the artist

dirty apartment disheveled with papers
housed the artist going mad with creativity
manically producing and deducing.

he has no time for necessities,
all he has is his art and the deep purple reminders
on his pale, corpselike skin.

every month, he returns.
he's smaller but his mind has expanded,
he has dreamt more in his fitful sleep,
he has made more with his delusional mind.

the artist is carving his way through acryllics and charcoal.
while i stand, observing his alluring abstracts,
i dream of withering away into his curious frame.

the bath

tonight you lay in a casket surrounded by delirious tears and terrified whispers.
your dress is periwinkle, you always wanted to be remembered by a deep purple.
the church is filled with a black curtain of strangers,
you had always dreamed of being released into the wind over an ocean or into a forest.

yesterday, you woke up and made breakfast.
the whir of the egg beater meddled with the smell of bacon in your eyes.
toast. you counted one, two, and they descended into an orange wired hell.
with a sputter, the bacon is molded into the eggs.
snap. your toast pops out, a light bulb flickers.

yesterday evening, you decide you're tired.
your boss yelled and yelled and yelled and you deserve a scented bath,
you slowly press into the water, lavender and vanilla snaking around your toes.
you linger a little too long in the calming water, turn the knob to warm up the sanctuary.
ripples of water greet your thighs and you remember the day with a sigh.
you remember the toaster with a sigh.
you make yourself toast. with a sigh.

courage

a grey gloom settled over the city,

she's just another person,

a miniature doll among tall skyscrapers.

her dreams are larger than the country,

they expand over fields and seas,

they ghost along in the artificially lit night,

when her rampant mind won't settle.

she feeds off cups of black greed

and bowls of bland success,

she remembers a time of brightness,

a time of light.

this city screens for color,

accepting only black and white,
the morning paper tells it all,
print smudged with lies.

she arrived for expression,

but came out the same.

defeated, broken down,

she marched back into the city,

and made her stand.

mentality.

i bought a ticket to the museum,
searching for a nice, quiet afternoon.
i was struck with the strangest feelings.

attacked with paranoia,
memories flitting within every painting
as i walked past monet, van gogh, and matisse.
old acryllics gradually fading,
like thoughts slowly forgotten.

plodding through every department,
drips of dreary with each step,
chaos in the modern arts,
that invasion was deferred.

ghosts chased me through the photography section,
i sprinted for the exit, no longer wanting this entrapment,
but i tripped. fell. broke my leg.
closing time, and im stuck in the museum.

a ribbon in the wind

a ribbon in the wind

a quiet, calm breeze lifting

the muted purple wildflowers waving goodbye

the yellowed grass rustling their farewells.

grey clouds cover the familiar blue

sudden crashing lights chasing

heavier, water weighing down,

flight no longer an option.

falling, falling, splat.

wet fabric making an unsightly splash

pounded into brown and red.

but the sun finally returns,

welcomed by nodding flowers

and chirping birds

dusty and wind forgotten.

where is my mind

beg, plead, pray.

release yourself from underneath

the cushioned couch,

the pillows you hide behind.

peeking out,

i see your eyes burrowing into my pink organs,

for you, they're new,

i made you a home, move into my thoughts.

take full control,

dictating my actions, inspiration.

fragility, dependency, weakness, strength.

i pour myself a cup of hot coffee,

and sit upon your couch,

we talk for countless nights,

conversations, both imagined and real.

consumed by the pillows,

thrown up white fluff,

its just a puffy mess.

twist.

yellow orb pressing against the veiled sky,
reminding my soul of its burden,
shedding light onto my hidden thoughts.

calling for confusion,
mixing my mind into an upheaval smoothie,
slushing. my skull, its home.

i want clarity,
a lit path within my gloomy realm,
an enlightening consultation with the depths of my twisted insides.

assisted by a surgeon's scalpel,
draw a deep, red line.
look inside.

tell me what i ought to think,
tell my my story.
give me your thoughts
because i dont seem to have my own.