She tried so hard to see through all the blackness he created
She was so good at blocking out the haze, letting the sun shine down on her face
He ripped away the rays of warmth and brought her back to this cold place
Until the lights went out and she slowly lost the difference between night and day
How dare you lean on me when I was so broken
How could you let me see all of the hopelessness
I was a baby, just a baby, and you took that spark from me
So she lies to herself, drawing sunshine and pasting it to the ceiling
He saw the world as a tree struck down by a lightning bolt
He would die before he would trust that it was anything else
She saw flowers and she saw rainbows and they were sparkles in her eyes
He couldn't stand it and he wouldn't stop until he had struck her blind
How dare you lean on me when I was so broken
How could you let me feel all of this hopelessness
I was a little girl, just a little girl and you took my heart from me
So she lies to herself, painting a hundred roses at her feet
She is running as the clouds are rolling in
He is yelling after her to stop fighting the world she lives in
He sees raindrops
She sees diamonds
He heard wind
She hears a song
She holds her breath and hums until the thunder stops
He shakes his head and she can feel him give up
He gave up
I just needed to lean on you when I was broken
How could you hold my head under this pool of hopelessness
I was a dreamer, and life was shining, but you stole that light from me
Now I lie to myself, scribbling words that used to mean something.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
beautiful.
your fingers in my hair as i look up at you from bended knees
this isnt what i wanted but for a moment youll remember me
a teardrop from my cheek hits the zipper of your jeans
you promise i wont regret it and turn out the light
you didnt see a thing
she was beautiful
i said
as you showed me the pictures
it was a storybook romance
nobody said it could be fiction
youre standing still as the whole world moves on around you
i watch it pass by waiting for something about you to tell me now
youll stay with me somehow
midnight on a swingset
you push me higher than the trees
youre laughing and your smile is like fireworks to me
my shoe hits the ground and you kneel down to put it back in its place
when suddenly your eyes dim and something haunted hits your face
you couldnt get away
she was beautiful you said
as you remembered the pictures
it was a storybook romance
nobody said it would be fiction
youre running now but the whole world goes the other direction
i watch it pass by as i chase after everything about you
dont go now
stay with me somehow
remember that feeling holding hands under that blanket
the first time you kissed me, your whiskers against my necklace
she was a million miles away from your mind
until you pulled back the covers and couldnt look me in the eye
crying in the passengers seat my breath fogs up the glass
i draw a flower with my finger
you cant help but laugh
the petals start to wither like the daisy in your pocket
that i gave you in the hallway when you stopped to say
im sorry
that was beautiful
you said
as i pulled up your zipper
this was a storybook romance
it never had to be fiction
youre standing still and i should run the other direction
the world passes by as i try to forget
that she was beautiful
dont go back now
come with me somehow.
written by cmj.
dedicated to a mistake i made once.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Saturday, August 1, 2009
the mother on serotonin street. (une lettre.)
sometimes late at night when i should be in la de da dream land, i lay awake staring into blackness, making out tiny figures on the ceiling. i could see anything i want to up there. somehow it always ends up being something scary, though. something that makes me think, "goddammit", before i pull the quilt over my head and wait for some contorted clawed hand to grab my ankle.
in all eventuality, i fall asleep, albeit shortly, for a period of time i am dazed. unconsciously floating through my psyche like ghosts through my old tired house. i find things there that i deem long forgotten in my waking hours. i uncover long dark hallways of memory filled with black balloons and limbless dolls and other such (un)pleasantries that represent a miscommunicated childhood.
there are broken toy children laughing as they play on the soggy floors with still blinking eyes, rolling like marbles, and crashing into each other with a sound louder than crashing waves. the picture frames made of bone rattle and turn to dust, littering the corridor with faded papers and sweating pastels, coughing bursts of color into the night. faint whispers of the gentle hiss of a corpse like mother, standing over us all, fanged and razor-fingered, chanting "i love you." the rumble of thunder rolls as a gentle black slime weeps down the rainbows that struggle to stay lit, flickering like flames, until they are extinguished. skeleton hands crawl like spiders up the walls; and blood falls like rain from pink billows excusing clouds.
my eyes open to dimness, the dreary post-slumber fog that is so easily satisfied by concession. well, concession or a dash of 80-proof-happiness in your orange juice. in reflective pools of thought i ponder the world i was just torn from, by the ever present fork in the road known as consciousness. this alternate universe, to almost anyone else, is nothing short of an unspoken hell.
to me, it is home.
the dark careless tinge of the stripes on my misbuttoned sweater, the smokey untamed waves of my hair, the blood red stain on my lips, the full moon and scribbled black lines making up the deformed creatures that sprinkle my family portraits; where smiling stick figures with triangle-dresses and a corner sun exhaling rays of joy and light belong, all share one surreptitious commonality.
they frighten those of you who know the warmth of the sun. you who have felt the touch of authority melting into a soft, cool puddle of empathy. you who can comprehend a smile, a hug, maybe even sincerity. and yes you, those who know what safe tastes like, on a tongue that has not been scalded numb.
but to those of us on the outskirts of sanity, kicking our empty dented cans of happiness down acetylcholine avenue, watching your laughter spilling out and spelling meaning in the streets, those of us who salvage what letters are left as your sewage washes down our drains, showering our underworld with echoes and whispers, teasing. toiling. tarnishing;
to us, that terror is the swath-smooth blanket we use to gently wrap our ectopic cordi.
intangible scar tissue. mental immunity. subtle, post-traumatic protection.
so walk ahead. look up. smile brightly. carry on. revel in knowing that nothing, not even the creatures surviving below your feet, can reach you. nothing can grasp you.
nothing could touch you.
not even me.
in all eventuality, i fall asleep, albeit shortly, for a period of time i am dazed. unconsciously floating through my psyche like ghosts through my old tired house. i find things there that i deem long forgotten in my waking hours. i uncover long dark hallways of memory filled with black balloons and limbless dolls and other such (un)pleasantries that represent a miscommunicated childhood.
there are broken toy children laughing as they play on the soggy floors with still blinking eyes, rolling like marbles, and crashing into each other with a sound louder than crashing waves. the picture frames made of bone rattle and turn to dust, littering the corridor with faded papers and sweating pastels, coughing bursts of color into the night. faint whispers of the gentle hiss of a corpse like mother, standing over us all, fanged and razor-fingered, chanting "i love you." the rumble of thunder rolls as a gentle black slime weeps down the rainbows that struggle to stay lit, flickering like flames, until they are extinguished. skeleton hands crawl like spiders up the walls; and blood falls like rain from pink billows excusing clouds.
my eyes open to dimness, the dreary post-slumber fog that is so easily satisfied by concession. well, concession or a dash of 80-proof-happiness in your orange juice. in reflective pools of thought i ponder the world i was just torn from, by the ever present fork in the road known as consciousness. this alternate universe, to almost anyone else, is nothing short of an unspoken hell.
to me, it is home.
the dark careless tinge of the stripes on my misbuttoned sweater, the smokey untamed waves of my hair, the blood red stain on my lips, the full moon and scribbled black lines making up the deformed creatures that sprinkle my family portraits; where smiling stick figures with triangle-dresses and a corner sun exhaling rays of joy and light belong, all share one surreptitious commonality.
they frighten those of you who know the warmth of the sun. you who have felt the touch of authority melting into a soft, cool puddle of empathy. you who can comprehend a smile, a hug, maybe even sincerity. and yes you, those who know what safe tastes like, on a tongue that has not been scalded numb.
but to those of us on the outskirts of sanity, kicking our empty dented cans of happiness down acetylcholine avenue, watching your laughter spilling out and spelling meaning in the streets, those of us who salvage what letters are left as your sewage washes down our drains, showering our underworld with echoes and whispers, teasing. toiling. tarnishing;
to us, that terror is the swath-smooth blanket we use to gently wrap our ectopic cordi.
intangible scar tissue. mental immunity. subtle, post-traumatic protection.
so walk ahead. look up. smile brightly. carry on. revel in knowing that nothing, not even the creatures surviving below your feet, can reach you. nothing can grasp you.
nothing could touch you.
not even me.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
reflections.
there are parts of you that you never knew were there, that hide behind what you are, or at least; who you choose to look like to the rest of the world. there is a purity within, that is tainted and altered as it is being shone through the filters and screens that are our appearances. and somehow it survives. it persists. perpetually illuminating, and ever so often it reaches our conscious thoughts unscathed. and it is times like those, that really teach you what it means to be here.
there was a little girl once. she was born small, and sick. she was born an addict. the hospital sheets hardly had time to absorb the warmth of her mother's body, before her mother was gone. she packed only her suitcase, and left only her promises. the little girl didn't know this person, or who she was to her. she did know that her face was the first thing she'd seen when her life began. and she trusted that. somehow.
the little girl was taken home to a place she'd never seen, by a man she'd never met. a man her mother had scarcely met. a man whose ethics outweighed his abilities to forget. but then, the liquor helped with that. she listened to him scream, and she seemed to think that the harder she squeezed her eyes shut the less it would hurt when he touched her. at least she could hear him. at least she could feel him. at least he wasn't gone. not completely, anyway.
ten years would pass, the little girl was learning quickly. she already knew how to double-clutch the man's truck the swiftest route between the pub and the trailer, without waking him up in the passenger's seat floor. she knew which carseats the cops wouldn't drug-tap, and how many tiles were on the ceiling of every room in the house. the man told her she looked like her mother. but the things the girl had learned and seen of the mother scared her. the things she didn't know of the man she shared a home with scared her just as much. her bruises and scars were hidden from the eyes of anyone who would care. funny, she thought, of all the shooting stars she has wasted wishing for someone who cared- her biggest concern now was hiding from them.
she would read to pass the time. any words she could find, she made sense of them. applied meaning to them. dreamed dreams within them. in her classroom she stood taller than the rest, but only when she got to read out loud. only when she could tell the world- well, a room full of 12 year olds- just how she planned to save their lives one day. just how she planned to save the world. only when she knew she could make them understand what's out there, and how much bigger it was than she, or they. or anything. and everyday, she would go home with hope- finding what she expected. she would promise god on her knees at night that she'd make up for the lives wasting around her, if only he'd give her the chance.
she walks home today to the same place, down the same road, with the same pub lights showering the same bodies on the same sidewalk. she still knows how to pick the man out from the pile. she still knows how to keep from being caught staring when she see's the mother out; laughing happily, with a new baby in her arms. the little girl is unrecognizable to this woman now, but still- she watches from afar. she still knows how to pick the locks of the doors she was so frequently thrown into, locked out of. she still cries when she lies about why the man is too busy to meet someone important to her, about when the mother will finally get that big break and call, just to say it's okay to come around.
she still has the same dimples that her mother has. she still has the same dreams that man left behind. and even though she has neither of them, she does have something that's going to take her farther than she ever daydreamed in that classroom.
she has faith.
so let it be said, that when life loses you along the way, and when those you once trusted, and those you could have loved, leave you behind- the days in front of you are because of the days behind you. And the glass seperating the two can be one of two very similar yet fundamentally opposite things:
a mirror, or a window.
there was a little girl once. she was born small, and sick. she was born an addict. the hospital sheets hardly had time to absorb the warmth of her mother's body, before her mother was gone. she packed only her suitcase, and left only her promises. the little girl didn't know this person, or who she was to her. she did know that her face was the first thing she'd seen when her life began. and she trusted that. somehow.
the little girl was taken home to a place she'd never seen, by a man she'd never met. a man her mother had scarcely met. a man whose ethics outweighed his abilities to forget. but then, the liquor helped with that. she listened to him scream, and she seemed to think that the harder she squeezed her eyes shut the less it would hurt when he touched her. at least she could hear him. at least she could feel him. at least he wasn't gone. not completely, anyway.
ten years would pass, the little girl was learning quickly. she already knew how to double-clutch the man's truck the swiftest route between the pub and the trailer, without waking him up in the passenger's seat floor. she knew which carseats the cops wouldn't drug-tap, and how many tiles were on the ceiling of every room in the house. the man told her she looked like her mother. but the things the girl had learned and seen of the mother scared her. the things she didn't know of the man she shared a home with scared her just as much. her bruises and scars were hidden from the eyes of anyone who would care. funny, she thought, of all the shooting stars she has wasted wishing for someone who cared- her biggest concern now was hiding from them.
she would read to pass the time. any words she could find, she made sense of them. applied meaning to them. dreamed dreams within them. in her classroom she stood taller than the rest, but only when she got to read out loud. only when she could tell the world- well, a room full of 12 year olds- just how she planned to save their lives one day. just how she planned to save the world. only when she knew she could make them understand what's out there, and how much bigger it was than she, or they. or anything. and everyday, she would go home with hope- finding what she expected. she would promise god on her knees at night that she'd make up for the lives wasting around her, if only he'd give her the chance.
she walks home today to the same place, down the same road, with the same pub lights showering the same bodies on the same sidewalk. she still knows how to pick the man out from the pile. she still knows how to keep from being caught staring when she see's the mother out; laughing happily, with a new baby in her arms. the little girl is unrecognizable to this woman now, but still- she watches from afar. she still knows how to pick the locks of the doors she was so frequently thrown into, locked out of. she still cries when she lies about why the man is too busy to meet someone important to her, about when the mother will finally get that big break and call, just to say it's okay to come around.
she still has the same dimples that her mother has. she still has the same dreams that man left behind. and even though she has neither of them, she does have something that's going to take her farther than she ever daydreamed in that classroom.
she has faith.
so let it be said, that when life loses you along the way, and when those you once trusted, and those you could have loved, leave you behind- the days in front of you are because of the days behind you. And the glass seperating the two can be one of two very similar yet fundamentally opposite things:
a mirror, or a window.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
lessons of copper pocket lint.
i would like to think that in one hundred years the world will be a better place than it was when i walked here. i would like to think that tomorrow the sun will shine a little brighter to make up for the clouds that distorted it today. i would like to think that ten lives ago... i was someone great. who evidently still hasn't learned their lesson.
i would like to think alot of things.
i was greeted this morning in my oblivious post-slumber fog by an angry sounding alarm clock. of all the things in the world to wake up to; sandy beaches, lush gardens, australians... this is how i readapt to conscious life every 24 hours or so. shaking off this momentary miss-bliss, i pursue my morning ablutions with ferocity, as they peeve me something disdainful, and i come upon a penny-- aglitter and aglimmer in the light of the 60watt energy hog that is the vanity-- and, thinking it nothing more than one of my hundreds of weekly self-disoveries, i pick it up, stick it in a pocket, and meander on to the glorified watering hole with a tube attached that we modern civilians know as showers.
singing 'provincial life' attributed to a certain beautiful/beastly adaptation of moral standards to myself, quite happily i might add, i walk to the bus stop some hours later. the trip home from the belittling satisfaction that is my job always proves interesting. what i was unaware of, at this point in time, was that soon-- life as i knew it was one proverbial flush away from total obliteration.
i don't know who was late first- myself or the bus- but the vacant space before the bench proved all too much for my being to endure. cursing to myself i walked on, wishing some fat kid with a bike i could borrow would happen by. i put my hands in my pockets to complete this encompassing feeling of dread, and i felt something. the penny. cursing it and everyone associated, (at least i was honest, abe), i immediately called it's bluff by summoning the age-old addage of 'find a penny pick it up' to memory. i could have easily, and reasonably, blamed this penny for a lifetime of troubles, i could have easily cast it to the walk for the next poor sap in need of a little hope to find, i could have easily lost my mind.
in a moment i realized the one common practice in all of human woes.
all we really want out of life is something real to count on.
perceptions of a god and the unknown tarnish with age. ideas and beliefs fall away like we from our pasts, but, much like our pasts- they follow us forever. over time faith can die, truth becomes faded, and hope goes down with the ship; white flag in-air. but in the midst of a scramble for a meaning we don't have to lose that sparkle that makes us what nothing else can be. human. screwing up is mandatory. missing out is necessary. and happiness... happiness is contingent.
the bones of it is this: to give a hearty 'fuck you' to safety and security- go out and believe. in absolutely anything. from santa claus to a good luck penny. the only thing that matters, is that you can make like fingerpaint- and not be afraid of life getting a little messy.
i would like to think alot of things.
i was greeted this morning in my oblivious post-slumber fog by an angry sounding alarm clock. of all the things in the world to wake up to; sandy beaches, lush gardens, australians... this is how i readapt to conscious life every 24 hours or so. shaking off this momentary miss-bliss, i pursue my morning ablutions with ferocity, as they peeve me something disdainful, and i come upon a penny-- aglitter and aglimmer in the light of the 60watt energy hog that is the vanity-- and, thinking it nothing more than one of my hundreds of weekly self-disoveries, i pick it up, stick it in a pocket, and meander on to the glorified watering hole with a tube attached that we modern civilians know as showers.
singing 'provincial life' attributed to a certain beautiful/beastly adaptation of moral standards to myself, quite happily i might add, i walk to the bus stop some hours later. the trip home from the belittling satisfaction that is my job always proves interesting. what i was unaware of, at this point in time, was that soon-- life as i knew it was one proverbial flush away from total obliteration.
i don't know who was late first- myself or the bus- but the vacant space before the bench proved all too much for my being to endure. cursing to myself i walked on, wishing some fat kid with a bike i could borrow would happen by. i put my hands in my pockets to complete this encompassing feeling of dread, and i felt something. the penny. cursing it and everyone associated, (at least i was honest, abe), i immediately called it's bluff by summoning the age-old addage of 'find a penny pick it up' to memory. i could have easily, and reasonably, blamed this penny for a lifetime of troubles, i could have easily cast it to the walk for the next poor sap in need of a little hope to find, i could have easily lost my mind.
in a moment i realized the one common practice in all of human woes.
all we really want out of life is something real to count on.
perceptions of a god and the unknown tarnish with age. ideas and beliefs fall away like we from our pasts, but, much like our pasts- they follow us forever. over time faith can die, truth becomes faded, and hope goes down with the ship; white flag in-air. but in the midst of a scramble for a meaning we don't have to lose that sparkle that makes us what nothing else can be. human. screwing up is mandatory. missing out is necessary. and happiness... happiness is contingent.
the bones of it is this: to give a hearty 'fuck you' to safety and security- go out and believe. in absolutely anything. from santa claus to a good luck penny. the only thing that matters, is that you can make like fingerpaint- and not be afraid of life getting a little messy.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
drexel street.
i lost the highway 43 miles ago
i ran until i cried
i thought the truth would always lead me home
i'd squeezed it til it lied
of all the places to be here
where is yours
i found god in an empty crate
there was some glass a rock and a bloodstain
i said sorry but this time you're too late
he just closed his eyes and felt the rain
pour
of all the reasons to be here
what are yours
i walked back and i numbered the weary lights
of where they hope to find themselves tomorrow
i lost count around the same time i lost faith
they all looked at me and wondered
how
of all the ones to leave here
who are yours
there was a boy with empty in his eyes
on the corner where you would wait
he said i'm sorry but there's no good down that way
i smiled and said i have lived these lies
home
of all the voices to silence here
which was yours
saw you sitting there like you always do
you had a different shade of smile on your face
i thought if you turned around i would talk to you
but you sat there
and you stayed there
and i lost you
for good
of all the things to destroy here
i was yours
i ran until i cried
i thought the truth would always lead me home
i'd squeezed it til it lied
of all the places to be here
where is yours
i found god in an empty crate
there was some glass a rock and a bloodstain
i said sorry but this time you're too late
he just closed his eyes and felt the rain
pour
of all the reasons to be here
what are yours
i walked back and i numbered the weary lights
of where they hope to find themselves tomorrow
i lost count around the same time i lost faith
they all looked at me and wondered
how
of all the ones to leave here
who are yours
there was a boy with empty in his eyes
on the corner where you would wait
he said i'm sorry but there's no good down that way
i smiled and said i have lived these lies
home
of all the voices to silence here
which was yours
saw you sitting there like you always do
you had a different shade of smile on your face
i thought if you turned around i would talk to you
but you sat there
and you stayed there
and i lost you
for good
of all the things to destroy here
i was yours
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