless.
They are relentless.

Right

I've been living in a photograph,
in black and white,
trying to make the colors right.
And when glory and hallelujah didn't fit,
I began to cry,
but you wiped my eyes,
and said baby it will be allright.
It will be allright.

And sometimes I can see your heart through the window in your eye,
and I'm praying to whatever god is listening,
Please let me do this right,
please let me do him right.

Over and over I've been made the fool,
the scarlet letter proved cruel,
nothing more than used.
I've been painted only black,
with graffiti thrown on my sides,
but you brushed off the spite,
and said baby it will be allright,
it will be allright.

And sometimes I can see your heart through the window in your eye,
and I'm praying to whatever god is listening,
Please let me do this right,
please let me do him right.

So love me so hard that it hurts your soul,
that it hurts your soul.
Love me so hard that it hurts your soul,
that it hurts your soul.

And sometimes I can see your heart through the window in your eye,
and I'm praying to whatever god is listening,
Please let me do this right,
please let me do him right.

Fairy Tales

My father used to tell me fairy tales. He would tell me Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty from memory always with his own funny additions, like how Cinderella had bunions and when the prince woke Sleeping Beauty up, she had to wait to kiss him because she had to pee so bad.
After dinner, at a restaurant or at home, I would climb into his lap and bury my head in his shoulder and pretend to sleep. All the while, feeling his chest rumble as he talked to my sister about her newest track record, or my brother about his newest suspension.
He would quiz me on my multiplication tables as we drove down Leland Road on my way to school, teaching me silly tricks to remember the hard ones, like seven.
But then I guess, I got a calculator.
And I got a new life.
All the sudden his little girl as grown into this thing.
This thing with ambition, and dreams, and desires, and God forbid breasts.
And I can feel his eyes watching me as I stretch out on the couch, in sweatpants and a wifebeater. I can feel his heart palpitations as he takes in the sliver of skin between my shirt and the top of my pants, the dyed hair, the black eyeliner, the fingers flying across phone buttons. And I know he asks himself "Where has she gone?"
I can't be daddy's little girl.
I can't keep the promises I made when I was seven and didn't know what on earth I was saying.
I can't say I won't lie,
or roll my eyes,
or kiss boys,
or get my ears pierced.
He has to let me go.
There is an image in my father's head of what I should be. The image is of a girl with long straight hair, a button down white shirt, simple makeup and khaki shorts. The girl gets straight A's, dates people her own age, comes home at nine on the weekends, and does the dishes.
The reality in front of him is a young woman with a crazy scarf, skinny jeans, piercings, an older boyfriend with a car. She's away from home as much as possible and all she wants to do is dance and make music.
She's a hippie by his standards, and he resents her life.
My father resents what I've chosen to make of myself.
I'm not my sister, and I'm certainly not him,
and worst of all, I have no desire to be either one.
He asked me last night if I would still climb in his lap after dinner.
I looked him in the eye and I said,
"I'm sorry John, I can't."

Cedar Box

It's all in there.
My heart is in that box.
The blanket that swaddled me when i was barely even thought of,
the key to the place I used to call home,
the rose petal from the bouquet I got the first time I ever danced for an audience.
Photographs.
These are the things in the box that I can take out and smell and feel and look at,
and I can smile.
But it's a generous box.
There are letters in the box.
Words of passion and guidance and assurance of the ever fixed marked that is love.
If only it were ever fixed.
The letters are merely the whispers of the conversations that were once had.
Now they're just tear stained paper.
Dry, brittle.
And they lie next to a necklace.
One that was ripped off a neck in a rage of bloody agony and thrown into my hands with a cry of "Take it! I can't look at it! I can't look at love anymore!"
And I did, I took it,
and now I have to look at love everyday as a reminder of what a precious gift it is, and how lethal.
And next to the necklace is a blade. A blade with a crusted edge.
A blade that sliced and diced and ripped it's way through my skin and my soul and my family and my love and my very existence.
And the blade scratches the necklace that rings around the letters that bleed their lying words onto the photographs, tainting their innocence with deceit and remorse.
And the pictures drip their woes onto the blanket,
scarring my very origination.
Fermenting my very conception with dread.
And it's all in the cedar box.
And I can't open the lid.

hmmmm....

I found myself running into this question today.
What makes someone an individual?

Today, as I stood in my closet in a wifebeater and boyshorts, deciding what to wear, it wasn't as if I thought to myself,
"How can I stand out from everyone around me today?"
No. I just picked out what visually pleased me.
Today that happened to be as follows:
-a scoop neck three quarter sleeve black sweater dress that hits just above the knee
-purple tights
-hot pink knees socks
-black high heeled suede boots
-a collection of silver bangles
-a skinny teal scarf
-black ray bans
-and a silver necklace

To add to the assortment, my hair had been recently died to an almost obnoxiously dark shade of chesnut, and my skin has never been paler, so in some ways I guess I leaned toward contrast.

But in choosing this ensemble, I wasn't trying to make a statement, I was just being myself.
So, if this outfit was a reflection of myself, am I a statement?

And what necessarily makes a statement?
Is it bright colors, or loud jewelry? Or bold make up? Or a pretty purse?

Today as I walked through Green Hills, I attracted many looks and received several compliments about my "bold style".

So, for the majority of the day, I was pleased with the thought that I processed "bold style".
That was until I went to my grandfather's birthday party.

I walked into the dining room of Richland Country Club to my waiting family, only to see my sister wearing a practically indentical outfit.

The colors were different, and she lacked the tights and socks, but the resemblance was remarkable. Even her layered red hair was pulled back in the same way as mine.

But my sister didn't look bold. She didn't look edgy. She just looked like a cute girl in a sweaterdress.

So why should people tell me I'm bold, and that my sister is cute?
I came to this conclusion.
It's not the clothes that make the statement, it's how the person in the clothes wears them.
If you compare my sister's personality and mine, they couldn't be more different.
My sister likes to plan everything out, I'm spontaneous. My sister pays attention to detail, and I blow through things. She likes quiet, I have to have music. She loves to socialize, I would rather sit and write.

By wearing practically the same outfit, and having completely different reactions from
outsiders, my sister and I are a small example of a much bigger picture. Individuality is not created, it is innately possessed.
Whether I am bold, or an individual, i couldn't really give a damn.
I just want to wear my hot pink knee socks.

The month of October

Do you remember the month of October
the way the air hung
to thick to cut with a knife
And are you suspended
like a puppet on strings
with nothing good to do with your life.
Are you wary of the month of October
because when the cold comes you have to remember
the picture you painted with your brushstrokes so high
so high so high.
My fears have rooted much deeper
they once were in sand
now they're down in spit wet cement
I wish i could come clean
but there are some things
that your heart wont let you forget.
Are you wary of the month of October
because when the cold comes you have to remember
the picture you painted with your brushstrokes so high
so high so high.
I remember
oh I remember
I remember it well.
Do you remember
do you remember,
remember the way that you fell.
I remember the way that you fell.
And I'm wary of the month of October
because when the cold comes I have to remember
the picture I painted with my brushstrokes so high
so high so high.

Warfare in the time of cavemen

Caves are dark scary places filled with shadows, with nothing to give when we are brilliant and inspired. Surrounded by the cold wet moisture our tears fester, we dwell in a constant state of remorse and resentment, remembering, always remembering what was and what should have been. Haunted by memories, we draw deeper and deeper into the confines of our solitude and darkness, and our sight becomes blocked. The memory of the past becomes such a constant fixture in our mind’s eye, that the past becomes our reality. And just like an invalid, when we are no longer exposed to the light and the goodness of what is outside our little pitiful existence, our skin grows pale and translucent, so clear and removed of color, that our very heart shines through, beating the irrefutable beat of denial. We deny the fact that we are holding ourselves down. That by living in the past, we are condemning ourselves to a life of woe and regret. In no way is this healthy. The past can not be reversed, and it is a waste of our precious time to reflect on how we wish it could be. What good does it do us to lay in bed in the dark, thinking of how our hearts have been ripped apart so many times that the fragments are unrecognizable, the parts no longer able to be put back together. Our warm beds, our caves aren’t protecting us, they’re hindering us, stopping us from living the life that we were meant to live. We were not placed on the earth to spend our time hiding. Life is not about hiding. Life is about learning and loving, and loving so hard that we can’t remember why we began to love at all. If we sit on our asses in the dark, resenting and scorning our love, we are wasting our lives. Love is meant to be shared, life is meant to be shared. Get out of the cave, get out of it, stop hurting, keep loving, grow, and see the light. Don’t waste your life.

when they don't know you're looking...

I'm looking at your face.
It's asleep,
and it's peaceful.
and it's beautiful,
and I think I'm falling in love with it.
wake up baby.

a little poetic rambling....

You've got me down to my derivative,
to my root,
nothing left of skin just shaking bones,
and shoes worn thin from making my way to you.
thank God there's you.

A trip to Opry Mills

I went to Opry Mills today.
I went to Opry Mills in search of a homecoming dress.
A dress to wear to a dance and possibly dinner.
And if you have ever been to the atrocity that is Opry Mills,
you know that it is where obnoxious swarms of people go to do their bidding and perish.
because there are nasty obnoxious irrelevant people everywhere.
absolutely everywhere.
they surround me.
they consume me.
you get to where you bump into enough fat asses and triceps that you feel as if you are all one.
this is how i usually feel when I go to such a place.
but not today.
Today I felt as if I were the only person in the world,
because the only thing in my mind was his face.
and if the face passing me wasn't his beautiful visage,
than they might as well not exist.
I hope he likes the dress.

something...

Something happened to me today.
something happened,
someone.
And it blew my mind like dynamite blasts a mountain,
merciless.
It was a smile.
It was the smile that I've seen everyday for a month now,
but it was different.
Something about that smile reached deep down into the back pocket of my heart and it grabbed it and it yanked and yanked.
And now I'm strung on the string of infatuation,
dangling above the bottomless abyss of black love,
hoping I'm not let go.
He said he won't.
That's not much.
But it's something.

I heard the world today

I heard the world today.
I heard the world,
And the world is all about using you.
I heard the world today and it said this,
It said,
“My dear I’m sorry I make things hard.
I’m sorry love doesn’t come like you want it,
And I’m sorry you love so hard.
I’m sorry you’re hearing me.
I’m sorry that the most natural thing in the world is rejected into space.
Like wasted matter.
But why does the matter matter?
It doesn’t matter.
What matters to you matters to no one else,
And now you’ve let it matter so much,
That matter doesn’t even sound like the word.
You think you’re clever,
But you’re not,
You’re a very clever fool.
Are you listening?”

black and white....

There is someting about a piano.
There is someting about the smooth ivory under my fingers.
like water. trickling down down down until I am submerged in the melody and the chord and eery gasp of beauty that comes with it.
There is something about the ease of the keys.
How a simple push can make magic.
No resistance, no fight, effortless.
Easy.
so, so, easy

Rebound, reverb, and reassurance

There are poetic rumblings from deep within his soul,
and they're spilling spilling spilling.
out into my hands.
i grab handfuls,
but am afraid to fully grasp them.
I'm worried.
worried I'm the rebound and that I'll be bounced bounced back.
And i'll hit the wall, smash!
and the reverb will reverberate until the foundations of the earth shake,
and the stones fall down around me.
I need reassurance,
that I'm not the rebound girl.
because he said it so much.
love, love, love.
her,her,her.
and it wasn't so long ago,
in fact not long at all.
my mind is racing paces, paces,
how can you pace a rebound?
You can't