her lovelybones
09-29-2005, 07:13 PM
Sorry, it's not a poem. It's something I wrote a few weeks ago. Random I guess.
She sits there. Quiet and sullen. Unmoving and unspeaking. Like a statue of stone; a marking in a mere memorial. Her lips are stony, set and lifeless, refusing to utter a word, refusing to kiss the world. Her eyes show no wear and no tear; unlike the arms rigid by her side with clenched fists of vehemence. Instead they stare, into the void the rest call the world. They too; stay inactive, holding the barren corners of the world in their eternal hollow pools. Pools filled with ochre; darkened by the fury, the unfair favoritism of the world.
Where do you go in this mad world when you’ve considered it all? When you’ve revealed it so deeply; it makes you laugh. Or perhaps it hasn’t been revealed at all. Perhaps you laugh at the surface of it; how deep it is itself. So conceivably, the laughing may not be that of amusement. But a maniacal laughter where the last fits of your wild hysterics recoil around the chambers of your prison.
What if the laughter is not real? What if none of it was real at all? It was all just a vile dream; where the colors bleed together and the paper burns at the edges. Does that mean the raised and jagged edges on her arms will disappear? That they too were just a game, and the line of pain was just a misconception?
What was she thinking? What treasonous thoughts were running through that sickened skull? Why did she bring the pen to paper, the hammer to nail, the hand to time? Perhaps in her head it was all a world of entertainment. Like striking a match and the scorching colors wisp through the air, where your eyes follow them back and forth, a cat with a mouse. That’s what this world is really; a simple game of cat and mouse. Who will be the victor, who will come out alive?
But is the game really all that simple? Some get caught up in it, their thoughts swirling together until they can think no longer. They have their excuse, where they didn’t know. Everything was smeared together, everything was tilting and slanting. They didn’t see the sharp row of terror, just the violent red streak of its aftermath.
That streak… that stripe so gorgeous and infinite. Like a masterpiece within itself, not one can be the same. Copy after copy can be made, but each one is different. A rip here, a jag there, rarely there’s one so perfect, so ideal. How careful and tedious it is, to make the faultless aftermath. So much work, so much arduous actions. An unwavering guidance, and a one-track mind.
Then what are all the other sadistic lines? Practices? Mess-ups? But it’s okay; you can have as many as those as you need. There will always be room for more. And what better way to learn, then to do it again. And again.
What becomes of those elegant lines afterwards? Do they just stay there and decay, each day fading in thought and view? Do they harden like a broken heart, unheeding to the world? Or do they stay as a reminder, as an ‘I was here’. They show you what’s gone on; what’s running through her mind, her heart. Her world.
So I hope she’s happy as she’s pretending. That unmoving line she calls a smile, those eyes sharp and tough that roam this place we call a world. And that heart. That heart so unbreakable; unlike the covering on her arms forever by her sides.
So what do you think? 1-10? Critique? Anything?
She sits there. Quiet and sullen. Unmoving and unspeaking. Like a statue of stone; a marking in a mere memorial. Her lips are stony, set and lifeless, refusing to utter a word, refusing to kiss the world. Her eyes show no wear and no tear; unlike the arms rigid by her side with clenched fists of vehemence. Instead they stare, into the void the rest call the world. They too; stay inactive, holding the barren corners of the world in their eternal hollow pools. Pools filled with ochre; darkened by the fury, the unfair favoritism of the world.
Where do you go in this mad world when you’ve considered it all? When you’ve revealed it so deeply; it makes you laugh. Or perhaps it hasn’t been revealed at all. Perhaps you laugh at the surface of it; how deep it is itself. So conceivably, the laughing may not be that of amusement. But a maniacal laughter where the last fits of your wild hysterics recoil around the chambers of your prison.
What if the laughter is not real? What if none of it was real at all? It was all just a vile dream; where the colors bleed together and the paper burns at the edges. Does that mean the raised and jagged edges on her arms will disappear? That they too were just a game, and the line of pain was just a misconception?
What was she thinking? What treasonous thoughts were running through that sickened skull? Why did she bring the pen to paper, the hammer to nail, the hand to time? Perhaps in her head it was all a world of entertainment. Like striking a match and the scorching colors wisp through the air, where your eyes follow them back and forth, a cat with a mouse. That’s what this world is really; a simple game of cat and mouse. Who will be the victor, who will come out alive?
But is the game really all that simple? Some get caught up in it, their thoughts swirling together until they can think no longer. They have their excuse, where they didn’t know. Everything was smeared together, everything was tilting and slanting. They didn’t see the sharp row of terror, just the violent red streak of its aftermath.
That streak… that stripe so gorgeous and infinite. Like a masterpiece within itself, not one can be the same. Copy after copy can be made, but each one is different. A rip here, a jag there, rarely there’s one so perfect, so ideal. How careful and tedious it is, to make the faultless aftermath. So much work, so much arduous actions. An unwavering guidance, and a one-track mind.
Then what are all the other sadistic lines? Practices? Mess-ups? But it’s okay; you can have as many as those as you need. There will always be room for more. And what better way to learn, then to do it again. And again.
What becomes of those elegant lines afterwards? Do they just stay there and decay, each day fading in thought and view? Do they harden like a broken heart, unheeding to the world? Or do they stay as a reminder, as an ‘I was here’. They show you what’s gone on; what’s running through her mind, her heart. Her world.
So I hope she’s happy as she’s pretending. That unmoving line she calls a smile, those eyes sharp and tough that roam this place we call a world. And that heart. That heart so unbreakable; unlike the covering on her arms forever by her sides.
So what do you think? 1-10? Critique? Anything?