☆⨟ Still.

one.

her name is alice. there is a slight blood stain on the valley where her lips part, and her eyes are two supermassive black stars that can't show anything but hurt. she can't bring herself to look in the broken mirror puddles that are all over the ground.

(and i don't blame her)


two.

she borrows her mother's raincoat because it smells like home. not the homes that are flooded with laundry soap or soft candles burning in the family room, but more like the paint she spilled on the carpet, or the whiskey on her father's breath.

(and sometimes, she swears she can smell her mother's sadness.)


three.

when alice was little she remembers playing freeze tag with her mother. she remembers feeling anxious, and now she feels sick. "if daddy touches you, stay still, and don't make a sound."

(alice is the best at being numb.)


four.

alice plays the piano, and the sounds are broken, and slow. sometimes she plays to the beating of her heart, irregular things are what she loves, like tracing the lines in the wall where she counted the days she was alive.

(alice is the best at pretending.)

☆⨟ The Chase

She runs her fingers through her hair
Her ragged gasps pollute the air
Gone is the poise, the queenly grace
She's caught up in a primal chase.

Her husband's close behind her still
His heart is hungry for a kill
His wife's betrayal tore his soul
And caused him to lose all control.

She stumbles on the cobbled floor
Steadies herself upon the door
Her bare feet throb with bruise and cut
She slams the door, and bars it shut.

The tears stream freely down her cheeks
Tattooing them with ugly streaks
She hears her husband rage and shout
He can't get in – she can't get out.

An hour passes, more or less
Her heart slows in her heaving chest
Behind the door, silence lies thick
Should she go out? Is it a trick?

After a while, she dries her eyes
Hauls herself up on burning thighs
Unbars the door, and risks a peek
...
The room rings with a piercing shriek

Her husband, that once gentle Lord
Has thrown himself upon his sword
The blood flows freely from his chest
She screams, he smiles – he goes to rest.

☆⨟ The Light & The Lighthouse

The dead silence is fractured as the creaking sound of a rocking chair echoes in an empty room. A lone elderly woman stares off into the distance with hard, glassy eyes. They have seen better days. The wrinkles that adorn her face run deep like the dense sorrow that dwells in her shattered heart. Her soul leaks with a thousand regrets, but yet is filled with a million memories. Linda Fuller’s chapped lips part ever so slightly, letting out a subtle sigh. Their years together seemed to have vanished like a tiny flame in the eye of a storm. This upcoming August would have been the celebration of their 50th anniversary. Her husband Millard Fuller had passed on to a better place; leaving behind a massive footprint to those he was able to give shelter for. A saddened smile tickled her lips as her mind took the deep journey through memory lane. He was a millionaire by the age of 30, but his heavy heart did not allow him to enjoy this wealth selfishly. Instead of basking in his riches until his golden years, he had decided to give this up. The smile on Linda’s face continued to increasingly grow. In her dark orbs she could see the massive houses now. It was like these houses were crafted for the sole purpose of touching the tip of the heavens. Millard donated the majority of his wealth o a blessed Christian charity that constructed houses for those who desperately needed it. These shelters were something that both Fuller’s were extremely proud of. The ever-growing network provided fresh, lavish houses for more than 1.5 million needy individuals. Linda’s eyes gazed out into the window that streamed what little light was able to filter into the empty room. She knew that like the sun that rose every morning, her beloved husband’s activities would continuously shine a beaker of hope to those who were less fortunate. He would be the light, and she would be the lighthouse.

☆⨟ Electric Lullaby

hush little baby, don't say a word,
shut your lips and you won't be heard...


'doctor, i am feeling particularly
self-destructive
upon this fine night.'

'well, i suppose we must
distract your mind.
have you thought about
your childhood? about things
that make you smile?'

'yes.'


twinkle, twinkle, little star,
why haven't you exploded?
the shadows are waiting to eat you up
and mr. moon's eroded.


'when i was young,
i used to have nightmares.'

'really? can you tell me
what they were about?'

'i'm capable, sure.'

'well...? you know i'm just
here to help you.'


'yes. they were about black holes
and thunderstorms,
and falling from charcoal mountaintops.'


rain, rain, stay with me,
soak my bones and set me free.
and when i do not wake tomorrow,
let your grey clouds cry in sorrow.


'tell me, patient, of some of
the things running through
your mind. let's keep our eyes
looking ahead. what will you do
when you're
better?'

'i'll climb the hill, like jack or jill-'

'i don't think this is the best time
for nursery rhymes.
tell me how you feel,
what your heart feels,
what your eyes see
when you close them.'

'-and i'll fall right down
and break my crown
and you'll come tumbling after.'

☆⨟ Good Art, Bad Art

In reality, there are always two sides to things. Although we always wish for an ideal outlook, it is never successfully justified. Who is to say that one side is right, and the other is wrong? I believe that both sides can be reflected in a magnitude of different ways. In my personal opinion, good art can be defined through one’s soul. Whether the theme of the piece seems distorted and irregular, it can still grant us a wealth of insight to different perspectives through the author’s eyes. I don’t classify bad art in a sense of pointless mouthing, cussing, and devalued morals; because that is the reflection that one individual has on an aspect of life. Good art should come from the soul, and should entice question. I believe that good art should be able to give the viewer a heavy impression and leave them with something to think about. This can be in a case of abstract paintings, or an intricate novel. Whatever the case, good art should be able to successfully allow us to be in touch with what we’re viewing. My definition of bad art is merely that it does not give us enough to really entice the viewer. Good art should be able to twist the heat strings and break into your mind with words and visuals. If an artistic piece lacks this concept, then it is like doing a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces. You cannot fully understand the emotion that the art is trying to portray unless there is a way to communicate it through the piece. Emotion is a large portion of what makes art so overwhelming and interesting. It keeps the flame of art alive, hooking its viewers with a crosshatched brush stroke or a sentence of personification.

☆⨟ Bullet Valentine

Traced your name on my desk today
Watched you from afar again
Was too afraid to walk your way
Or talk even about the rain

Wrote your name on a note today
Covered my face and waited
Had it passed back your way
Turned out I had been baited

Traced your name on my skin today
Embarrassed even now to go
Humiliated out of your way
The pain is starting to show

Cut your name in my skin today
Cowering again in the corner
Decided to stay out of your way
Keep my head down like a mourner

Carved your name in a bullet today
Realized your love isn't mine
My heart is in my way
Realize it's not right to pine

Shot your name through my heart today
Could not longer take their snipes
Now I'm out of everyone's way
No one will hear my gripes

☆⨟ Ess Times Six (S X 6)

Sing to me sweetly the narcotics of your distorted lies
Show me what you can do with those toxic embellished lips
Slice me sluggishly with your mouth-dripped sarcasm
Savour me drinking your bittersweet essence of corruption
Stare at me mercilessly while you scrutinize my every imperfection
Shatter me into jagged fragments of anesthetic desire

I promise I won't tell.