cognitive flame

little miss tipsy (w. 04.46.04)

little miss tipsy,
drinking up the wine,
won't remember
this place, your face, this time.

little miss tipsy,
drinking up her fate,
won't try to save her,
it's far too late.

little miss tipsy,
little mistake,
little miss tipsy,
little miss whore.

moving on

forget
hearts dancing in the moonlight
and npr in church parking lot
and stones in shirt pocket
forget
carb conscious ice cream
and broken cable cords
and aging buffet concerts
forget
sushi anniversaries
and lifetime adversaries
and video game victories

forget
me.

3000 reasons

sometimes.
i wonder.
i forget.
to breathe. 

a flutter in the shadows

pin
d
r
o
p
s
in a silent room,
but i cannot hear it.
pin
p
r
i
c
k
s
this uncovered skin,
but i cannot feel it.
pin
d
r
i
p
s
with my own blood,
but i cannot see it.

eu sou um paradoxo...

on mortality:

today i noticed that i am not immortal,
that one day,
my skin will turn brittle and break and sprinkle the world with dust,
and my eyes will roll out of their sockets and dent the linoleum floor,
and my fingers will melt like forgotten chocolates in the sun.

the indifference of time will scar my memory,
my presence will be forgotten with the winds of change,
and one day, long from now,
i will be nothing more than a headstone.

a matter of character

it is my character
to act out of character.

to dance when coaxed,
to smile at self-destruction,
to color the world myself,
to repeat this memory.
to repeat this memory.
to repeat this memory.

it is my character
to be someone else.

wearing the cold eyes of my demise,
pretending it brought progress,
progressing back to past,
repeating this memory.
repeating this memory.
repeating this memory.

it is my character
to lose myself in crowds.

wandered into desperate darkness,
screamed to rekindle reality,
threw punches, bruised fists,
repeated this memory.
repeated this memory.
repeated this memory.

it is not my character to forget.

a little less than moving on

looked to the sky and pray for rain,
need clouds to hide away from myself.

for two years, i've breathed nothing but his essence,
and comparison cannot be made.
not a soul comes close.

--even if my lips brush another's,
it is merely mindless play, a game.
a blazing sparkler dimmed by afternoon showers,
smoke signals this slow demise.
(i held you in passing, not passion.)--

thunderstorms and black cars with soft tops,
engaging in berating while believing it is finished,
even when it isn't.

desires dizzle down from thousand miles up,
splatter on asphault with heart and future.

Revelations in E major.

fingers run over keys like there's no tomorrow,
pounding out chords i can barely play,
using the voice of the piano as my own,
this is my way of screaming.

this is me not sleeping.
this is me not thinking.
this is me not wondering why i keep on playing.
this is me not drifting through the day staring at a computer screen.
this is me seeking revenge.

this is me.