Canyon {Feb. 20, 2015}

He said sometimes
       she crossed the line,
the one she stood
       seven hours behind.
He might not even mind, if she'd only
used her head
        and stopped looking
for danger to take her to bed.

"In his head," he had lost
        her in that abyss
                of sandy red shores
                        and rocky cliffs
to a daunting dancer
who led heedless
feet to spin,
        to stumble,
                to slip
into the abrasive arms
of a hundred junipers laid dormant
        by winter's
immaculate fingertips.

She assured him she would
        not be put to rest
in that radiant wasteland
of oblivious sentiment
and sediment

He laid awake
that night, writing
       tragedies
               on the ceiling,
while she wrote
        comedies
                in the sky.

"Midnight Snacks"

My head throbbed.

The fan spun in circles above my head, like a dog chasing its tail, and created a sort of perpetual buzz that penetrated what seemed like the silence of the night.

I was staring at a canvas of black, but occasional swirls of blacker-than-black would float into view and glide across the room; sometimes silently sliding into the closet and hiding a few minutes before creeping out again. Step one was not working.

Sweat soaked my socks and glistened on my arms. I nestled my nose into my pillow and shook my head back and forth, as if I were wiping my nose.

These are the hours I had become familiar with; the early hours of the morning. The dawn’s prelude. The buzzing of the fan, the haunting scratch of the holly shrubs against my window, the whistle of the wind in the chimney, the restless tossing of blankets.  

My eyelids refused to stay shut, and I could no longer stare into the black and blacker-than-black, so I sat up and let my feet find the floor.

The familiar tap on the hardwood reminded me I had progressed to step two; I would pace for hours until I walked through every step of the midnight ritual.

Anxious for sleep, I proceeded into the kitchen, my fingers tapping the walls beside me as I glided through the dark. I passed the lving room, and wondered if the hound knew she sounded like a wolf when she slept; her snores gnawing into the quiet.

The cabinet squeaked as I opened the door and took a box of cereal from the shelf; step three.

I raked its insides into a ceramic bowl and placed the box on the counter, where it would spend the night. Step four; I reached for the milk on the top shelf, but was unable to locate the gallon jug.
I flipped the lights on, and reopened the fridge; still no milk.

Dear God, I whispered, if I don’t finish step four, how will I get to step five and six?

I remember a moment of solemn dismay; standing there alone in the kitchen, realizing we were out of milk.

Then I got over it. It was almost dawn. I would survive, with or without the creamy white substance that put me to sleep so easily.

I snatched the bowl of cereal and sat in my bed, now cold, munching on the dry substance until I don’t remember. The next thing I knew, sunbeams brushed my arms and hair and I heard birds chirping outside my window. I felt restless; I could no longer lie in bed but I was too tired to get up. I rubbed my eyes and sat up. This is what it felt like, every morning. Whether we had milk or not.

There is just something refreshing about waking up to crumbs in your sheets.

December.

December.
That foggy line that rests between the giddy, cheerful spirits of the swanky season's stigma, and the dull, dreadful cold that resonates in the floorboards beneath frozen toes,too lazy to wash another week's load of candy-cane striped socks.
Everything looks, tastes, and smells of cheer, of pleasure.
Plants droop; dead; smitten by the frosty frozen air that signifies the time to paint our rooftops like our fingernails, bright red and glossy.
The air thins, but the rooftops seem to breath more than they have all year.
Dreaded decisions must be made before the new year.

Section 7: An Entertaining Idea

Written for an English class freshman year of high school.
I was fifteen years old.
May 17, 2011

VII

          I have chosen to forget. Somewhere in the back of my mind, festering like the wounds of my captives whose flesh is consumed by the flames that give me life, are the days before a piece of the heavenly utopia was forever tainted by the darkness of my interrogation. I call it the divide. In reality however, it was more like my destiny unveiling to my eyes what would soon be handed over to me. I was an Arch angel, perfect in every way. My beauty outshines all, even our Father. Recognizing and acting upon my power our Father made me head over the music which brings him the most satisfying of pleasures. Through doing this he thought he could tame me, make me feel content in being his, but he had no idea what I felt. I knew deep within me he had created us to love him without question; we were wired to put our passion in one direction never given the chance to truly choose who best deserved our worship. Time passed, I played the music, I sang the songs, I even worshiped, but I knew I couldn’t hold o ff much longer; my rebellion was beginning to be seen; the cursed thread woven within my robe was beginning to lose their shine. And I’m aware now of how, everything’s going to be fine. One day, too late, I’m in hell.

            It’s actually quite simple: I was made by God to challenge him; through him I was given the beauty, the strength, and the first seed of rebellion that grew under the nourishment of his very light. When the time came for my destiny to unfold our Father acknowledged my challenge, awarded me with the earth and allowed me the soul of any angel who was willing to follow me to the place below. I was shocked at the amount of angels that chose to stay behind; I was only able to open the eyes of one third of those dwelling in our Father’s courts. The third I received had dull eyes, they would be enough, and in fact I hardly needed them and was planning to establish my rules concerning them very harshly as soon as my dominion was established. I don’t want to change the world; I just want to leave it colder. Light the fuse and burn it up, take the path that leads nowhere. Our father began speaking; his voice sounded like curses to our ears.

            His voice slowly faded as I realized I was falling. It was like a warm soothing sensation in the air rushing through my wings. The brilliant light I had always been accustomed to was dimming slowly, then faster. I was falling in to the darkness, and I liked it. As I fell deeper I could feel it crawling on my skin. My soul craved it. As I became part of it I realized it was consuming me, and I let it. Blinded by the darkness I was caught off guard by the scorching heat that loomed in the air as I fell. The pain was overwhelming; I felt my skin crack and the brilliant feathers on my wings curl inwardly as if they were trying to turn their selves inside out. I let out a tormented screech as I felt my spine turn inward. I was sure tears would be streaming down my face if not for the heat evaporating every bit of water from my body. I was instantly thirsty, had I even been thirsty before? I couldn’t remember. The moment I felt my beauty turning into distortion lingered way too long; I was used to nothing of the sort, my head ached, I was nauseated, dehydrated, deformed and falling into a pit of darkness. Without warning my body smacked against the most detestable surface, but at least it was a surface. It was freezing cold; a contrast from the air in which I knew was cooking me alive. The sensation of a scorching hot body against a freezing rigid surface was extremely uncomfortable, too uncomfortable to describe with words. I distinctively heard, felt and smelled my wings singe in the middle of the war between the hot and cold. I wanted to stand, to jump, to fly; anything to get away from the line in which these met, but I knew I wouldn’t even be able to stand if I tried. I began to whimper like an infant who’d lost its mother; this much was beyond my control. All I desired was to fall asleep, pass out, even die; anything that would numb the pain. I was now certain this was the worst place imaginable. What if I wanted to fight, beg for the rest of my life, what would you do?

            Six hundred and sixty-six days and nights I lie paralyzed on the heap of bloody bones that I had crashed upon; not that I would have been able to tell since the only thing I saw since arriving was simply ‘black’. Not only did I see the black, I felt it. I woke up, which was startling considering I was never allowed rest of any kind. I was distorted into something I didn’t quite understand, in a place hung with silence, and decorated with fear.  I ran a parched hand across my body to determine any major injuries. So far I felt better than ever. In fact, I felt disgustingly gorgeous. Now the dark begins to rise, leave the lost and dead behind. I am not proud, cold blooded, and fake; but I’m going to shove the world away

Six years later.

            So here I am, standing as tall as my turned spine will allow, surrounded by luscious vines and rushing streams of water. The garden was more awful that I could imagine, it was bright, blindingly bright; and wild animals roamed free enjoying their lives. If I hadn’t of taken the time to correctly prepare myself to face the trials of the pure I might have run right back to my dominion below and never again dare to leave it. And im prepared now, seems everyone’s gonna be fine, one day, too late, just as well. That was when I saw them for the first time, walking hand in hand, naked; they were disgusting, they reminded me of our Father. I realized with one glance at my burnt, deformed, crooked body they would turn away, so I brought upon myself a new look, the look of a serpent; a brilliant green beast with bright eyes. And I was on my way after them. A warning to the prophet, the liar, the honest; this is war. To the leader, the pariah, the victim, the messiah; this is war.

            My chance came when I noticed the woman named Eve sitting alone under a shining tree that appeared much different than the rest. “Did God really say that you must not eat from any tree in this garden?” The Woman stood, startled. There was a look about her; she would play the game well. She would play ‘My’ game well.

Seether

Breaking Benjamin

30 Seconds to mars

"The Seasons Change Today" By Jennah Bussell

Its winter now, the winds chill to the bone,

Although there’s sports to frolic in the snow,

And crackling fires and sleigh rides I have known,

I seem to long for crocuses and so…

I wait for spring to burst from her cocoon,

I long to hear crickets in their show,

To watch as flowers burst into full bloom,

The rain is leaving me behind and so…

The winds will calm, the air will become dry,

The brooks, the streams, my favorite place to go,

To water ski under the sun bleached sky,

But soon the scarlet leaves will brown and so…

The trees grow bear dropping their leaves below,

The seasons change today; so let it go. 

Memoirs in Autumn

Autumn innovates within our souls

Thankful hearts and thankful intuition

Tucking away the gravel beneath the soles

Our Feet becoming numb to recognition

Memories fall like brittle leaves

While muffled feelings flicker further down

Ruminating there amongst illusions

Remembrance running deep throughout the town

~She Was Lavender~

(The internet's logic; how Distrust, housewifely duties, and acknowledgment are brought under one sweet name; lavender)

He didn't know her name, but he could tell by the way she moved her hair from her face that she didn't trust him, nor recognize him. "Will that be all today, sir?" She had probably asked this question a hundred times today, but for him it took his breath away.
He said yes, because the savory chicken fried steak and cherry pie were indeed all that he needed, today at least. She handed him the bill, enclosed in a thick black paper taco that seemed to say 'we are a classy establishment'.
He tried not to let his eyes linger, but he couldn't help notice that her hands didn't fit in with the rest of her body. She was by no means tall, her short dark Hair was tucked behind her ear- her ears were pierced with small purple studs that matched her lipstick. Everything about her said 'elegance', except her hands- they looked worn.
He felt uncomfortable and looked away; an elderly couple sat across from him, he hadn't noticed them earlier. "Alright, Well have yourself a good day sir- come see us again." And she was gone.
A moment passed.
And another.
And another.
 He had missed the sun set, but the sky was still light blue, and probably would be for another half hour. He imagined what the other passerbys thought of him; walking home alone in a dark blue coat, hands in his pockets, head in the clouds- or more accurately in the restaurant, as he wondered what type of woman hid beneath the clean cut courteous waitress.
 What was her name.. He couldn't remember seeing a name-tag on her apron, but she must of had one.
 "Can I interest you in some roses?" The old lady approached him everyday as he turned onto the street that he called home.
 "No, thank you, but I-" he breathed in deeply, the expression on his face changed.
"Ah, she is famous for taking breath away, doesn't she smell lovely?" He followed the old woman's gaze to an odd little bouquet with bright purple blooms.
"What is it?" Lavender.
And he decided that very moment that to him she was Lavender; the girl in the subway with the purple hat, the lady who sketched for pay in the park, the woman ahead of him in line for coffee every morning, and the mysterious waitress with purple lipstick. He had always known her it seemed, but he could never place her name.
Who would of known it would be such a beautiful name?
And so the man with the blue coat walked home alone, again. The only new thing about him tonight was that hope resided in his eyes; he breathed in just a little deeper; the word 'Lavender' rested on his lips.