The Sun Does Not Shine Today
There is nothing more infuriating than possessing the gift to rhyme your personal inky
emotions onto a pallid, processed sheet of paper; yet simultaneously, not be able to
share
them with the people who truly need to hear them.
Perhaps because paper holds no prejudice. No words to mangle a currently bleeding
heart.
For once, it was not them who needed to hear these words … but me.
A stubborn young girl concealed behind the mist of an illusionary naivety.
A girl who purposely stamped her starlight eyes with the obsidian clouds of a relentless
oblivion,
Because ignorance was bliss.
I did not need to translate to them my stifling torment,
Rather for once, acknowledge that I felt THAT pain.
I was no robot,
I was no stone,
But most important … I was no paper.
But I can never manage to open my mouth and spill the truth.
A truth that would rob me of the simplicity of my youth.
The simplicity that came with self-induced oblivion,
If it could ever be called that.
Because I am not blind,
I am merely a person attempting to blanket her mind.
A virulent mind that haunts and overshadows the brilliant rays in her heaving chest,
A mind that never knew how to put her trembling worries at rest,
For losing control was what I knew how to do best.
I have never experienced a “stable” me,
Never the reflection of the person who I aspired to be.
Only lonely puzzle pieces sitting at the bottom of a rotting box,
A darkened heart chained and restrained with a rustling lock.
My eyes lost most of their shine long ago–I will not lie,
But that does not mean that I will cease to live and die.
I never knew whether I should hold it in,
Never knew when the sulfur river of tears would end or begin.
Because no matter how many words exited my mouth,
They traveled from North to South.
They never quite hit home,
Only embarked on an endless roam.
An extroverted mouth and introverted heart,
In the end, both ripped me apart.
I am the girl with the solar eclipse swallowing her brown doe eyes,
The girl who shuns lies,
Yet tells the most deceptive herself,
As a way to put her heart back onto the wobbling cherry wood shelf.
Her stories were many,
Yet she never let out any.
I was enough
But I never believed it
I should be content with … me
And I am, most of the time … but not today.
Not today.
The Clouds have come.
The Sun does not shine today.
The Blue Butterfly
You want to know what hell on Earth is like?
Well, here it goes,
Let me save you the prose.
*Tap tap tap* … onto the window pane crash the crows.
My conscience whirls with writhing introspections of insanity,
Winking, glowing, blood red leaves descend … limelighting my mortality.
The purple bruised sky mimics my cycle,
Screaming that there will be an end to my “survival.”
What have I done …?
It seems that out of both of us … it is you who has won.
I was running on eggshells,
Making it seem I was cheating the 25 hells,
My feet braking like cars at the sight of nails,
As my mind thought of throwing itself over the freeway rails.
The fiery taste of sin, had never produced on me such a mischievous grin,
Only to finally leave me feeling puke like grim.
Their smiles will eternally haunt me …
The smiles of a thousand shining stars.
His, Hers, Them, Theirs, Ours.
The reflection of our family …
Inducing my shrieking laments of … “Oh calamity!”
I shouldn’t have been so insensitive,
But the adrenaline fueled me competitive…
A race between Death and I.
But Death has not been known to lie,
And from me,
It didn’t hide shy.
It took its prize,
Leaving me to once again rise.
But he took them …
Thinking it was easier to me just condemn.
I slammed on the brakes of time,
As on the table flip flopped fate’s dime.
Tails …
I am so sorry …
Burned in my aching CD is the crash,
The collision of midnight glass on bone,
The trace of an innocuous name imprinted onto solid stone,
Leaving me to encounter these suffocating ink-filled nightmares alone.
I cannot tolerate human interaction,
Cannot confront their terrorized reaction,
Cannot bear the thought of existing as one more circus attraction.
I grimace at the scent of rust and blood trailing down my right cheek,
Their ghosts have beaten my essence and rendered me weak.
My chances of metamorphosing fold two in two like origami paper,
Distorted and contorted …
Until I can no longer unfold into a functioning skyscraper.
*Crack crack* of my neck as I scream for my loss … in a void brimming of desolation
The loss of freedom …
The loss of not only my body … but the loss of my essence … my soul … my breath.
My fingers slide against the cold window glass …
Mocking me …
Haunting me …
Making me think that through it I can pass.
Making me believe that I can once again be … the blue butterfly on the field of grass.
Inlandia: A Literary Journey 