KuroiSora

[8:40pm | wednesday, 2/15/12 | entry eight (8), a direct account of three mighty mistakes of mine; another dream; a deadly dream.] take a breath. the must and tangible memories funnel into your mouth, coasting across the soft tissue of your throat and the ever-more delicate membrane of your trachea, the diligent infantry inflating your lungs with a kind of restricting fullness that does more to make breathing difficult than make it any easier. exhale sharply, as a consequence, but gasp again, swallow another breath, suck in the oxygen around you, display such profound gluttony. your heart thundered. thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump. alive, t

the ground settles with discontent; grey and blue and dispassionate. he lacks the strength to heave himself upward, for gravity is making him fall away in a rush. the wind might wrap herself around his contours, whispering, shy, and quiet, but the ground is full of dirt, he hears, he listens, to nothing. ever-coaxing, the wind winds herself into knots, fastening herself to a tree with roots deeply knit into him. "speak to him some reason," the wind implores listlessly, pressed close to the coffee-colored bark of the tree, that shakes and stirs, its leaves creating music that chimes like bronze bells and brass. the wind's cool essence chafed

"shake well," the label reads. so you shake her well, give her a couple elaborate wishy-washy movements and you can feel the pressure build up inside her that's still turning around like water in a green-colored bottle tornado. when her eyes finally settle and uncross themselves and there's a green hue to her cheeks and purple under her eyelids and she's talking backwards, well, pat her on the head, the instructions say. stroke her cheekbone, the corner of her cracked lips. so you pat her head, stroke her cheekbone and the corner of her lips, and when her cheeks go from green to red make sure to check the label again to see if this isn't a

mouthing your mockery and how it crawls beneath the surface just like parasites and how you feel feverish and reverent in the face of outsourcing logic and pulling teeth. this is you, scaled and slick and watery in half-light, breath of magma, mythic wyrm. everything is a tall tale. your gums are the consistency of liquid, for you gnaw on things shakey like troubled times and the feeling you get when you fall down. you've lost all cards and your voice. the treasure you horde has fallen away. say it's all a game, how you play with luck and love and spin stories.

damask designs flicker like pool-light around your face; it's a hierarchy of a lot of things, when you realized this, did you feel so small ? i'm touching things that look like they'd feel ridged like burnt paper, and i wonder what music might taste like. it's something to contemplate, isn't it, when gasoline leaks into your lungs from this poison source you've guarded yourself from and you experience a high you weren't prepared for. things like this demote the attempts i try and make in my life; my teeth tend to grit against each other and something that sounds like "once upon a time" slips out involuntarily. it's the gas, i say, it's defin

people say, you are mean and unable, mean and breakable, mean and untouchable. i say, no, no; i say, "i am unable to break because of touch." the mean comes off when people can't comprehend straightforward acts. their jawbones slacken and flies crawl down their throat upon bearing witness to it, and words get misconstrued and warped because of their narrow-minded disbelief. people say, break down your walls, you're stand-offish and reserved, they say condescendingly. i say, ha ha! my walls have kept me safer than you have to claim; my heart has yet to be plastered on a wall as spatter with a boy's words as the gun. (and fucking body

so i have a story for you, sit down here and listen. once-upon-a-time doesn't fit this tale well. let us try something based in reality; yesterday ago i remembered how this time you blew my mind away and i've had it lost for two years since. can we remember that pleasantly ? remember, now. here we go. stupid sympathy and sadfaces were what i was spun into by you, you from across the grassy way, you from inside my head. (hello, welcome to my mind, if you didn't know you've entered this foreign place. be careful not to push anything, and if you can't handle me exit from my earlobe, you sinister infection, you.) you sat on my concentration and

i have to say i never thought to touch you, i could be this grounded. i must confess, to be this grounded, things are still up in the sky. i just hope it doesn't come down on me like inferiority and recklessness,  because i know how this feels much too much. the morning light through this cellophane glass looks watery, the atmosphere is loud and flamboyant, but i'm so easily detached from it all. i can't say how you surprise me, i'm not sure about a lot of things about you. you see i want to know what everything you say means,  i'd like to know what's still up in the sky. i don't need a promise i just want a chance. biting my lip seems incr

i do not write poetry for myself. my poems are not windows, to be looked at and fawned over from a distance like that purse you want so badly but is so sorely out of budget. you see, my words are the frame of a doorway and i stand here in the middle with my hand outstretched. my purpose is for my words to take someone's hand and shake it, ask them how they are how they feel to sit down and stay a while, tell me about yourself? my words want to connect to you, form a bridge between two people my words want to walk up and tell you hello and they want you to reply. i am not better than you, you are not better than i; my words aren't more intelle

i press my lips against your semimetal heart, endear, oh dear, that metallic taste; god you've got me going throwing myself across the wet pavement to get away. can you hear this beat richoeting in the chambers in my chest. like there's a bullet you set off by accident. (you gotta love the look of a freakin' blatant liar.) you're full of mercury and molasis that distunguish you as bittersweet. shall we dance all over the damn periodic table and rewrite science as simple fictionality in our heads. "fantasy" is so much better a word to say and place to live in. you'd agree in a semimetal heartbeat.