Words and Ways

Tiny cup, you’re my capability, lacking.
New rooms to make old rooms become real again, I knew the moment I lost you.
Bad dreams to make me see the difference, I know my worth.
And true to be, knowing all truth and nothing but, if I really know then where are my pages upon pages of the something I held it all upon, above and suffocating to the point of windy vines and their sounds, a pallet for the rain to come.
I couldn’t start again, I did.
I can’t start again, I am.

I can’t watch myself to wait for the boxes, unsealed, I’m compromised I think.
And that’s my point, manic this panic, my mania drug to take what’s false now, hard now.
Just gone now.

The white bed sheet is cold at the edge. Her feet curl underneath the parts that are warm. Their queen size bed is soft in the middle, bodies molten to the shape of them long lingered from nights before. She can’t see past now, the cracks in these walls, the shadows that play on her mind she tries to mute. The honey coloured mark stained into the wood that sits off centre and looked more and more like a face with each blink. Her legs become paralysed as her feet grow tighter and tighter at the ends of them. She feels like a patient anaesthetised or a dead body lying on a slab—a cold metal table ready to be examined. She can see out, she can see in but no more for anymore, just the wrought, ever suffocating pressure that has wrapped itself around her thoughts, her needs. Her obsessive pointers, pointing to what she doesn’t have right next to her any longer because he’s asleep, dead to this world as she should be. She envisions herself on top of him, riding him as she moans loudest, or even holding his hand as he leaves whispery growls at her ear.

The walls are maddening. They hold her life, washing out the one she hoped to build. That hope to have back then is long lost. The girl that wanted it was caught between the she that was to be and the she that must. These walls are burying, hiding her from the them that laugh, leaving lines for longer than a hello in passing.

As she falls into what can only be called hell revisited, she repeats the words silently inside; those that tell her, remind her of the only thing she knows for sure.

Her name.

A distraction held my hand through time as I watched explosion after explosion, blowing away piece by itty bitty piece inside my mind.

When time took my colours, spending others instead of perfect shaped boxes for you to sit… I got lost somewhere, in my own fears of a life less than what I wanted. I got ripped off, pushed hidden in spaces I couldn’t possibly fit.

And now the panic, of this tragic, holding I have over myself, it won’t stop pushing, it will only come crashing as I wait for it to begin.

I can’t control you, take hold and own you, as much as I try and cry, I need action.

This distraction.

Standing next to me.

I would like it.

My sound is quiet, I am still.
I cannot move, you took my will.
In the sun; apparent, as trying as ever.
Under the moon and lonely, no pill or pressure.

Heavy, projected wings that slumber,
mine apart from yours, to catch be gone, I smile under.
Wide eyes and beaming lost, to find,
an open door carriage you see, this seat inside my mind.

No moving to make me do as I please, 
only your face, your dance, insight of me.
Splinters, black holes bleeding, bleeding me dry,
I look for listeners, hard on callers, calling allowing me mine.

Red Riding my Raleigh Splash, even then I think I knew, I knew it climbing old oak trees, Polka dot crazy, creamy legs, girl kisses and bruised knees.

He sits inside a stadium, levels upon levels wrapped in soft tissue. Pretty pink flecks of light filter through as he tries to work. He’s working on his life see, writing words and playing in puzzles battling for his free will. He takes his favourite weapons each morning, wielding them with a most promising strength, a power not yet seen. Now and then; a bluest mist cast from sight, he stands tall, stretching up, stretching out until blue meets pink, dancing, weaving ways across his work, across those words and all that he’s building, lighting the stadium so that nobody could miss this.

She’ll not miss this.

She moves silently outside his box as she wills her own play, her own lines. She sits on levels close by, looking in, watching him at his best. She longs for words that paint true, a mind she has only seen glimpses of.

He takes his weapons, fierce and fighting for his wants.

She takes her promise, holding strong onto her dreams.

Do you see them?

Rainy sides of this big square town,
lost boxes hidden in tunnels, chasing muggles,
sketchy black lines chasing mine,
chased to get to the other side, of this rainy town I’m trying to stop
urges surging, screaming, stolen silver loops and metal secrets opening safes, safest places.
Out on my own, garden of red stained poppies, wild and bunched, picked for me, hand it over with a kiss,
wrapped in a ribbon or even a lace.
Whatever’s traced, traces of you left to touch,
out in the open on our own, garden of green, greener we’re already in.
So paint me pictures, I’ll dance my fingers,
moving to move your excitable, craving, staving from this shiny wrapping.

I tried to show and tell but it won’t come.
Still it’s right here, and I need it gone.
Or out.
Or floating in the air above our heads like whispers strained pretty.
Either way I’m trying, immense and tying, this ribbon left to me, to what’s real,
left to trust you feel,
even between times you prefer, and proffer me more.
I can’t know if you’ll even ever, flutter, fluttering tired and left, upon dark spots, tinkered littering light spots, streaming through here, my deep red, long and whispy, flying low, I’m cold.

I’m cold.

I take your words and they become the giant I have no hopes of getting away from. Each syllable dances violently, swimming high up around my head, into my mind stealing each piece to look again, look again and don’t stop looking until I have the next set.

I can’t see your actions, the very something that sits between us pulling us together in our making. All I see are endless possibilities that I did something wrong, tricking me in to thinking that you would rather something else.

I take the words of strangers and treat them just the same. It’s all the same.

I pause to make believe this over reaction is just that. Closing my eyes to see a time, a sentence, a sound from you, from them, something to prove me wrong. I’m irrational, obsessing this dressing, dressed up in the same want until I’m convinced one way or another.

I can’t see what’s real, your actions, not that of your touch or your holding I feel from my finger tips to my very toes, I see my doubt, I see lies that aren’t there, I see fear.

So take these words to burn them whole, I want to be done with them; so very tired of over thinking this set of lines, in this moment, I know what’s real. I close my eyes, I know you’re real.

A silence as loud as any scream I could muster, but I can’t. 
I’m not quite sure when it began or where I could start this time. 

Make a list, a picture house complete, I could of the trauma that came then. 
Though I’m not quite sure which was the worst or if it even matters now. 

This broken piece has gone beaten a bloody death and my loudest whisper shouting old, so very cold wouldn’t break this pattern holding. 

This cover is beginning to sink, suffocating me whole it will. An answer or two, the beginning of one is all. Is all I’m after. 

So give me your time, your open mind and wide-spread fingers, and help me learn to carry on, this line, that’s all mine. 

Spring time and laughter?

My before, now shy; most ineffable.

Your moving mouth is changing sound, making sound as you look at me.

I guess he is around my age, made to look from a land gone far, greyest shadows covering a young face, his mouth moves faster now. I try not to look as his head flicks this way multiple times attempting not to watch me watching; for each word he makes for no sound I take, my ears are full too.
His deepest purple and white lines tell me much, gold badges tell me where. A second between songs I hear his track, “Never, ever!”
I see the faces of the kids before me, pointing fingers; I’m in awe. Purple plated made for something greater.

Across the aisle, the stewardess neckerchief worn wearing, holds her book, she listens to a ballad, frowning, the words making magic between huffs and emails from another. 

The intercom malfunctions and I hear it too.

I see the handle on the toilet each time the swoosh of the mechanical door has another body pass, is loose.

I am warmest, hot cheeks, suffocated in my own wrapping.

The stewardess hasn’t turned the page once in fifteen minutes, her furrow emanates and I find myself wanting to know if her tears will come as she taps her black-cherry nails on her phone.
Her book is lost as she sees page on top of page, blurred to make a blank site for her to build what she longs to happen upon.

I hear echoes of purple-plated, allowing me sound of his trek across this midland.

A single black leather glove stuffed into the side of where I sit catches the eye and energy of a couple. Pointing fingers lead me to catastrophise as I peer, pulled into their hysteria, to see for myself. 
I don’t see enough and I’m completely caught in this finding as I look with my hands, fingering this soft to touch, once occupied, now lone glove.

I skip right by the lost and left by mistake.

I find myself caught in the current of a story much more scandalous, debauched even.

As if a crime were committed here, I drop the glove. I sit back. I can’t leave it. I touch the glove once more before stuffing it back in its place.

My eyes and moves aren’t seen by either, neither my audience and I’m heated still, but more. My face red, rushing more to fix my mistake, I take my scarf to this leather worn and make use, leaving no presence or print behind.

So much time has passed breaking lines I can’t possibly know, that I have arrived.

The door swooshes, the lock is loose.

And I leave the train, feeling as though the finishing touches of a crime were acted out here.