Always wanting more than she can handle.

Photo on 2012-12-11 at 18.10 #2

Take it in happy like wine

Take it in the form of her parted lips

She deserves this.

The kiss…

The kiss that will end all other kisses.

The kiss that makes her swivel her hips and take a whiff

warm breath

exhaled by lover .

Left with no doubt of meaning.

Lusting,

Wanting…

good for you.

Getting,

Holding…

better for you.

So take.

Take the words given in the ache of a midnight

Take the information I give you.

Open her insides.

She waits. . .

she needs. . .

hair tangled hands to head to heat.

Meet and greet taking form of

warm body

holding down flesh of lover

taste of tongue savored.

Craving, real.

Passion, met.

Take these words in your mind and give her your lusting.

IMG_20120718_164750

Talking to you

Talking to you is like talking to air…I wonder if the clutter it takes for me to ache ever reaches your ear.

Do you hear?

Do you hear?

Talking to you is paper bag brown and vulgar.

Lusting exits, slumber begins…the death of bed.

Talking with me is no better.

If the words fall sour and the tumbler sticks due to lack of lubricated intimacy, click tracked to conversation of space and time, the sound of foot prints fading, I must hear…clank, clunk.

 Ravage me damn it!

Take it in and give it back out in the shout of your quiver.

Talking to you could be nothing, or everything. If I would stop to listen.

If you would drop in to listen.

If you would

Talk

to

You

   More.

The decomposing of me.

Crisp moon at my feet, reflect to me my truest nature.

Lie to me not, for you know no such thing as ego.

Tell me, let go.

“Let go.”

 Tell me…

Arriving at the green blades edge, my spine straightened by the freeze of the mountain water.

I fall into cold.

                                           .

                                                              .

                                                                                                           fall into feeling…

Memories once shoved into the cozy corner of the forgotten, are now jolted from their slumber.

Rushing the front of my brain like daggers shot from a booby-trapped tomb. Piercing the core of my denial.

Moods flooding, the murky reflections of meant to be.

The smell cringing in bubbles exiting my mouth.

Let me feel the burn of it.

Let me drift to the bottom, toes touching upon mud

Allow the fish to eat my eyes first.

No longer needing to see.

The pain they have witnessed, not just of myself, is enough to ache for the tinge of the first nibble.

The decomposing of me.

Hold death, let me feel the weight of water filled lungs, mouth gaping, deceived by the assumption of oxygen’s availability to me at all times.

Let me feel the disappointment.

Let the childhood stories, beginning with sledding and ending in crumpled panties and lost innocence, tag along with my last scream.

Allow me the release of knowing I am food.

Not driven with purpose yet fulfilling THE purpose…to feed what I have eaten.

No permission needed,

All are welcome to the piece.

Super Human

“You need to remember you are strong. You’re unstoppable when your strong.”

She tells me this while she sits in her own soft sadness.

We are the same. Craving love and attention, we have starved for long enough.

The nuclear family was not the support beams they were cracked up to be.

In fact the cracks were huge and she slipped through them.

Thats how we found each other.

I still have not healed fully from the chaos that was the co-dependacy and I feel her want to pull me back in and yet at the same time it is the safeness I have yearned for.

The  home of, “All things are possible.”

Don’t tell me I need you…

No answers are needed…

Only tell me I am doing it already.

I am able and strong.

I am great at doing this for others…now me…

They are nothing with me and everything with themselves.

I need this as well.

Turn to the ones living the dream.

She has to remember.

I have to remember.

This time…I am here for her.

Who will tell me?

No One. I have to tell myself.

I tell myself I am strong enough, thank you for the idea.

You, strong enough too.

Strong enough to let the world into the private warmth and chaos that is me.

Comfort while icily looking forward.

Crave the intensity of love and not the ambition.

Dance soul.

Get the hell up and dance.

Bear the soul that is deep as the ocean, the world is watching and in need.

All you envision is all that was given to you by the Universe, for the benefit of the Universe.

Sanity feeling like insanity.

Enlightenment feeling like darkness.

The tingle begins. It begins with in her grasping. . . HER.

You are the super human you have been envisioning.

Intense is the leader, hold your hand and let you guide you.

The soul is within not out, so again. . . Dance. hands high, voice just as big.

Take it all on, it was all meant for you…

Happiness is what I speak of damn it!

Enlightened with music, art, sight and sound. Take all on and be all.

For all is nothing. And nothing is simple right?

No choice. It was what she was born to do.

Me?

I am just fine. No aches at all thank you… good day.

Agreed upon pronunciation.

She believes the human lives for the story.

The story of who they were, who they are, who they want to be and who doubted them as they still believed in well, the story of . . . them. . . of her…of you.

She ponders wishing on stars in the definition of  labels.

 Believing in grimacing and taking on the TIME as hers.

Thinking  she was given IT, time, to invest in her  life.

She sees now that you are the giving of nothing.

Nothing beyond the limits set before you, by others and the little they believed of themselves.

Which was fed by others who believed  even less in themselves…and so on…

So.

She questions.

Questioning who she thought she was, who she thinks she is.

Questioning the dream created during a time of escape and survival.

Questioning even, the agreement of  ink in relaying speech.

Agreed upon  pronunciation.

Questioning, for even speech, same as God and Jesus and lack there of, was birthed by humans.

Created and passed on for the purpose of , what else but,  a STORY.

Clean You

You.

You will not come to my dreams and torment me,make me hate me,take me sexually.

Give me remorse in the color of lusting after you, while the groan you carry on your lips is as deep as a valley.

Non-penetrable by genuine caring.

Genuine art.

You.

You will not come to my dreams in the form of the ultimate love, the one I cannot win.

Craving me.

Delving into me.

Taking me.

Then leaving me.

Not leaving me in the sheets for that would be welcomed but leaving me in understanding .

Understanding the lust.

Understanding the artist.

Understanding the creative process and the yearning for more.

You will not come to me in my fucking dreams and then wake me to the idea of not good enough.

Your ass crippled from the life you chose to take place of your genuine questioning.

Glittered in the saliva of your childrens conquests while the chair you sit in folds in from the weight.

The blue that sparkles in the eyes of you will not take the bad taste you have left in my mouth out.

You.

You serve no purpose but to watch the show go on and detest the actors risking their sanity to bring you reality.

Normal.

Normal you will stay.

Untouched you will meet your grave.

Gentle.

Gentle existence.

Gentle exiting.

Harsh reality…

of all you didn’t try in order to cleanly survive.

Lizzzzzzzzzzbeth

Her name?

Lizbeth.

But when she drinks and flirts she pronounces it, Lizzzzzbeth , extra pouty red lips and breath on the TH.

Cigarette in her left hand gin and tonic in the right.

Two revolvers tattooed on her chest…

 

The tattoos over her heart won’t keep it from breaking.

Nor will they lock it in when she tosses it out to yet another unworthy soul. She hungers for intense intimacy.

The kind she writes about… lips pressed, toes tingling, hearts bursting. Breakfast in bed not for a day or two but forEVER.

Someone that will look into her sobbing eyes, puffy and snuggled by the slick dripping mascara and eyeliner, and tell her she is not crazy.

Hold her close and whisper, “you are greatness even in falling . . . ”

The problem?

She needs the whispers to never end.

They can’t be there one day and gone the next.

To brutal.

She can’t bare the toss about.

But who could bare such a burden of carrying her to self worth when she burned up all her energy on the nurturing of others that she forgot, yet. . . again. . . to save any worth for herself.

So she keeps tossing out that heart.

Hoping for Super human.

Hoping he’ll come in the form of eternal smiles and forgivable flaws.

So, no one like her.

No one with tattoos to keep their heart in.

No one with eyes puffy day in and day out from the need to feel.

No one with yellow fingers tips from smoking and aching guts from drinking.

No, no one like her.

No one like Lizzzzzbeth. . .

she uses she

She uses everything. She hates and hurts and loves and weeps all at the same time.

She dresses in black and morns the loss of her true love. . . Herself.

Once in a room painted purple she plummets into the bleak beige world of self delusion. All things hurting stem from her, for her. Even unleashing on others. She gripes at the scorn and tears at the heart of home. Nothing sacred and no pleasure does she find in such mental tattering.

Simply raised this way. Not born this way. Raised this way.

Today she woke with her hair in knots and her stomach playing catch up with her running brain. Coughing she stumbled upon a sleeping child. . . the child was her. . . twitching about in her sleep she was not. So, mistaken, it could not be her.

For she, as a child, was not friends with the sand man. Nor any man. All they wanted from her was the redemption of their orgasm in her tight twat and budding tits.

Another story for another day the point being. . . this child sleeping was not her. It was the children about her whom she cared for that were sleeping. Peaceful and dreaming.

Waking annoyed with the every day twitches of all living things due to their comforts. She, relating to everything and yet finding no one to relate to her. She, nurtures the others.

Her nurturing comes with a bite though. A hurt so deep it will strike if you are tearing at any part of who she is. Or what she is trying to create. She will rear up and smack the taste out of your mouth. Disrespect she takes none of and yet she can spit it out in an instant. No one comparing to her as she yells, no one comparing to you. Selfishly calling you selfish. But she wants health. She aches for it in fact, it is the very reason she acts out. Her perfectionism of balance makes her unstable. And yet her awareness makes her the most stable person on this planet.

Today she uses everyone and everything to figure out what is the reality of the realities? Let it linger on her own thoughts, she knows what you would think. You have spewed same as she has flung it back with her own venom added. This is about her. She . She using she to relate to we.

Now. . . breathe.