Were you bad for me then,
or worse now?
A chased down fantasy
of the plainest type.
The simplest touch
from its broken and complicated source.
Those twisted tales
from an unwritten tome,
warnings gone unseen, unabided
by the unbridled.
Blinded heart
exposed at the sleeve
a token, a trinket
at once too shiny to collect,
but drawn to caress, touch, taint.
Fingerprint smudged,
the smeared reflection -
in your own image shattered.
Only sought out solace,
in the crook of your arms and curved mouth;
thought to be shelter,
not the storm.
Rather found a false prophet
of true lies – mix truths
like beauty for the eyes who behold.

Once, you were good for me,
better then.
A tangible reality,
once within my grasp.
A moment’s taste,
with a whiskey soured burn.
In a moment of weakness
clung to, devoured.
An easy choice, yes,
not foolishly pursued;
never forever, just the time.
Felt real in the moment,
now faded edges blur
in hot echoed breath with callused fingertips.
The marks all linger,
the lesson remains.
Uncovered soft malleable flesh,
the still beating heart, stalled, restarted.
Awakened deep desired worth,
your teachings of an honoured student:
sum of parts, and parts of some.
Everything has its ugly splendour,
discoloured bruises fade.
Blinded eyes open
to the beatified mess. 

08/05/09

I’m writing again. It may be juvenile, and strange (maybe not very good) but by god, I’m writing again! And that has to count for something.   

( SALVADOR’S SYNDROME )

------------------------------------

( EPIPHANY )
------------------------------------

This one is fun. It's pulled together by some book titles from the "True Crime" section at work.

( LEGENDARY LIBATIONS )

Why is my muse a wounded heart? Oh well.

THE SNAKE CHARMER
Should’ve walked away,
when I had
half a chance;
stumbling, slipping
on my own two feet,
on my own will;
not crushed
under your weight:
But drawn back.
Tear streaked cheeks
erase, reroute
the free flowed memories;
delusions
in honey coated lies.
The joke of years,
the real months wasted.
- Cowards never
leave tracks home -
What kind of fool
trusts you?
I’ll ask her,
with the gold branded finger,
or the next body
to warm your sheets.
So much to share;
bite marks and poison.
Crawled on your belly,
and still charmed by
that slick, slippery smile.
Trapped, quivering prey;
relished every minute
I did.
Should’ve run,
not lay, offering.
Should’ve learned
before the lesson,
from the seductive serpent.
I’m worse than Eve.

11/19/08

Poetry. It heals even the most broken of hearts, doesn’t it? Or, rather, it gives me a medium to vent, angry chick style. Either way.