Ramblings

It is rapture and repelling...this reverse rewind of recycled remnants.

I don't remember the reason...but I fell, pell-mell; tumbling haphazardly, ziplining into the fine lines of loving you.

Now, it is left to forget and forsake, to break a stubborn will in loving you.

I miss you, I do...but for the better, the best, you do not feel as I reel...

Gentle is the slope away, to sway and swoon...

Only ruins are lovely.

Tied Down?

Funny, this family I thought so sure and true - only comes back to bite and maim.

We were meant for so long, to fight for a King...but we desolve, in some sick solemn sorts, to exact blame and punishment. I'm fed up and frustrated at so-called friends and fabrications of filaments...what was once light now feebly flickers into a mere waif of what once was...and I am sickened.

Emptiness knows not loneliness when that itself disappears.

Hollow the wind blows, hollow it sounds, hollow it rings true.

Maybe, when completely emptied, I can be filled up again.

My pride, may it falter, splutter, and peter out on the sidewalk, laid down and forgotten.

Fill me with the desire to love again, love You again, love people again.

Because now, it feels so wrong, so far gone....draw me again, because my edges have been smudged and blurred by erasers and traces of people who think I'm a mistake.

Help me remember ugliness is in the action and not in looks...my vanity and standards crack and shudder under your band of beauty...

Come find me, you know me and I desperately want to know You again.

Bye, for Good

The chill of the too-soon morning grips jaws of half-defeated tendons and bones.

You shift, like some epileptic vision, and strobe from disjointed smiles and sighs. My precious specter, my loathed past - it is one and the same.

You bought a dozen white roses, parsoned out to a trinity of girls who never tasted your name like I have. Regret has the tinny taste of licking a penny, puckered on pinnacles and precipices of pity.

You tell me that I' m your pestilence.

Cheshire grin from ear-to-ear, do you even hear me when I play bloodcurdling death cries from dried up, calloused vocal chords? I play to the deaf and blind, you are both and not enough at the same time.

Cheers to the man who reveres in lackluster, lovelorn fallacies, I commend you on your too ripe rapacity for ardor.

To me, you'll always be the one who got away with murder.

And as you churn her, turn her into some semblance of half-baked, half-truth you will realize that, honey, she IS me, what you wanted but couldn't have, fully.

I know my face haunts you in the absence, in-between times of those wannabe rhymes you sing to her, so thoughtless and formless they sift through air, weighted down by my shoelace ties, wrapped around your too-quick fingers.

Who is marionette and puppet player here?

I will be witness to the distance and the deed that you have forsaken, my fairweather friend.

You will forget her name and find me flying, face first into facsimile, cut and copied from the cusp.

I loved the idea, but not you.

No truce, just truth.

The Noise of You

I wonder if I can ever wash you away. The stain of past remembrance, regret, retreat into some scepter semblance of myself. The cool patches of the wall only remind me of the beguiling heat, the tension of knowing too much too soon.

I don't miss you, any of you. But I do. I want what I shouldn't when I never have.

The cryptic moonbeams and slants of window-blinded light on too pale skin, the brush and pulse of velvet fingertips. It was Russian Roulette committed in darkness, where want speaks louder than lips can. Where death meets long enough to linger in life, bored with the strife it admits there...Whatever happened to just friends?

I suppose this is a eulogy, to the death of that stillborn, miscarried mutant of triplet relationships that I bore for a semester. Maybe the abortion of those lips and hands, teeth and eyes...they carved a piece out of me as well.

Anger swims with desires these days, frosted over with a thick callous of bitterness and broiled with shame. I will not say the curses brimming at my mouth, frothing over in exasperation.

I am the still cool, cold bitter wintermelon, soothing to still-warm bone china chipped bowls in my mother's cedar cabinets.

I am the dappled danger that flies on moon beams.

I hate the way you looked at me. The way you all looked at me. Like a possession, something to have and to hold and let go of.

My heart grows gap-toothed with precarious crevices, a God-shaped hole to circulate grace...

I forgive you, I forgave you all, I don't forgive myself.

He forgives us.

The healing starts with the quiet, the still small voice of silence...of God.

Wonder

It's this sinking feeling - suffocating dormant under sheets of indifference, stratified layered of calloused desensitization. Comfortable, cool abyss I linger in; that slow, winding easy road to hell by means of inaction.

Mummified and mute, I lay on my side committed to manslaughter and murder because I was too timid to tell you. Salvation, Grace Embodied, we were meant to worship Him. That answer you long for, the question of your soul - it lies clenched between my stubborn fingertips because the Fear tells me you might judge me. So, voluntarily, I press silent fingers to the spiritual trigger, suicidal assist because, ashamed and obsolete, I am scared.

I leave you lingering on cliff heights while I bury myself in the dead of my desperate sleep. Excuses bubble and froth on fumbling lips that leave me and deceive me...but there is hope.

I must wade into wonder. The awe of His Majesty, I must tell you of His Beauty. I'm fighting against my natural inclination to fall back asleep, to get back into bed, to forget about you. Can you see Him, see through Him? My pride stupor hazes over the true picture of the Father's Love.

I am here for you because He was first here for me.

Broken and bumbling, I submit to the wonder. Wonder of His Will, His Grace, His Righteousness.

Wonder why I walk away, a stranger to your weariness, when I know all too well.

It's time to wake up.