[x]

Therapists, I don't like their taste.i.
in 7th grade
i didn’t know depression
until she told me her name,
carving forever scratches
along my limbs like
little love notes on the bark
of a tree.

she stole my rings
and left me hollow.

ii.
i had only ever met anxiety
in passing, until one day
he handed me power and told me
to hurt someone else with it.

iii.
inexperienced,
with an uncontrollable
quivering in my fingers,
he whispered, “ to survive,
you must learn quickly.”
as i shoved the bevel of a needle
into a strangers arm.

iv.
so, if a therapist
could talk away my scars
like iodine disinfects,
guide the ships
through

Please,don’t make me
fall in love with you,
again.

I don’t want to remember you,
those Sunday morning
wake-me-up kisses,
or the way your
lost boy eyes always,
always found a way
to find mine.

There are only so many times
I can allow you to slice
through my scar tissue
before I finally

fall
ap art.

lion boyi knew a boy with
eyes of gold & fire
in his footsteps.

he would roar to the
stars, declaring himself
as fearless as a king
& as regal as a lion.

"ad lucem,"
he would announce
every night when leo
would coax the virgin
from her radiant
castle.

five times around the
sun & loyal fangs bared
to shield his kingdom,
my lion boy
dances with flames.

ExposureThe wind invites itself
from underneath my door,
it reaches under
it pulls open-
the leaves come in.
A bird hops over the
threshold and tilts its
head in quick, informative
motions.

The rains follow in
after the wind and
now I have to reason with
both the animals and the storm.

Those abandoned wooden barns
with one wall collapsed,
overgrown with vines and ferns.
The epitome of giving in.

I close the door
and all the windows,
leave it to the glass
to challenge the rain.

That little bird,
somewhere in here,
is searching for where
the wind has gone.

Thunder knocks
once, then
twice.

I imagine lying
on the hood of a car
beneath the desert su

i shouldn't write when i'm stonedpeople say you're
an asshole. but that's
okay because people say
i'm an asshole, too. maybe
that's one of the reasons
you love me and i love you.

but i think more than that,
i think the biggest reason
we're drawn to each other is
that neither of us fit anywhere.
we are both lonely. and we are sad.
but we don't care, and we love it.

we are good at being
alone. we are good at
being together. if i could,
i would paint a picture
of two souls tethered close
but sitting in separate rooms
and i would point to it. then you
would understand why we will
never come apart.

String TheoryThis is determination,
existential numbness in which
I drown from the paranoid spittle
of that dreary-eyed girl
lost in the mirror.

Jesus,
what would you do

if you saw me now, all grown in
to my predetermined curves and
the nihilistic fabrications knotted in my skin.

Maybe you still want to be
a brain surgeon. Maybe you still
weep when you’re happy and stop
when you’re lonely, drooping over like
the puppet no one remembered. Maybe
you still smoke like it’s a defiance, and love
like it’s a war; maybe time preserved you
like a corpse in formaldehyde, and maybe

you still think of me,
too.

ExperimentalistShe always said she was
An experimentalist.
I knew otherwise.
This girl was raised to
Believe that the ability of
Counting the bones in your
Rib cage is beautiful.
Sixteen years old
With sand in her blood
And shoulder blades
As sharp as knives
As long as wings.
That day I knew
Her smiles were painful
And her laughs were just
Recorded in her throat
From so much practice
In a life that was once
So happy.

A little punk rocker with a gift for singing songsGirl with the rock and roll smirk curled behind her teeth
Burning her insides for fun because there wasn’t much else to do
Aside from skipping stones across car parks
And sipping the last dregs of forbidden liquor
Behind broken trees to keep up the act of normality

Late at night when the moon is asleep
She lies on dismantled bed frames
Counting stars because lambs are too often sent to the slaughter
Lucky star heartbeats and posy veins
Hides broken windows behind her pupils

Ceiling lights tracing patterns on her cheekbones
As late night contemplation's lead back to Rome
Atlas limbs curled into her ribs
With a sense of obligation she

Pack rats I want to be
that
stale as bread,
peeling
picture of her
that you
stow(ed) away
in the beating
of your breast
pocket

this habiti have this habit of thinking without thinking.

my mind will be walking down a road
between cities

while i am plugging away at the factory,
while i am putting groceries away.

if someone were to ask me what i was thinking,
i wouldn’t know what to say.

i would have to wait hours,
long after they’ve gone,

until my mind comes through the door,
tracking all manner of shit onto the floor,

and explains himself.

Love LettersWith their condescending ink
They wrote patterns of gold
Upon parchment leather paper
Within letters of words foretold

Perhaps with this envelope
And its rose tainted scent
I can find peace in myself
In the summer days spent

Where I took in the musky smell
Of your heart.
As I held it against my chest
I picked up a pen and began to start

Dear love, oh love
How I wish to see your lovely face
These days, these mornings are
What keep me hoping in sovereign grace...

AdultsI envy those people
who leave home
at eighteen
and live like twenty-five year olds,
looking out for themselves
like folks did in the good ol’ days,
drinking whiskey straight,
driving all night with no limits,
loving and fucking without apology,
never having to remind someone
that they’re old enough—
Goddamnit, they’re old enough
and if they’re not cut loose
they’ll suffocate to death

without ever having breathed
on their own.

Sea sonnet for the girl with ocean eyesShe was southern Californian storms
On a good day
When the skies nursed the shoreline like a wound
And the rain tasted like two scoops of mint chip ice cream

She held the nebula in her palms
And poured it out onto the sidewalk
So that the gutters would have something
To talk about at night

She swallowed the ocean
And held it in her eyes
deep pools
Of mountain rock blue straining against the sky
The bluest eyes I’d ever seen
Sparrow girl with the breathless wings

Embellished in vinyl’s and cassette tapes
Gramophone gilded lashes and half-moon wrists made up
Paper tapestries taped together with Shakespeare and Green

Sunday mor

Alaska is hiding behind her eyesA girl caught up in the same game
Where circus tricks and trapeze artists
Are nothing compared to the burning of lungs
Where insomnia stains the people’s smiles
In a pale wash of sea foam angst bottled up and thrown
Into the horizon where the sky meets the earth
In a disjointed seam

She had hurricane rage eyes
And wishbone sleeves pulled tightly across her chest
To suppress her Medusa heart from cracking
The stars open and drinking their flames

Ocean funeral where Chaconne
Is played to sirens and sea urchins
Coiled beneath the oily depths of seascapes
Where her kite string spines push against the thin membrane
Of split grin skie

On the road again searching for lost thingsLake bones carved into words
The slow baked Texas heat seeping into
Galaxy veins and Saturn ring irises
Like cross hatched road maps
Leading to lost cities gilded in gold
The skies nursing oil spills like a wound

Your cat eye palpitations lingering
Behind drowsy eyelids
Where childhood adventures of never growing up
Spark between neurons and sneakers pounding
On old dirt tracks
Boyish dreams of Milky Way heroes
Make up the constellations of your breathing

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In the Way (short poem)Can't believe its almost been a year.
And yet, the world has moved forward but I'm still broken.
Can't believe the next day they rebuilt like it was nothing
but who am I kidding, they were building the whole time
I just couldn't see the blueprints being made.

Just waiting til the foreman was away to begin construction
because I was just in the way.

Hidden WalkwaysIn Hidden walkways I tread and wander
Weighing out Life's choices, I ponder
I stumble on a clearing, some peace.
Could this be, be my release?
I kneel before a moss coated stone
Uncover an alter, I feel at home.
A few dusty prayer beads left aside
I meditate with them, and bide.
I take my time, and clear my head
the thoughts race, ones that wish me dead.
And yet I can't bring myself to act
though I know I can never go back.
But deep inside I know for sure
the Gods have something for me, better or worse.
And so, as I sit and wait, I know
that someday I'll stumble on that road.
I'll dig my heels into the dirt
and travel on this

Am I Just A Tool?I fumble in the darkness
searching for some light
Trying to find my way out
and reclaim the harsh night

I stumble over a rock
A pebble in the grand scheme
but even the slightest bump
puts in motion the whole scene

Cursing lightly under breath
I keep trekking onward
Determination keeps me going
Keeps me moving forward

I smack my head against the wall
Curse loudly to the sky
I feel a bit of blood gushing down
I shrug it off and sigh

I have no time for wounds
I have no time to be mortal
My destination awaits me
My goal, to be immortal

Stumbling around in this void
Tripping here and there
The temperature drops quickly
But I

I Woke Up BleedingI woke up this morning, which isn't anything of particular importance, but like all stories I had to begin somewhere. I woke up feeling a little dizzy, which is a feeling I've come to expect every morning when I drag myself out of bed. When I reached for my glasses, I noticed a bit of, discoloration, of my hands. Putting my glasses on, I found my hands were coated in dried blood. Instinctively, I started looking for any cut I may have opened or caused in my tossing and turning. Went into the bathroom and checked to see if I had had a nosebleed in the middle of the night. Nothing, just dried blood over my hands and no source to trace it back t

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The Loving Dark

by ~Axlazu, Dec 31, 2012, 10:44:41 PM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

In the darkness,
A figure moves so slowly.
Questioning his purpose here,
And where he's meant to go.
Doesn't understand the light.
In turn he learns to fear it.
A woman smiles softly,
Her warm hold welcomes all.
But in the shadows, things do lurk,
And cripple the Maiden's call.
A weeping boy, doesn't understand
The differences of the world.
Just knows he's not to love a man,
But must, in turn, be hurled.
Into a world, that no one knows
But everyone knows their fear.
And has no reason to disembark this
Machine that controls, contorts, and lies
A weeping man stumbles out.
A maiden's call long dead.
Perhaps it was just a dream,
Perhaps just in his head.
The darkness knows him, it loves him too,
Doesn't judge or condemn.
Just lets him carry on, a weeping man, as him.

The Loving Darkby ~Axlazu

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

Continuing my recent theme of weeping....things, the word Disembarking came to mind and I started writing. Didn't fit anywhere...til the end, but still I felt the urge to just keep typing. When I couldn't find a rhyming pattern, or care for one tonight, I scrapped it and compressed down. No stanzas, no rhyme, no reason...just raw, this.

_{The Weeping Darkness Loves me so, it tells me how to feed.}

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