in the seventies we all wanted to look like Farrah Fawcett of course
She was a gorgeous blonde actress, her smile was a heavenly force.
We ran to the hairdressers to get the Farrah Fawcett cut.
None of us looked like her, so the cut was kind of a bust.
I realize that I cut you deep
With this awful words I said
Those words now permanent
Living forever in your head
If you happen to forgive me
Those words stuck in your brain
Will forever be playing over
As they continue causing pain
No matter how much I try
Those words will not erase
You'll be reminded with pain
Every time you see my face
How can you ever love me
After everything that i said
We are victims of my words
And our love is now dead
The clock gnaws marrow from the bone,
Its hands are wolves in a quiet room.
I pace the halls of books like a penitent,
Collecting alphabets, equations, broken hymns—
Each one a splinter of fire to brand my palms.
Learning is a lantern, I tell myself,
But it burns both the pupil and the page.
Still, I drink the poison of knowledge,
Measure each drop with trembling fingers,
Because power without mercy is a blade in the dark.
Let the evil ones be caught in their own traps,
Sealed in jars, their whispers locked
Like moths in a museum drawer.
The good should hammer the lid shut—
And yet the shadows leak, they stain the air.
I scavenge disciplines the way crows hoard silver:
Philosophy, astronomy, anatomy,
A perpetual ladder built skyward, rung by rung.
The body sours, but the mind must not sleep,
Not while questions are hissing in the grass.
Don’t hate the players, hate the game—
But I see the board stained with red squares,
Pawns split open, queens reduced to ash.
Still, I move my piece forward.
Still, I mouth the rules until they cut my tongue.
Why are our lives so short?
Because the brain is a storm,
And storms cannot be persuaded to last.
I tried to cut my toenails, but I couldn't bend.
It gets harder and harder the nearer the end.
And there's just no hope for a remedy.
Your body's becomes the enemy ~
and death a yearned for friend.
CUT
Stitches
Big needles
I ran and I fell
The jar broke and cut me
Thirteen stitches in my hand
"Never run with glass in your hand"
Too many opinions.
Too many people sharing their minds.
Is it too hard to sit and think before you speak?
Don’t you think our own conscience cuts us down enough?
Or maybe you don’t care.
Little do you know, I am my hardest critic.
I want to do my best, yet my best isn’t enough.
Every snip feels off.
I stare at my own hair.
The sides are sharp today.
The top does not feel right.
I run my fingers through.
It is different, maybe odd.
I pause, not sure I like it.
I hope it grows on me.
Maybe they will like it.
It could be a better look.
Could even catch some smiles.
The girls might notice too.
The mirror feels more kind.
The cut starts to take shape.
Maybe it just needs time.
It might be working out.
I take a breath, step back.
Maybe it is bold, maybe fun.
A quiet pat on my back.
Light catches every line.
I let myself smile a little.
It may be different, but I like it.
I own this change, I own the cut.
It feels good, it feels like me.
I walk away with a small grin.
Feeling good about what I see.
Different, yes, but bold.
I like this new cut on me.
Limerence pools,
at the lip of skin.
Bleeding like I love ;
slow,
hard,
full of regret.
Too many opinions.
Too many people sharing their minds.
Is it too hard to sit and think before you speak?
Don’t you think our own conscience cuts us down enough?
Or maybe you don’t care.
Little do you know, I am my hardest critic.
I want to do my best, yet my best isn’t enough.
I can’t imagine
how painful it is to
be God.
Trying your hardest
to make a beautiful painting,
only to have the characters
you created complain and
mock the world around
them.
Why does God let bad things
happen to good people?
Pretty sure you’d walk
away from the canvas too
if it spat back and criticized
you.
But perhaps,
in his silence,
he waits,
hoping we’ll learn to
appreciate the
masterpiece.
And after he
suspects we’ve endured
enough punishment, he’ll return
to add an additional layer
of paint.
We call these added colors
miracles, and they renew our
dwindling faith.
Sirius is approaching the gate
dragging the hot and humid like bait.
Scorching dog days are back.
A violent attack!
I fear I will burn my shaven pate!
Cut my wrist and watch it bleed
drip down my arm feed the earth
beneath me. Grow red weeds
beneath my feet, cry me a river
overfeed my seed.
Close my eyes while darkness follows
open my mouth my throat swallow
my sorrows. Throw my head against
the wall for I am weak. Grab my throat
bend at the knees, heart filled with joy
bow down beneath me. As I look at the
sky I feel weak, as I look towards
my arm my wrist still bleeds
sober now,
and every second screams louder than the last.
the silence i begged for
now drips like acid through my spine.
when i was high,
the world floated —
hazy, dull-edged,
a soft lie i could breathe in.
without choking on memory.
without shaking from truth.
but now i wake up
to light too sharp for eyes that have seen too much,
and sleep with shadows that whisper
every name i try to forget.
they say this is healing.
they say pain is proof i'm alive.
but if this is life —
raw, bleeding,
a wound i carry like a badge —
then maybe i liked dying better.
i miss the numbness.
i miss the nothing.
it was kinder
than this endless parade
of remembering
everything
i ever did
just to feel okay.
a paper cut,
inevitable no matter how hard you try to avoid them,
everyone knows the pain of it,
yet someone else gets one and you say its only a small cut only hurts a small bit.
when looking at someone you never would never know they have one unless they told you,
it is easy to hide the pain you feel,
its what we all do.
soon enough that pain disappears,
you never even notice when its gone,
you never sit and think about what gave you that cut you just move on.
what if you cant,
what if its all you think about.
what if you still have a scar from the paper cut not letting you live without.
when you wake up, when you sleep,
you think about what has cut you so deep.
yet again no one sees that paper cut in you,
nobody knows that pain it has put you through.
you know what I’m talking about,
that feeling when your heart drops into your gut.
have you ever had a paper cut ?
My hair used to be all black
Later, mostly black tuft with white wisp
Now, a bunch of white
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