gentleherbivore

which is reality and which is the dream? where do the s t i t c h e s blendintotheseam? when am i dreaming and when am i not? the question that tortures my mind into rot

Poetry, for me-- self-salvation or destruction? a knife that's dragged across my skin that keeps allowing me to function ink running through my veins bleeds out ink that screams a sound without and spells I need relief... without a doubt.

My memory is full of holes, where illustrated characters have peeled themselves from the pages, and now live alongside me. One pours herself coffee in my kitchen, while conversing with me about the past. And my husband asks why I am talking to ghosts.

I have transgressed against you; I still hold this in my heart. The seed of guilt that slowly grew-- I'll enable its depart. I tore a page out of a book, And told you I did not, I hope the memory that I took was not one you forgot.

My head hangs to stare at the dust cupped in my hands-- dust that was once you.

The iridescent bubbles of childhood float on the breeze, and pop all too suddenly.

"From dust you were made, and to dust you shall return," but I am made of stardust; for the eventide I yearn.

And it flew away on the wind, never to be seen, ever again.

Once we would not talk about the elephant in the room: the feelings for each other that had just begun to bloom. The crushing weight of peer pressure felt like impending doom, and that's why we neglected the elephant in the room. I miss the time when we could think, "An elephant's in this room." But we're no longer children, and the elephant's in his tomb.

There is a heart that holds me here, Deep in the suburban monotony, Enveloped in the accompanying peace of a normal everyday is the heart that holds me here. Deeper than the selfish love of dreams, Beyond my expectations for myself, Enthralled by faith and surrounded by love, Held in little hands and smiles, is the heart that holds me here.