Phone Call

she called me today, the woman i typed about in "Fear." she told me her blood counts are continuing to drop.
"Well...thanks! You are just a ray of sunshine!"
"YEP! [giggles] I'm a ray of sunshine...that sparkles. [giggles]"
i love that girl more than i could describe, a love only understandable through experience. and she's right. she is a ray of sunshine. i pray everyday to our Father that if my world should darken, be it for her painlessness. we each die, the only questions are when and how. so i do not beg Him to keep her immortal in this world. i beg do not let her break.
"Keep her strong, Father, for she is the strongest of us."
but in my selfishness, life without her sparkles would be a bit less than life.

Be Candid

i want you to shout your love from the stages of your acts. i adore love expressed in solitude, especially when those around know just by being around. but when no one could guess, is intimate love as believable? should not others know by witnessing the couple that a deep love envelopes them? each part should portray a man in love, i feel. i could only hope each of my many masks are all one of devotion to another, a specific other, my lover. drown me in not adoration, not in infatuation, not in respect, not in loyalty, not in affection, not in passion, but in the truth. only then can i proceed properly. my fingertips desire to brush across the lips of the one whom i love and, yes, and, loves me as well. otherwise questions of coercion blind. they kill feelings of security. they will halt affectionate progression. i say "affectionate progression" for my love progresses, despite your truths.
i fear you are dissembled.

My Worst and Greatest Reverie

broken glass and shattered silence spray across the room. finally after years of helplessness i grab your hand. her final breath is not his final blow, i can feel it. we run, eyes narrowing on the away. your face stings, heart bleeds, i know, but you cannot look back. you hear me? do not look back! mid sprint, the concussion is deafening, stumbling. gradually we turn. wailing, clinging to me, you seem so small. my fingertips brush plastic and metal in the bottom of my coat pocket. i am ready. we are ready. after a few steps, we are back from where we had come. our eyes lock and i know the tear tracks signal me to go on. with a strike of the metal, it starts. slowly walking backwards, we gaze into the light at the end of the tunnel. flames engulf hatred, a ruining past. we can hear the sirens now. they are coming to the rescue. but my brother and i..we have already been saved.

Sickening Love

nausea. stomach curdling. not sure how well i could possibly describe this particular emotion. perhaps it is more popular than i think, and i do not have to rely so much on expressing the feeling itself, but rather the situation. if so, maybe you will recognize the emotion i am referring to. if not, well i doubt i could conjure it up within you; i am not that literately gifted.

only associated with past relationships of some sort, an ache to speak to them, near a dire craving. however, a fear in the pit of your gut, like the anticipation of death, captivates you when you see his name..hear his voice..wait for his words. body quakes, pulse quickens, feverish, flu like. the fear stems from KNOWING interaction could only end in disaster, and yet you persist with the minimal inkling that they could desire the same as you. out of pure desperation and challenge, you move the mouse to their name, send a "hello." for those moments prior and during the wait, you hope you can revert the negativity...kiss the booboos. until reality sets in as the remark you receive is so destroying, tears flood your eyes. and that nausea? may just be released into the sink. for a little while, the lashing will leave glowing marks and sting like no other injury. a scar, though, the flesh will lack, for soon enough thoughts of them will be beautiful enough, camouflaged enough in delightful memories that you will click his name despite that curdled stomach.

what a remarkable scheme nature has created to prevent advances in such dysfunctional relationships..until it meets someone like me who thrives on horrors. i have yet to learn. it kills me! but it keeps me alive...

Red

flames of desire and hate
thick and flowing like blood
raging war on emotions
of both enmity and love
red is a fishing lure
with a hook to pierce the skin
it captivates and is provocative
both passion and a sin
red loves when no one will
and hates just because it can
persevering and poisonous
enticing like a tragic romance
red is the lightening in a jealous sky
confident, gory, boastful
it bears all, tempting, furious
always triumphant but regretful
burning the brilliance of sunset
lively vibrancy of day’s begin
red is dark gruesome and stubborn
a luscious taste of crimson
it is the stress of Monday morn
and luxurious on Saturday night
red is the complete contradiction
the paradox of ironic delight

Platypuses, Dust Bunnies, and Everything Else That’s Love

Love is such a disgusting emotion
To their fortune, platypuses do not have to feel
Their feathers were not meant for the potion
That seeps through veins, making us reel
Dust bunnies, on the other hand
Share us human’s disdain
Commonality for the creatures of land
Happiness we all feign
I would prefer to be the frog
Kissed by so many
Croak a lovely song
And make use of others’ stupidity
Love is such a delightful emotion
As long as it is not I who has to bear it
I and my platypus will leave behind commotion
In search of a thick, juicy steak

My Mirror

My mirror is observant
Always seeing what I don’t
My mirror is curious
Begging for another glimpse
My mirror shows no facades or masks alike
My mirror is more honest than a watery reflection
For the ripples do make all the difference
It speaks to me, like a critic some days
Telling me to change
Change my hair my clothes my attitude
Just my mirror, I swear
It lusts for me, other times however
Like a pubescent boy with a dirty magazine
Just my mirror, I swear
My mirror tells stories of how I have grown
I ignore these subtle histories, it marvels in them
Just my mirror, I swear
My mirror has a crack in the corner
Spider-webbed from the outside in
Like a chisel to a slab of marble
So delicate yet robust
Take a metal rod to the outside
Splinters its way to the center
Just my mirror, I swear
My mirror can shatter if dropped by the right hand
Unable to expose truths again
So, I do not trust my mirror in anyone’s hands
Just my mirror, I swear
I’d like to say I’m honest
But I never did
Just my mirror, I swear.

My Best Friend

Not sure how a tiny little mask is to keep her safe
From contagious people throughout the day
That still make her sick, inflict emotional pain
By the stares and everything that they say
She brushes it off,
“They just don’t understand,
It’s not their fault”
To go home to sleep next to bottled O2
Body sipping life through a nasal tube
Spending hours stitching quilt after quilt
As her father, I suspect, cries with grief and guilt
He did not do anything wrong, I wish he’d see
He still gave her life, gave her the chance to be
Her skin is pale, some say she looks like she’s dying
But I know the woman beneath, continues fighting
Through blood work, bone marrow tests, tears
Vitamins, pills, special shakes, and a secret fear
We were laying bed, late at night, she confessed
“Kayla, I don’t know if I want to get better”
She continued, as knots formed in my chest
“If I get better, I will be like everyone else”
I closed my eyes during the last part, afraid
“I want to be special”
I choked back sobs, as this woman revealed
She would rather die, than to be ordinary
I could never imagine how that must feel
Crushing that she believed her identity
Was the scientific name for her disease
I marveled in her vivaciousness, vitality
And all she could think was
“if I get better, I won’t be me”
She is twenty-five with a pendulum swinging
Much faster than those in their eighties
There are so many things I wish she knew
The wind in hair on a dewy days run
The salty kiss from a nervous first love
Fingers, hands, lips, coo’s, cries of a little one
That will look up one day and call her Momma
A few weeks ago, she took me aside
I knew it was important for she started to cry
My best friend explained to me the reason why
She only had a few quilts to go,
Before everyone had something that she’d sewn
“A piece of me” is what she’d said “just in case”
“Just in case” drove me into a schizo craze
Paranoia kicking down my door
Fear welled up inside my core
She had always been the confident one
The woman with all the hope in the world
I never expected she would come undone
Still to this day my thoughts just swirl
I am not ready for her to give in
I am not ready to lose my best friend
The doctors called this week to tell her they had a cure
I was the first she called
Bounce in her words, giggles in her throat, hope was here
But they don’t think she can survive the procedure
Back to square one
I still have an aunt, that has been my best friend
Since I was too tiny to remember just when
It is possible she won’t be a here to see me a bride
Or worse spend her forever with a man at her side
But she is here now and I hold her tight
As my best friend continues her fight for life

Dream Before Dreaming

Remarkable build, deep green eyes
Hard to ignore a man as such
His gaze, layered, still tells no lies
He moves in closer, toes to touch
His arm pulls her in from behind
Eyes still locked, never falter
Fingertips gently move up the spine
Head lowers as he whispers
Into her lips, “I love you, valentine”
A tear seeps from her bloodshot eye
A prayer releases between sobs
“please don’t let me wake this time”

The Right Use

The stink of cigars is only faded by the stench of manure
The banter of a seasoned farmer and his neighbor
They do not know I can hear every word they bequeath
Or perhaps they do, but know I cannot speak
They pick at me as if I am not here and alive
Seeding stories in the other man’s empty mind
Small talk of a love affair weeds in and out
But the meaningful words lie in tales of dirt and cows
Out of earshot from the wives, they linger
Pull at me, leaves fall between their fingers
My extremities are crushed beneath their feet
But I feel nothing
The sun wraps me in a blanket, but does not smother
Feeding me as a mother
Caring for me as a lover
I must show my gratitude somehow, some way
To her children, I gave
The gift of another day
A husk protects the gift of life from injury
Delicacy is a luxury
Shield a necessity
But I am not a shield for conversation
I serve as preservation

Life Does Not Hault

brome grasses inch their way underneath her petticoat
they catch onto her stockings and snap off
a few moments this goes unnoticed
soon the tingle, the pricking
makes her tug at her ankles
she walks on
her small feet are bound by small leather soles
she had always hated being bound by souls
but the stickers are much too fierce to go at alone
she must fend off the urge to liberate her toes
she walks on
they be covered, her toes, to her thankfulness
so she must not be reminded of their captivity
the blue fabric floats through the grasses
and grazes across her small leather soles
she remembered sewing this dress of blue
a few summers back it had looked enchanting
with so many hours out in the grasses
it lost its vibrancy but gained history
she walks on
not far off a buzz brings her out of her reverie
she knows better not to fret over a family of bees
simply performing tasks and chores, as is she
she carried two metal buckets, handles that swing
so close she could now see the picket fence
that splintered fence had been a pride and joy
her daddy and eldest brother hammered it out
in the pouring rain, they did, cows running free
she walks on
she looks forward to these treks, time to herself
time to walk, to think, to savor the day
matters to her none, there is work to be done
work is the small price of living life
she walks on
a low moan of a cow echoes a squeal of a calf
life lesson that momma cow must be teaching
she feels herself quake, slows her walking to stand.
her mother. oh how she missed that woman's eyes
that woman's touch, a voice that healed all
but soon milk will fill the buckets with clanky handles
and thoughts of her mother will subside
so she must walk on

Broken Hearted

Watching your soul hang on a clothes line
Drenched in an end
Lays there sloppy and soaked with tears
What once was strong, sags
Colorless fluids of life water the dirt below
Seeds into weeds
Sun brightens, evaporates the sorrow
But dries too much
Stiff, brittle, still hanging on a clothes line
Wait for a daring hand
When one shows, dried soul becomes straw
Grow arms, legs, a head
Always praying for farmer and his wife
Bring this monster in
“Gepetto? Blue Fairy? How long must I linger
These pins do crucify”
Yellow brick never led to anywhere real
Straw, the soul remains

No Cat Lady

I refuse to be the cat lady. And I do not mean the lady with 14 cats, and a bird. I mean, I do not want to be the lady that has a blog about cats. I doubt it would develop from an obsession, lack of other interests, or needing something to say. I have only allowed one person to read my prior posts (the whopping 3?), so I do not think I need something to share with others. I am in constant conquest, so cats could not sustain my ravenous mind. And lets face it, cats are not obsession worthy. I do think if I am not cautious, however, my blogs could become monotonous, dry, and overly abstract or explicit. I am sure with posting this, I am simply proving myself correct, unfortunately. But at 228 AM, I have little expectation of me. This used to be the only time in a day I could decipher some of what I think. Lately, with the lack of writing, reading, expressing, and earlier sleep cycle, at 228 AM my deciphering comes down to "blah." If I could picture my mind right now, I would describe it as a mixture of playdo, ribbon, and porridge. In some areas, my brain is firm but malleable, in a twisted up fashion, along the paths of ribbons. In others, formless, nearly mushy. Some time in the hopefully near future, I shall try to write down the paths of these ribbons, the somewhat comprehensible neurotransmitter firing sequences, within the playdo and porridge. Complete thoughts, punctuation, and clarity should not be anticipated. In an utter change of direction, I am going to sleep now (now being in about 3-5 minutes). However, I thought I would leave you with an off topic blurb I scribbled out a few days back. I hope you enjoy it a fraction of how much I did writing it. But if not, eh, ink blots never have the same impact on two different people.

In the belly of the beast. I have been swallowed and now reside with the eroded and juices of others like me. We slosh in the darkness. Hope for redemption is mere noise, now. Acids eat away layers of flesh: denial, desire, anger, gloom, desperation. When your world is soaked and slippery with deceit, what is there to cling to? The only sticky slime bubbles up, encompassing you in a macabre blanket, dissolving what flesh is left. Slime is the beast’s collector, providing the sustenance. I can feel it, his ache to claim my soul, to feed the beast. The acids are inevitable, but slime is escapable when standing tall in the one layer of flesh remaining.

Loss

Sometimes hallowness is all I know, so I feel I have nothing to lose. I can't be at a loss. But when tears stream down this mask I must believe I have something. Or why would I cry? If I had nothing but emptiness there would be no reason to fear no reason to be sad no reason to cry. These droplets are the confessions of a facade.

Whispers and Pain

iv already failed. i said i would post at least once a week, and here it is quite a time since my last post. shame on me. despite the haphazardness of my previous rant, it had at least some uniqueness to it. i credit all of that possible uniqueness to the venue in which i wrote. sitting on a third story balcony overlooking beautiful trees and homes, with a soft cool breeze tantalizing my skin, brings about a much more inquisitive and intriguing mood than slouching on a couch under an awkwardly bright light in indoor heat. sooooo, i have nothing on my mind to discuss. of course my mind has yet to sleep in years, but the majority of my thoughts are too personal to blog about. they involve people id rather not publicize. therefore to jog my psyche i have proposed a question to several people in relation to the word 'whisper.' i found myself playing "Careless Whisper" quite a bit today, mainly Seether's version so i thought it was appropriate. as is, the word 'whisper' is such a beauty. you nearly have to whisper to say it correctly. brings to mind the flow of wind through willows. my comrades mentioned gently , softly , WHAM, and the uselessness to care what they feel when hearing a specific word. Gently and softly i would definitely agree with, for as i said before, its a word that you must perform when reciting. malicious whispers exist but elicit cringes and fear. im sure you can, at least, imagine this genre. the movies do their best to utilize the malicious or threatening whisper. "if you make a sound, i'll slit your throat." i have to argue a person's imagination is in fact reality, and "reality is stranger than fiction." sitting here i can visualize, hear, and feel a father close to my face, precisely and softly whispering his plans to burn our home down, and kill my mother. whisper necessary? no, of course not. he would have counted on my preconception of a whisper, beautiful between lovers, and shattered it with the whisper's revelation. i can shield myself from a scream, but a blow to my psyche? unbearable.
i feel a brief shift in discussion.
a blow to my psyche......a mind f*** . this damage immobilizes. however, i live to feel it. this must be the ideal description of personal dysfunction. i thrive on thrill and contemplation. make me think. make me cerebrate until my mind is mush. make me recoil. coerce my pining. drive me more insane than i was prior. force me to experience something other than SELF-inflicted desolation. captivate my intrigue. i am a masochist. want me to fall in love with you? mind rape me. perhaps someone will wean me from my desire, my emotional sustenance. as for now, this is as close i've come to describing what lies under the skin, what makes the skin tingle in anticipation. i can't say my dysfunction arouses joy, rather it is a mere necessity to feel alive. hell, it's a necessity to feel.

Ghost of Christmas Past

as of the instant, i have no title for this particular post. for some reason unknown to me, at times things such as that bother me. it's as if i need some things wrapped nicely in a tight package. i did not say it had to be a pretty package, nor pretty wrapping, but a wrapped package nonetheless. its confusing, for i enjoy spontaneity and the excitement of an unforeseen ending. so why in some cases, do i prefer such uniformity? reflecting on that answer, while listening to Hallelujah--a fantastically metaphorical ballad--, i can only think of how i feel when i experience the ecstasy of the unknown. the unknown is so treacherous, and yet inviting. come...if you dare. but some possible endings are just too scary. unbearable, rendering all joy, joyless. yes. joy can exist and then be stripped from its core, discarded along with the tears of a "something happened between your father and i a while back but you are still not mature enough to handle it" or a "i might have cancer." nice packages in these times are necessary to remain any type of sane. not knowing in these times can be more horrific than the truth. the mind flutters to every maybe that could cause grief, disdain, terror, without consideration to probability. then as all the facts start becoming clear, a paradox plays out. the package starts to be boxed, wrapped, tied with twine, and yet the box is being opened to reveal its nastiness. and only when its lying in your hands, the remains a mess of christmas past, staring into the monster's face, you deny it. all of those bloodcurdling possibilities you had predicted seem impossible, including the dreadful truth. see, wouldnt a nice little package have been nice? no managing with the wait for wrapping, then unwrapping the reality that cages you. it starts out a package, you open it, you deny it, you deal with it. no mind-screwing yourself every which-way to make some sense of something you have no information about. i really have no clue where i was going with all of this, and even now arriving at my destination, i dont know how i got here. i dont know if anything makes sense. but...its just an inkblot. so for this title. i think packages may sound too suggesting. how about...

Fear

i did not defeat bowser last night after all. my brother thought he'd be a punk, so i left and read some Sandra Brown. amazing author, but her writing keeps my sleep pattern erratic. i was up until 3:30 am reading, then up by 8:30 because the sun was beaming through my window. sleep is an elusive gift.
has your fear ever made you not afraid? this sounds absurd, i know. however, i am at this stage of fear, that i feel no fear. it's as if i have spent all i can of that emotion, and now running on numbness, ignorance, and at times, hope. any possible benefit from fear, ie. adrenaline, has become moot. i know i hold no power this time. the hardest thing to do in life, is nothing. love is all i have left. but admitting this, is detrimental to my psyche, so i put it out. to admit helplessness, to admit time is all i can give, breaks my heart. this is not lying on the floor in a pool of tears and drool from the "i dont love you anymore." this is not the "daddy, why were you never there?" this is a heartache like none other. watching and waiting for someone you love more than life, deteriorate in their prime but pain, and be as full of worth as an icecube in a blizzard. i refuse to feel. if i feel, i am admitting this could be the end. so i pray on.

Initiation

today's post will not be all that exciting. i figured i would say a quick hello to the blogging and blog-reading world.... HELLO! *giant smile* my younger brother is hounding me to play super mario bros. with him, because we finally got to the last world, so i must keep this short. the url features "52," because for 1. inkblots and inkblot were already taken and 2. i am going to make myself post AT LEAST once a week...52 posts in a year. however, i know i will post more frequently than that, unless i go back to journal writing, as well. the inkblot came to mind thinking of handwritten letters in the days of the necessary ink wells. then it reminded me of rorschach tests. this concept captures me all too well. not only do i feel everything i and others say can be taken in several different ways (due to the person receiving the information's background, state of mind, etc), but i feel the world is that way in general. i am not trying to imply that every possible interpretation is correct. however, to that single receiving person, it may feel correct. on top of all of this, i am a psychology student, so surprise surprise my love for "mind"y things! for all i know, none of that made any sense to anyone. but...take it as an ink blot. it may mean something to you, it may not. have a great evening everyone. i will be back soon, i am sure. i must defeat bowser first!

"life's a dance, you learn as you go"