This Flourishing Season

I wish this flourishing season would just stop. All of the anguish comes back in waves when you continue to wind me up like a toy and then let me scramble until I hit the wall again without you. My nightmare days have passed with the killing solidarity of time. Then again, one doesn't have nightmares when one doesn't sleep. Taut pain has returned to that weak spot between my shoulder blades. How I wish that there was some place to go for comfort. But none exists. There is no warmth to fall into, no feeling of anaesthesia  to acquire. The encumbrance upon my back is breaking me down. Sometimes I wish that our initials were still scrawled into the forearms of eternity. The evenings of pale light seem like paradise from here. I'm so weary, body and soul, in these cell scattered times. All of my dreams withered away blithely with the last gasp of candle smoke. Please drop this draconian display and leave what remains to languish in the rain soaked earth. I cannot take the anxiety and the misery anymore.

Until the Tide Recedes

The choir in this revolving carnival is driving me insane. The din is so loud that I can barely feel my own breathing. Exhaustion, nervous and physical, has taken me to the brink. So it's back to wine and despair, the only two things that keep me pacing through this labyrinth. One day they will bring me to non-existence, but that looks like it will take a while from here. In the darkness, there can only be light ahead, or so they say. I want to believe in it, but my songs have all been sung. It seems that my crimes, although the same as yours, are deserving of a sinister response. And what ethical highground have you been living in? There are no morals in any of this, just a set of actions and responses. Sometimes all of this dwelling on battered scenarios makes me want to spit up all of the life that I ever had and fall flat onto the cement floor in a heap of broken bones. Sometimes, the resentment and the fear turn my heart into a sodium crystallized ornament. And I am up to my knees in water. Buckets of runoff have filled my body up like poison. The threshold, however, is just around the corner. Patience is evaporating and the tide must continue downstream. Let it go.

Zero Gravity in Bed

It's a long way up and a short way down. This statement is certainly the truth. 11:00 p.m. comes and goes like a worm in the forehead. Serenity, what is it exactly? There has been no peace since the beginning of time. Sleep or lack thereof obviously reflects this much. Well, some people work to live and others live to work. Could this be the maxim that disintegrates us all in the end? You know that feeling so well as it hits close to home, the one where you are dog tired from follicle to nail, but cannot slumber. You try to count merits or regrets, but nothing seems to bring you rest. The big sleep is near. It is woven into the pillow where your cheeks fall into a heap of exhaustion.  It's just the wind rapping at the window, but  jesus christ, is sounds like a tornado from the confines of your neurotic skull. Try to craft something less sinister this time. It could very well be worth all of the trouble that took you down without asking one question.

Spring Proclamation

Suddenly, the future has opened up like a crystal ball. My head is swimming so fast, I feel that it is going to explode. I haven't felt this alive in what seems years. Maybe that eight ball was correct all along? Love, in showering optimism has fallen upon my doorstep. The guilt and the pain and the doubts have drained away. When you walked in the door the other day, my heart about stopped. Enormous waves of gilded love returned to me as your heart reminded me that this is where I want to be. I fall dizzy in my banal daily routine. I can't think straight or sleep without you near me.

When will you return? I feel it in cascades, love for you that is, brimming from every pore in my thin body. Let me give you my life, the way that we were meant to be. Let this be a promise in writing: I will make it all up to you.

Waiting for the Sandstorm to Abate

I have got anxiety from the inside of my ears down to my Achilles ankles. Each severed nerve oscillates in waves of dismay like the hum of kitchen appliances. In ceaseless apostasy, I have taken what I can and then run for my life. Only safer ground never quite appears to be what it is seems from a distance. I can't believe now that I had faith in autumn mutiny and I cannot believe that you had such a threadbare dedication when the sky cracked like the plaster walls in our home. How could I lose the plot so entirely? How could a grown woman be certainly uncertain? What a way to let history destroy itself. You put your cards on principles, not on reality. I put mine on idiotic doubts where the green grass was in fact black. It's incredible how the pyrimids dissolved with just a few drops of rain. Back on this plane, it's self destruction by the truckload. In fact, there is rarely a time when I can't use a drink. Haze surrounds us like the aftermath of an atomic bomb. The sandstorm is all in our eyes awaiting the moment when a clearing will arrive. Now the bar is low and the stakes are blown away. It's all come down to a futile existence. I've been searching for you in my sleep and at the wheel like a fool. Only the cold light of your wall of China pride can be found. Yet we see it in our heads and we feel the pulse in our wrists. There will be another day for us. This is written in capital letters on the wall.

The Last Page

There wasn't much written on the last page, but it said it all. Just a few sentences strung together like cathedral tapestries was all there seemed to be. You read how the flag fell, or to be precise, was thrown to the ground in apathy. And it was explained, how childhood, as is usually the case, did her head in. Some people go hunting with arrows and bows and sometimes they slay something worthy of their china. Well, the last page read like an epitaph. Cryptic words, scantily written, provided only the mere hint of an autobiography to be labored upon. Death was not even realized although the words solumnly reflected an autumn of life. In plain text, rather succinct language, there was a suggestion of surrender. Not like a prophecy, but more akin to exhaling one's breath in submission to the wind. In a matter of minutes, the carousel evaporated into the hurricane atmosphere. Smoke and effigies took up the space where a sensation used to dwell. And when it was over, you wanted to turn the page, but there was nothing left.

Black and White Blues

I’ve got the black and white blues because if it is not this way then it has to be that way. There is no middle ground. Not a hint of grey is allowed on the canvas, only the antithetical neutral colors. So with that, it is yes or no, off or on, day or night, burning or freezing, down or up. I am either submerged in the water or standing like a pillar on dry land. I have the black and white blues like a heart attack. I am either floating in some artificial heaven or falling down the stairs. This time, there is no purgatory. You are either with me or you are not. Do you think that this can carry on any other way? It's either summer or winter outside, birth or death inside. I would take caution, but have chosen danger instead. The only struggle is that I can't tell if I am awake or asleep...and when it's got to be either black or white, it's always the fucking pits.