Blackbirds Without Bliss

“Silvery flakes drifted downward, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The blackbird soared.” 

   Onward and outward with her ashen hued wings. Over forests and past the hidden moon while she echoed of her impending doom. Landing on Penny Lane; ‘Twas the day my life changed. 

   For when she came the air suddenly had weight; Pressing on my chest like cinder times eight. 

    The pupil of her eye resembling nothing but pure darkness

     Like the heart of my mistress, and I shouldn’t want this. 

     But she stayed for days and I never once complained. Despite her silence being like thorns in my veins. 

      I could never detain something so naturally made, yet any thought otherwise filled me with hate. 

     Her realization became my fate. So that night I set my bait; A poorly painted wooden crate secured by a tether around my gate. 

     I called to her and in she flew; I almost wished she knew

     That at first sight of starlight my shaking hands would bind her breast; Wrapping leather upon leather around her chest

     So that when mourning comes in the dawn her beauty will be here instead of gone. 

   I must’ve spoke my inner being, for she glared at me pleading 

       ” What is this I am hearing? who ever said I planned on leaving? Why must you do this in the darkness of the night; Instead of the morning to see my fright. I am not the only one in this life, so why must you hold me so tight? I never said I would fly away, but even if I did my heart is here to stay.” 

     The very next second I let her go

I expected her to soar but she looked at me slow

                  “I love you”

And I knew this to be true for she came back to me every daylight hue

      I was going to hurt her so badly, but it goes to show. 

       If you love her; Let her go. 

And if she stays time and time again, then she truly loves you till every end. 

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Confessions of a Visionary Realist

The shades between reality and dreaming are very clear to me. The dim and dull variations of paper work and rejection, and the harrowing, vibrant, extraordinary sparks of love. I was never clear on my own perceptions of love. Until I found that in my spare time of living I often wished I was dreaming. The hands that feed me give off a healthy intention. A love so delicate as baby’s breath in spring and baby’s first Christmas in content. 
The hands that hold me are a glass home. So beautiful and tender. Sharp to cut me if I hiss my tongue too quickly or squeeze too firm. They are working hands. Constantly moving although keeping at a steady pace. Thus the hands of time count the dismemberment; The disengagement; The skin to skin divorce between mine and it. 

    Inside of my glass house are veins. Wires if you will. That pull and tug the ways of the heart. Often times I feel as though we share an artery. For whenever sadness arises we both wilt in heartbreak. Nevertheless; A glass house has a glass heart. And though I hold it dearly to me it is never truly mine to keep for without it. You cannot live to tell the story of past safe keepings. You cannot move on. 

I accept my plunder into this field of broken glass. Because holding a heart so magnificent as time works it’s way around means the world to me. My little glass house has become a temporary home. A home with hollow eyes, a real heartbeat, and a green flicker of envy for the one who figures out how to make a glass house into brick. 

Until the hands of time become withered. I will stay. Letting the feeling of lipstick stained lips decay. Through my skin it will go and only I will know. That you were. Are. And always will be. Mine 

Her. 

I lay in purgatory not because of death 

but because 

of sleep 
My ceiling

swirls together 

as my eyelids 

hang weighted 

I crave for

Her touch
The foreign

yet so accustomed 

feeling 

of Her skin

from when

she shivered

goosebumps 

prickled
Her inner self

a true 

Picasso

one of many 

vibrant colors

and peaceful 

rain spells
Mona Lisa 

holds

no comparison 

to the 

alluring and 

delightful 

aura of 

Her
I want 

nothing more

than to be

with Her
To caress

Her tanned 

cheek and 

declare 

my undying love 

through this 

feeling of 

purgatory 

furthermore

to settle 

with Her in 

a state 

of exhilaration 

For she

is mine 

and

I am

Hers 
Purgatory knows 

no real suffering 

than the simplicity 

of yearning 

for the one 

whom you

love the most

Ribbons

I will wrap my heart in a ribbon so pretty it shall be. Tied in a little bow and sealed with uncertainty. What used to be a color of a set of rosy cheeks has been exposed to me and there is where I leak. Blotched with blood stains the bow remains the same. Yearning with an eager voice for you to take the blame. I cried and weeped for more than a few weeks. Telling myself that I should take the heat, but really if we’re being true and gosh I hope we are. You are the one who made this open scar 
        My hair tied up in ribbon so long and so fine. Thick and brown and full of life. Like the color in your eyes. You lift your hands and with a simple tug locks of lust come crashing down. They surround me in a strangling cloud of past hurt and what’s now. I see your face and in your smile there’s a lace of concern. I turn my head and look to the ground my rosy cheeks now burn

I Love You, How Are You, and All The Things I Wish You Would Say

I could walk through the door in a statement of despair but the smile could be so broad you’d never know
This is how it goes 

I don’t tell you how I truly feel for I get afraid that the foundation will peel, and not the foundation upon my cheeks for which I spent weeks trying to perfect but the foundation of your skin from within holds your heart of gold, but I am getting old and I’m told that I should be a treated with respect but what am I to expect when you never ask how I am so do you really give a damn? I sit and wait for the grand slam the day when I can finally cry

I’ll drain my eye sockets like the bathtub water like my soul like my head like my heart 

The time I can wrap my arms around you and not be questioned with your thoughts of my doubt but instead a new saying will be brought about and it will combust bringing me to a pile to stardust 

I love you. 

Holding my hair your voice whispering “there there” but I wouldn’t dare tell you this today

Because these are just the things I wish you would say, sitting here day by day

Wondering if you’ll ever come around to pick me up when I have fallen down 

Little Life Lessons 

I never realized how fast the world moves until it felt like mine had stopped. People still watered their plants and cars drove past at light speed. I however, felt short of breath. As though the wind was being sucked from my lungs into some void of a vacuum cleaner. I heard nothing but the endless drone of my subconscious. Ranting and raving about someone who’s affection would kill me. I felt vulnerable. As though I had given up something I never had. Granted I did lose something. Something I can never get back, but it was more of the feeling of nostalgia that kept me walking. Past candy colored houses that reminded me of the days when I would walk with my mother. The sunset bringing warmth on those crisp afternoons. I spoke of them on those days. Those sweet happy days. I long for a love that gives me the same happiness as those walks. The kind that isn’t too overwhelming and where words drip freely. The sun beating heavy and the smiles light. I know I’ve messed up. Deeply, truly, and full of no regret. If I had the chance to change the course of time. I would not. Even though I felt like the chains of concrete were dragging me down, it brought me back to the people who I so greatly need to keep around. Until I find a love that is real, I will always have these people. These places. And the nostalgic thoughts to sing me to sleep. 

A Dime Piece

What is a dime to you? A tax on food, a lucky surprise in the parking lot, or absolutely worthless. Most people would say worthless. It’s not a shiny quarter, nor a legendary penny; However, it is one of the most important creations to this day. It is diverse. A dime contributes to society more than some humans do.

Our society is based on acceptance through worth. Worth being gained through what you wear, your career, and what you post on social media. The backbone of these things is money. Dollar bills, quarters, and even dimes. Money can buy you a lot of things, but it can also cost you a kind heart with a soul. It can make people into metal craving monsters. Changing the birds eye view into a near-sided vision. Only seeing the big picture. Not what goes into it, and surely not the hustle behind it. This process is called judgement. We as people are made to judge; It is how we make our most worthwhile decisions in life. What we fail to see sometimes is the backstory behind our own perceptions.

Yesterday you went to a food truck. A parking lot paradise of tacos and grease. On your way to place an order you found a dime in the parking lot. No big deal right? You do manage to notice that the people behind the counter are filthy. “Do they not know how to shower?” is your first thought. Your second stems from the way they roll their R’s; Their language is not your own.”These damn immigrants are getting paid better than we do. Illegal no doubt”. You glance at the tip jar, which is sparse as a desert, and make your way out. Rolling your eyes as you enjoy their customs. What you failed to see was the desperation in their eyes. You see, the filth was from their lack of electricity; The food truck business doesn’t exactly pay bills. They used to work side jobs, but now that they’re U.S citizens they must work on their own. The accent making them feared in the workplace. They were a dime short on the electricity bill.

A woman in a bra dancing for money. “She’s a whore. She obviously can’t get it from her husband. I mean look at her. Practically begging”This young woman went to college. She has a degree in social work, and makes a paycheck. She also has a family and self worth. Working the pole in smoke lounges is nothing but a nuisance; However, it seems that horny headass men pay for mindless entertainment. The drunken slurs meaning nothing compared to how those dollars and dimes will put her kid through school, so she acts. Twirling, begging, and degrading herself on the outside. Being a proud, intelligent individual on the inside.

People who hustle for a greater good are simply underappreciated. Just like a dime hidden under a mattress. People who turn their backs at those in need, speak only from the eye, and wander this earth just for the finance are way too romanticized. That 3 centimeter dime is doing more for them than you. Just let that sink in.