words tumble lottery loose
and I am just another loser
who plays with his last dollar
his last wish
his last hope
easy pick is no way to write
SchooledInto the mirrorSchooled by Eremitik
Of flesh and bone
I gaze of myself-
The facial maze of my age
Reborn and true;
A vision of my self,
Pure and new,
Full of laughter and truth-
Teachers of my forgotten
I love You
Wait It Outour memories are tinged,Wait It Out by Eremitik
a tainted sepia seeping
to a foggy monochrome
tasting of pewter, of iron, of copper-
the only metals strong enough to call blood
only to die
more or less soul less,
one plus one equals negative three-
the ghost of the father lives in the son
with eyes dry,
tearing with pain,
the tare weight of life
isn’t despair but love
and the constant breadth
of giving yourself to others
our loyalty grows on trees
so we wear them as chains
that hold us,
rust us down
beneath the ache
that we mistake as love
on turning 25i never thought much about it until it happened.on turning 25 by lealsfeels
i stood up, slipped out of 24 and shrugged on the shocking weight of 25.
it was startling. a quarter of a century-and what?
words on a paper on the wall, words on papers on corners of desks, words on electronic screens, words tangled through my marrow, words flying out car windows, words spoken only with my eyes, words slipping down shower drains...
words rationalizing twenty five years of moments, of memories, of challenges, of mistakes, of triumphs, of successes, of creating myself
here's the secret: even the heavier pull of aquarterofahundred isn't enough to convince me my bones are finally settled
adventure doesn't have an expiration date
and on turning 25, i looked at the difference with some trepidation but I buttoned up (what choice did I have?) and battened down
let go, toss my hands up, be brave enough to unsquint my eyes - here comes the next part of this unpredictable ride
depressI smell like cigarettes and perfumedepress by lealsfeels
Neither of which are you
The winter chill hounds the edges of the doors and windows
And cleverly the breath in my apartment imitates the frost at the edges of my shower curtain.
I look for sadder music but nothing feels right
I can't find my tears either.
If I lay here counting the spray of the water and ignoring the minutes would you get here before I drown?
Not Easy (30/30)When I was a girl
I thought poems were easy
Slap down some adjectives, twist them to rhyme
Though sometimes I ended up
Or forcing an ending... some... times...
These seedlings of words
(Oo, seedling's a good one)
Were carefully guarded and hidden away
Never expecting that same
Would make them a hobby some... day
Fear in her eyes.
Beneath surface lies
I am yet a girl
And words are not easy
To hammer and sharpen and train
But now I am willing
To give them my all
In return, they are keeping me sane.
Fairy Tale EndingAmong these beheaded dolls
I'm still searching for peace
Beyond these castle walls
The cries of wolves never cease
Behind the bricks and mortar
Beneath once azure skies
Standing alone, lips sewn
Another fairy tale dies
The stories are erased
While I'm fighting for breath
Final words on our pages
Have started tasting of death
Abandon pieces of myself
Your ever loyal pets
Now I'm waiting for the reaper
On my suitcase of regrets
My Artist The first thing I ever saw was her thoughtful face, pondering over me. I didn't smile. I couldn't move. I barely had any life in me at all… I was so stagnant and flat. Yet somehow I was starting to live. I must have been very vivid in her brain.
The next time she drew me, I was in a much more dynamic pose. That was more like it. I could feel a personality shifting and taking form. I wondered who I was.
My hair got longer on the next page - a bit more wavey - and my eyebrows got a teensy bit sassier. My eyes were the favorite, though. She spent so long on each one, getting them just right. How thankful I was that she always sketched them first; I got to watch her draw the rest of me. Her forehead wrinkled and nose flared when she was most concentrated. She would let out sighs and little gibberish noises with her lips whenever she erased part of me. But whenever something was right, like a special flare i
SolidDo you fear for me when I dance
Between the propeller blades?
Are you worried that one day I might
Miss a beat and slip into halves?
There's no need to be scared for either of us.
You're dancing right beside me,
And if you look long enough you'll see
The same cold steel coming for you.
Just hold my hand
And try not to jump faster than I.
NostalgiaOnly when I was a child were there times that my imagination was
C a p t u r e d
And now my mind flits drunkenly from one subject to another
Looking for a high to drown out the things I feel –
Not that what I feel is necessarily something worth drowning,
But in my boredom it is not worth retaining,
And I remain unimpressed.
It seems I am still chained to my past desires.
I stride forward determinedly into my future, and yet, and yet,
I hear them calling my name –
No, they are but echoes,
I know, I know,
But I turn my back anyway and wander back into the mist.
Their mummies are not rotted, but they are not fresh. The high does not last.
And I have grown tolerant.
Safe in a shoeboxI put my faith in a shoebox
It seemed like a pretty good place
I didn't want it anymore
But I didn't want to give it away
I put it in the closet
Under shoes and layers of dust
I thought it didn't matter
And no one made a fuss
For seven years it sat
Rejected and sealed away
Hidden on the closet floor
Out of the light of day
I found it about a day ago
I was sitting on my bed
I felt the box's presence
A whisper inside my head
My heart feels whole again
Now that I found my faith
I'm glad I put it in that box
And the good lord kept it safe
BeggarA shoeless man on the corner
Begging for food.
He was surely in need
Yet his appearance was crude.
I had nothing to give
So I turned my head
Thinking that if I passed him
Surely, he would beg.
But my gaze met his
In that sunken, sullen face
And he sat upon the curb
Making me a space.
I know not what I thought,
But I sat with that man
Offering only humanity
Into his open hand.
He told me of his story
And he said that he'd found peace.
Saying nirvana came to him
In the night while he was asleep.
He spoke of severing mortal ties
As he played with his bare feet,
And I watched his tongue work furiously
From behind his missing teeth.
Some would question this man's sanity
I question his beliefs
And is it truly possible to find one's self
While begging in the street?
SilenceTime is a human construct.
I know this because only the arbitrary delineations we impose upon the juggernaut of reality, in order to understand it…only our constructs could be so mutable, inconstant. Fragile.
Memory is fickle. Even at the time it is being burned into the sparking pathways of our grey matter, it loses things too solid to wish out of existence, gains others — phantom senses, ghosts in the machine.
“HEADS UP!” came the cry, echoing off the glacier-polished granite, over the creaking of the rain-soaked rope, the distant hoarse shouts of climbers on different routes. Over the other sound… the dull stony rumble I’d been ignoring for several seconds.
Memory. And perception. They can warp and shift in the most unexpected ways…
The woman leaned out of her car window to motion me across the street; I had been standing beside my bicycle, patiently waiting for her to turn left, from the suicide lane
February SnowIn the cold silence, I
can almost hear the praises
of my neighbors, wrapped
in blankets with furnaces ablaze.
I’ve seen them peek through
windows, with doors locked tight;
children itching to sneak outside
and parents unwilling to give in.
On the frozen balcony, I
stand, waiting for the splitting
blinds, the stream of light, shattered
by faces of youth trapped behind
frosted window panes.
Trickling from the willow tree,
the last remnants of a day, outside
of the ordinary, natural
colors twinkling white like static
on the television screen.
And though the sky quit long ago,
the tree still bares the weight
on its shaky twisted limbs, enough
to dust the ground and keep the cold alive.
And I believe you wish to be a kid again,
with the ability to appreciate
the beauty of a cold weather storm,
to believe the snow is magical and embrace it
with excitement, rather than gritted teeth
and shivering bones. Fazed not
by wind chill, frozen pipes, or electrical failures,
you would laugh benea
the achedo not stare into my eyes
while my sight retreats to tunnel depth
and internal visions flare and gust
withhold those words
as my ears only grasp and muddle speech
and hear the cry and boom of wave and sky
defer your regard
for this instance is destined to be
one more simple evaporation within a dusty open plain
beseechingly, I beg of you to please, yes, so very much, please
place your soft warm fingers into my upturned curled and cooling blue palm
so I may free a final gasp and devour the ache of humanity
one more time before I go
~ hadasaugh 2015
Weakness: First WaveBeen too long, unbroken
Since I've faced the eyes of the reaper
Been so strong, mistaken
Wounds had just fallen deeper
Nightmare dreams, we scream
Hang my heart on a wire
Evil gleams, ripped seams
We'd been masking the fire
Smoke in lungs, cough, spurt
Swallow poisoned rejection
Broken tongues revert
Cutting out the infection
Panic Attack: Winter BonesIce permeates
the depths of bone
Weakening every structure
The shadows lived
And veneers began to fracture
Ice replaced our veins
attacked a nerve
And left us with these stains
A Door That Knocks From WithinI met her on accident.
I never got out much. I had an okay job in an okay building in the middle of an okay city. I kept it up because I couldn't live on nothing, but I also couldn't live off of nothing. I put on the same grey suit every day (dry cleaned on Saturday and picked up Sunday) and spent nine hours at a desk typing words into boxes.
I'd been there for four years and my supervisor didn't even know my name. I had good conscience that the only ones who did were Pierce, who I shared a cubicle with, and Bernice, who I shared a cubicle wall with.
No, this isn't all about Bernice. She was old, thick and leathery, and wheezed just standing up to peer over the divider and ask me if I wanted a cup of coffee. She reminded me of my aunt, my mom's older sister, who said she smoked to keep off the weight but was still fat.
This is all about Este.
The dry cleaner that I brought my suit to on Saturday was a man named Ti who spoke very little English
Panic Attack: EmeryBlue lipped murmurs
ricochet off my pillow
repeating in echo
Red lights strobe
behind tired eyes
our last goodbyes
with the bile of memory
hold a breath turned emery
burning wounds anew
Heart muscles engraved
with death's tattoo
emulates the forgotten sound
Wheezing as broken knees
meet the ground
The beginnings of a winter
that has still not ended
With this splintered heart
that will not be mended
ImoutoHer fingers have pressed trees
into precise, practiced creases,
branched out their long necks
and pushed their bright,
dainty leaves into flight.
Silence and stillness spin them ever
a mere breath
makes them tremble.
They dangle in their quiet world
above, my scarce fraction
of a senbazuru, my calm,
my ever-present paper peace
pauvre sur vousI can imagine December—
staying awake all night
because there’s just
one more thing
pressing on our throats
to be said,
just one more thing,
one more thing
until dawn’s pressure
against our temples
floods us with sleep.
I will know you
with warm fuzzy morning hair
rolling across the
teal & grey sea
of my bed
to grasp my waist
like an anchor
to hold me down
& us away from those
the cyclical drain
we learned to escape
with each other.
I will know you
by the pressure points
that bring on hunger—
the pinpoint on
the back of your neck
when I wake you up,
the hill of your hip
the feeling of the
on your bare
rich caramel back
in the afternoon
& the 3AM sky
reflecting blue on
our celestial made bodies.
& in the next days
I’ll wake & write
& how your skin really feels
with my fingerprints
& the texture of the real
as I survey t
AcupunctureYou found me folding
diseases into origami
cranes, letting their prowess
in blocking life fade
into beauty, the columbines
woven into my French hair
smelled of fresh death
& my eyes were white
as glowing dawn, starting
their cycles to speak truths
unknown on the physical plane,
the sitar in my mind blowing out
all the knowledge of the Magi
of Fate, the Lama dowry
given to me at birth, the Tao
& lao of expansive plains
You plucked me into a homely
room on the fifth floor
flooded with wood, stairs to a
brighter shade of sutra
& calmed my nerves
with your homorganic remedies
for an over-visioned mind—
stroked my neck into a peace
never found in the mouths of heathens,
the hands of reasons.
Your incense skin smelled
of sandalwood & kismet-molecules—
I knew, feeling your unarmed hands
pulling the barbs of my protection
away, that you were a spirit
of the earth sent to denounce
my faith in abstract pain.
All in a one room hovel-
heaven in the middle of a city
Gone WishingTread carefully, the broken sod;
Treacherous, the land of nod
Catch your winks and blink away
The cobwebs on the brink of day.
Silver sails the sea of dreams
Where straying stars collect, it seems
Schooling wishes rise, and yet
We cast at last for empty net.
Time and tide will wait for none
This dreamboat sailing for the sun
Castaway the farther shore
The sirens sing us down for more.
Severance II-she's run out
a broken compass
in her hand
it won't stop
to tell her
and the ghosts
around her are
sand, the dunes
she couldn't ever
[a memory too short to name: forever]Colourless eyes watched as the multitude of ribbons tied around her wrists began to sway, falter, and latch on to hands. Hands belonging to the outline of what should have been a ghost of a memory.
The field was empty, the sun just rising from its long ten-year slumber. The only sound, was of a hesitant wind.
She meant to speak, further, than a single word. A thousand words. A thousand words bottled into a glacial memory, melting all too quickly; the trail left her throat burning, spreading to her eyes, threatening to throw this ship called courage overboard.
It was too frail, too unsteady, on these currents, and she wondered if this was what it felt like to drown. Trying to gasp for just a breath, before frozen fingers, burning like fire, tied themselves around her waist, and pulled.
But her eyes opened again, taking in fairy lights burning like fires across the path, shattering silently, leaving a trail of stardust behind.
Just like this ghost, she never thought she would see
details writ largeHow lovely is the cosmos of idealls,
the half-shade sphere of earthe demure blue,
the land and forests green witht boughs of life
and sun bright hot, itst golden light-filled arm flinging
us round in perfecte circle as we dance
in our own cycles; day and night unforlding
by starslight and sun, moon so shining white.
Time we shelve in dewdrops of experiaence,
stitched seamlessly in story plot like geodmeters
packing circles snug on planes in tenderdest kiss.
Love here ever faithuful ever bright,
by suffering made like gold deeppened; refined.
memory sketchthe solitary soprano voice that cries so wild
the haunting silhouettes that shift against the sky
against the flaming sunset the aching loneliness
and the vivid tenderness of vast nature
the throbbing golden sweetness of the guitar twang brimming with
so much honeyed mature love
the scene against the dusky bright sea that awakens the whole earth's nerves to sing
you hear the song pulsing toward the horizon
the scent wafts by oh its tendrils
sketch the scene of long ago
it draws with a sudden smoking pencil,
the rich living atmosphere woven
by years ago imbuing
culture with more than
genealogy and physical pattern
and the artist trying to capture
the lost impression the resonance of a four-dimensional moment into
one little round capsule
—young butterfly catcher running in the spring sun
chasing yon flash of light through
hazy light meadows edges whitewashed
by intervening time—,
molding an unwieldy thing into a memory
So We Can Experience NatureI will claim that I can count the stars,
and you will disagree, we will compete
until I win because you let me.
And I will take your hand in mine
dragging you to the dark depths of the desert
where we’ll lie in the dirt with the itching crawl
of insects beneath our backs.
And we will think about the houses we abandoned,
the things inside we worked so hard to buy,
and I think we’ll agree that this is worth it.
And then we’ll hitchhike across state lines
in the bed of a pickup, with the rolling exhaust
clogging up our lungs. And we will choke down
the fumes with the sweet smoke of a rolled cigarette.
The interstate moon will reflect from the oily roadway
and we’ll beg the driver to shut off the headlights
so we can experience nature, and he will.
And we will crawl onto our knees
and hang our bodies over the sides
until we begin to feel sick and even then
we will be reluctant to return
because the world makes more sense
from the upside down spinning of a tire
How to Live in 2015Be born. That’s the easy part.
Beg for new toys or take someone else’s.
It doesn’t matter. Being selfish as a child is normal.
Being selfish as an adult is normal.
Get dirty. Stop taking everything
so seriously. You’re going to die.
Don’t worry, everybody does it.
Don’t fall in love, love is not a hole
to fall into. Run into love, headfirst.
Bite your tongue until
you can taste the word no.
Give away your secrets under a pseudonym
for someone else to sell.
Chop off your arms and legs to pay for college,
realize tuition rates doubled.
Get a degree. Find a job. Hate your job.
Find a vice. Keep it closer than your breath.
Find God in an alleyway.
Lose God like a set of keys.
Die and be reborn as a memory.
Die and be reborn as an afterthought.
Die and be forgotten.
SchadenfreudeThere is a gun in the coat closet—
it speaks to me about Vietnam
& how my mother lived it with code
written into the daisies on her knees,
her boyfriend who’s mind was
mangled with her loss & filed off to
war, returned in a box marked not
to open until death. Who knows what
the winding gears of women
hungry for relief, children sweltered
in the heat of machine gun logic &
every leaf pile threatening murder can
It speaks of antiquities, the pistol my
first love bought for protection from
the bottles lined up like early
graves on the refrigerator, all waiting
for the last roughened kiss for their
final drops, how one pity-filled day
or filth-filled night he saw opportunity
in the barrel. So long without sleep,
the earth’s gravity takes a darker
It speaks of some father in a
bleached chimney of a home, leaking
WWII from the chimney, the inopportune
thoughts of Hitler swirled in at the bottom
of his glass with Deutschland Pride & laughing
at the m
I am Fall-ing.
For a crispness to the air
More brittle than that of
These vibrant leaves that linger here.
I walk these crunching paths and
Breathe in the chill, wanton days
Of a childhood that I had forgotten.
Hold those refreshing remembrances
Until my lungs burn with them.
I exhale contentment.
A feeling that can only be described in
The way that I pull my coat
Tighter about me,
Pressing warm wool flush to flesh.
In the way that my breath
Hangs before my eyes briefly in the
Orange tinted light through the stubborn trees
Before joining my languid thoughts
To swirl in memory.
In the way that apple and spice
Seem to have caressed my senses.
A feeling so like unto a kiss.
So akin to a warm embrace on nights
Lit only by small fires and fiery nightcaps.
And I Fall in step.
Sunrise #12328767 and counting...Cloudy mist in the dawn sky
The world in the focus of a red eye
Slowly opening to a realm of crude chieftains
And lives falling like tap water leaking
Shimmying across an abstract canvas
But the art doesn’t provide any answers
No matter how much the big eye observes
It seems there is no direction in this world
If there was a god he would have long gone insane
The whole picture is just way too much to take
But that big if gets smaller the more it surfaces
That neither good, bad nor ugly serve inherent purposes
In the big eyes view, I sit cig lit on the roof
Among the pigeons rising to whatever their desiring
I want to cast stones downwards into cogs and iron
Despising the station as well as the road winding
But I climb down as usual from the eye’s sight
Back into life down the day to day incline
Since I know the fiery iris will be back tomorrow anyway
And I’ll holler back like “Same shit different day…”
…it’s alright but I’m not okay
My Flaws are MineFlaws are nothing more than stepping stones towards truly utilizing your talent
I now sore above them with an outlook that shows my pathetic past, now much better handled
I’m in love with my mistakes, and I let them bloom in my technique where the craft is my garden
And no I’m not begging for pardon for what is rightfully wrong, I’m just going to keep growing on
There is beauty in flaw, because nothing could be more honest then imperfection
There is no makeup you could apply that is strong enough for misdirection
Every battle scar is a reminder of your lifestyle you should let those flags fly
If you laugh at the sting failures turn into lessons that will guide you on the next try
Lest we forget that an artist's element is self expression among other things deemed meaningless
We prove to ourselves that there is something worth hearing, seeing, feeling to get off our chest
When you’re done counting blessings count your scars and know, in the end they all will show