Funeral Shelter

Hm.
Home.
Funeral home.
Far from home.

Would there be beautiful flowers beckoning all the visitors with their angelic aroma? I thought it would be nice and warm and she would look as beautiful as ever, wearing her favorite pink dress and her bandana. She always wore it when I came over to make spaghetti and apple pie. Maybe it would smell like her favorite perfume: the pink-looking one that sat on the dresser next to the cherub statue she always put her rings on before she went to bed. I remember how her house smelled like the untouched Avon flower soaps that sat in the corners of all three bathrooms for years.
This place didn't smell that good. It smelled like cardboard and dryers and it was cold as fish sticks still in the box. The flowers smelled like stale dirt and there were only dim, yellow lamps in the corners, except over the wooden box.
There she lie; Lillian, dressed in her ugly white dress and a wig on. Aunt Marianne probably picked it out for her. I was stuck there with all my annoying cousins, wondering why they weren't playing her records: the ones recorded of her in La Boheme at the Met in the 40s. you'd think they could have taken the time to lug out a record player and show her some respect.
I walked up to the casket with my mother to pray, seeing Lillian's perfectly toned, solemn, unsmiling face; this was not my grandmother. My grandmother always smiled.
I said one last goodbye, kissed my hand, and went to place it on her cheek; now the flesh-toned, rough mound of concrete it had become. I guess it was good that my first was so young. It made the last dozen a lot easier to get through. I am a creature of habit. Cardboard and stale dirt aren't so bad...

Heartsick

The sunset glow of his cigarette fades into the nightly abyss...

Strings have been tugged and tugged on,
Ripping bits of sore flesh from their warm spaces.
Wounds, unhealed, will remain,
Oozing forever with wasted affection
Despite the twice and thrice returned
That will maintain, but never satiate.

Seeds will be planted and grow falsely,
And when the bud blooms,
Realization will always return,
And chambers will long
To cease movement.

Art or artifice?...What's your choice?

Why are some people born with abilities and others not? I have a skill at writing and finding loopholes, at being a bitch and at being polite. However, math and science are a completely different story. Some people can run numbers like the bathroom sink. I can run numbers like a car without an engine. I was born to be in the art, not the artifice. The sky is green and the grass is blue to me. I don't care what the geologists say. A pound of lead is heavier than a pound of feathers. Because it is dark gray and stony looking. Not light and ethereal like a downy feather. This is what I respect. Aesthetic. Art. I'd rather live in world of fallacy that is beautiful than strip everything of its meaning and live a bleak life. I would rather paint the grass orange than accept its verdigris. I would rather write my own world together than have others write it for me. I will not stand for the structured definition of "life".

Aha

To know
Ophelia's woe
Is me and see her weeping
Willow tree, the same as he would, classically
Would simply be
Astounding.

Or hear
The sirens sing
Or Byron's loving
Heart a-roving 'neath
The moon and know it all too soon
Would have more truth
Resounding.

For now,
Realize that
They and we could
Not be wise enough to see
That such disguise is bound to the
Synapse that tries to
Comprehend.

Guy Fawkes

Remember, remember the fifth of November.
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot.
I know of no reason why the Gunpowder Treason
should ever
be
forgot.

Your Love Poem

This was not written by me.

I was 16 when you first told me you lo9ved me and sure,
I played it cool but when I excused myself for the bathroom later,
Oh, boy, you better believe I did the happy dance like never before.
I was a child when we first made love,
awkward and fumbling over each other's bodies in the dark,
and after it was over I lay with my head on your chest thinking
"Oh, boy, I'll never love like this again."

Oh, boy, your "gentle let down" pulled the carpet from under my feet,
and oh, boy, when I hit the ground
I hit it hard, gasping for air as I lay motionless,
crying hysterically without making a sound.

Well it's been two years and sure, I saw another boy,
And yes, I was "in love",
And God knows breaking up is never easy but
Oh, boy, you're back and no,
I don't write poetry but those butterflies from years ago,
well they never went away,
just rested, warm in their cocoons,
hibernating in the memory of your warmth.

Oh, boy, I don't write poetry,
but when you kiss me,
I'd like to try, and when you tell me you love me,
those butterflies awaken, evolved, and
beating their massive wings they
soar to heights I never imagined,
carrying me away without my consent.

This is for you.
I tried to write you a love poem,
but oh, boy,
with my head on your chest, I think
no words could compare to the beating of your heart.
I don't know words for this,
I forget them, fumble over them,
and the three I'd like to use are not enough.

- - Anonymous

Haze

No rain, sleet or snow today, but clouds upon clouds upon clouds. I can hear my mind sigh while I stare out the window at the endless grey. Why I am heartsick, I do not know. My bones ache from the humidity and cold air. Why must these days be so depressing? I feel like mother nature is spiting me for living in such a technological world. Computers, cell phones, hair dye, tanning salons. Everything you could imagine that is totally unnatural. That is the world I live in. Not a world of natural beauty, but rather, a world of concrete and glass and steel. I do not see the haze as it would be, I see it through a mocking pane of irony. I never want to take it down, ever. I'll just leave it there for as long as I possibly can so that I can appreciate it and never forget that I had it. I never want to forget the way I felt then, I'll always remember. And that may be hindering my abilities, but I don't care. I loved it, until it was taken away from me. But even then I loved it, I still love it, and I never wanted to lose it. But it was not my choice. I wish it was, because it never would have ended. Never.

Rose Morbid

Squares.
Rose granite squares.
Uniformly aligned in the soul-sealed structure,
Encompassing an indoor garden, and
Encompassed by bloomless pachysandra.
North: Armstrong
South: O’Malley
East: Bergman
West: Evancie
Carnations fall,
Not to the grave,
But to the ground underneath it.

A cracked square allows a spirit to float free,
And leave the prison of purgatory.
Whether that be a blessing or a curse,
Only it will know.
For now,
Stuck in a cubic hell.

AC

Wait.
Watch.
Look how twisting compresses
And molecules collect.
Then,
Release the hounds.
There is the tangible form
Of what you couldn’t see.
The energy leaves,
No,
Stays. No,
Leaves.

Shh, listen.
The warmth is gone.

Vortex

Hexagonal shapes on an oversized eye
Keep you from looking to close at a fly.
Concave panes do the same for mine.

Holes in a roof make you want to repair
To keep from the cold, damp, unloving air.
That’s not why the ones in my skin are there.

Makeup on stage is meant to attract.
Pay close attention to those who act.
Outside the theater, this is not a fact.

Tattered boots must mean she’s poor,
Probably because she married that moor.
Shut up, turn around, and walk out my door.

Verbena

The tree bears fruit.
Sun-warmed rind ripens at the break of day,
Awaiting the nomial call from the voice in the sky.
Orange, it says.

Waiting and waiting,
The orange grows tired and bored of its tree,
Until the snake comes along,
Bites away its stem,
And carries it to a beautiful young lady.

Curious, she happily peels away and eats,
Then shares it with a man,

Then skies turn grey,
And faces are somber,
All due to a misunderstanding.

Guilt-ridden rinds cover the earth.

Penned Prison

Fury runs through ferrous, black lines
Attempting the escape of a recycled muse.
Lividity plagues the mitts and mask
As useless mutterings cloud the mind
Preventing untried concepts
From transpiring.
Only the divine can grant
The vigor required to find
The spark
That is innovation.

Pounding heads
On pearls of Persian blue,
And writhing just to reach
A valid verdict
Of violet hue,
For red, and yellow
Have faded and died, too,
Of overuse.

Spiritual Comprehension

I talk to you. You talk back. I understand the words you speak. But do I understand the meaning of them? Will I ever understand exactly what you are trying to convey with your statements? This is a true question of mortality. Do words live and die, or do words just die the moment they hit the air? Will there ever be a soul on earth that will be having the same, exact thought process I am when they hear the words I speak and how they arrange them? Perhaps there is another identical galaxy in which there is another exact form of me, typing this at the same exact time, thinking the same exact thoughts in the same exact way that I am right now. If not, then I am alone in the world in the way I am thinking, and that is what makes each and every single one of us unique. No one in the vicinity of this earth can ever understand exactly what we mean when we say, write, or do something. We will never be able to explain it in a way to which another person will get the same exact feeling as we do, because once we have altered the way our thoughts are arranged, we have altered the entire meaning of it, sometimes even for ourselves. Sometimes we will never remember what we meant by something because it was altered by someone else's thought process whether spoken or telepathically. Words can then only live within our minds, for once they are expressed through writing or speaking, their meaning dies with them, as a worm dies without the rain, a word dies without the brain. Essentially, we are the only ones who can truly understand ourselves, and sometimes we are incapable of even doing that, so in the true sense of it, all meaning is lost within ourselves, if there is any meaning at all. Surely there must be a meaning, but do we even know what the meaning is. Only a divine power can truly understand what we mean, which says there must be a God out there somewhere.

Franklin's Fear

Kite and key have failed when a filament flickers to its death,
Vanishing the third dimension and accompanying colors.
Nothing is left except suddenly audible creaks and clicks
Causing hearts to shake and veins to swell.
Eyes widen accomplishing nothing,
Only bringing hope in the endless ebony.
Skin cries and lungs billow.
Nerves force feet further into the onyx
Maintaining contact with the invisible floor.
Murmuring voices cause feet to move faster,
The last one shouting "Alleluia!" as phosphorous and friction turn carbon to sepia.
And it is discovered that everything is as it was in the beginning,
Except for the failure of the kite and key.

Rebellion

Why the need for tattoos and piercings? I am an advocate for them myself, but why has it turned into an addiction? I find myself constantly longing for more and more, and I don't know what the reason is for it. A permanent mark for something that has happened, or a longing for something I am lacking? Maybe a strive to be different, or to be just like everyone else. The possibilities are endless if you really have the time to think about it. The thoughts don't leave my mind for an instant, yet I refrain myself from giving in to please others around me. Why should I not then please myself first? Life is fleeting, yet I am second-guessing every decision I make. Indecisiveness plagues my being, for the fear that I am one day going to regret actually living my life. No career would take me covered in ink and metal. Is it better to be happy, or to make life livable? Or is life more livable if one is happy? Perhaps it is fear of living that makes life concrete. Perhaps I am pleasing myself by refraining from the indulgence of such a so-called "rebellion". It is no different than heroine or cocaine, with jitters sometimes setting in. I believe the ambivalence of this will be never-ending, and I will never know whether it will be positive or negative. I guess, ultimately, destiny must take course, and what ever decision I make will be determined by it. I can't help but feel the need to help others before myself. I guess they would call that a good-hearted person. But is it good-hearted, or is it just normal. Shouldn't everyone care about other people? I am too deep in thought to truly find the answer. Maybe destiny will whisper it to me.

Procrastination

Procrastination. Why is it the bane of my existence? Is it because I want to make myself suffer to remind myself that I'm doing this for a reason? Or is it because I don't really appreciate what I have and am longing for the ability to? Either way, no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to finish what I've started. Lists upon lists have compiled of tasks I have started and have never ended. None of them on paper, only in my memory. So that no one will see how lethargic I am when it comes to pushing myself. Although those closest to me already know, I still try to conceal it. But why? If they already know what and who I am and that this is a problem of mine, and they are still willing to accept me, then why must I feel the need to portray that I am a hard-working individual? Is it to please them, or myself. Is it really because I cannot accept myself as a procrastinating son-of-a-bitch? The one time of my life that I am granted an extended period of time with no interruptions or noise, complete serenity-I cannot appreciate it enough to bring myself, to force myself, to actually get something done. And later, when asked what I have accomplished, I will lie, and say that I got a lot done. I don't think there is an answer to this so far, and that makes me unhappy. This is a handicap. This is what cripples me from doing my best, and there is no way for me to overcome it or get rid of it. It is a mental, terminal, illness. Maybe, I should ask for an Anointing of the Crazy for when my grades go up to heaven along with the rest of the things I have not finished in my life. If there is one thing I hate about myself more than anything else, it is being this lazy thing that could be labeled as a human being. Because I feel like I am not worthy of being a human. I feel like I am just a shell filled with nothing, where there is supposed to be determination and vigor. Fifteen pages to write, and none can be conceived until I am at the breaking point. I don't feel ungrateful, but that is how I am acting. I will try again, but today, I think nothing will be achieved.