I see your arms I see the cuts Please stop the harm I know it's hard But your body will be forever scarred I need you to understand I care And I know it's not fair But one day You'll have Flowers in Your Hair Hair that will rest about your face Not one thing out of place Lying in all your grace I see the fake smile you put on I see the pain that's foregone I see your posts I know they're ghosts Ghosts that haut you from your past But I know this can't last You're strong You don't belong With Flowers in Your Hair I know you're overcome with despair But you need to take care Because your life is a prize And you should be happy you're alive I hope to see you make huge strives Please stay alive I don't want to have to see Her **With Flowers in Her Hair
I'm a slave to my hair, my hair is a construct of ego, ego is a construct of superego, superego is a construct of id and id begs for release - Water and space and light and room to live free from context, ravenous and unsatisfied, I reach stalemate on the come up and surrender unconditionally on the comedown, I'm getting sick I'm getting sick I belong in jail, I belong in an elsewhere that never manifests except in the moments half awake between waves of sleep and dreams, and waking light on skin I can't recognize, did Christ recognize his own skin on the cedar? Could he tell his body was holy slick with blood and the lashes of whips and nails driven deep into hands? Could he be honest about his situation then, and if not, who among us can be honest? Who among us has not sunk our teeth into something unreal and sweet? I want this, I crave this kind of waste, shot up with suicides and Americana, what is more American than apathy? Don't you agree? Don't you see you're just like me? I want a new way, I want pure energy. I want something so raw it bleeds in my hands. I want distant shorelines and lines of demarcation and I want to run full speed into something all night and never get there, aesthetic and substance, fighting for power over two guitars and a drum beat and a voice, droning out platitudes about forgiveness and an abstract sense of love, I don't resist anything in this way but rather become submerged in it, allow it to roll and crash over me as long as my breath holds, fire a rifle at the sun and call it a small victory but phyrric because it took more out of me than I'm willing to admit, and for nothing, I'm coming unstuck, America you're coming unstuck with me, I address you as judge and jury and executioner when we both know I am guilty too, I deserve that mercy seat as much as you and I can't look you in the eyes anymore because we look too much alike, who pulled the trigger, who gave the order, who payed the taxes, is this blood on my hands? We've both built our egos on an idea of beauty that doesn't hold up to scrutiny, but the clinic is all full up tonight run those tests tomorrow, find out where it went wrong and smother it
Take the poet out of the voice, what is left? What happens when we force honesty for qualitative judgement? What happens to an art form when we force it to dance for us? What does it become? Is this a process of bastardization or a fulfillment of prophecy? Take the poet out of the poem, what remains? I want to know if this will outlive us, if we became Prometheus martyrs for something or nothing, or a story on someone else's walls, in someone else's heart, in something not so easily killed, Or are we jerking off into a void? And if so, is that wrong if it works? What price is too high for honesty of expression? How much is too much? This pen wants to die, This notebook wants to die, What have I done to them?
hair.
Author: Tyler King
0
Date: 06/04/2020
№ 1205070
Inside Her Hair
She Lies In her Head Whispers Words left unsaid Never Thinks about the past Just the thought of a new life Damaging everyone, she doesn ґt Care All she feels is unhappy I feel alive, she feels dead It's no one's fault but hers Take me back to your paradise Loose Those ponytails and Dance with your hair Life aint simple shit "But try to make it forth living", they said. I try... I try...
Trailed on the edge of your dress train Along for an elegant ride but never there Caught a glimpse of the face of royalty Hung the portrait upon the walls of my mind An era ago.
True it sways if the structure quakes And yet it has never fallen out of line Your throne sits, cobwebbed and emptied Awaiting a magnificent resurrection.
Fern-laden trails Wind around up Under the chestnuts Next to babbling brooks, To a special place Laced with magic, The lookout where Ten million eyes have seen The blue settle over the ridges, & I hear the ghosts of canines In my sweet memories crying, Barking into the gentle breezes That once kissed our faces, While your tongues lapped The cool country air & chased horse flies.
Your physical form so personified your very nature, that to gaze upon your body was to fall into the void that is your very essence. I dared not gaze too long, lest I fall so deep that I could not escape, yet part of me wished to dive head first and be utterly consumed by you. It is this turmoil that you arose within me that caused me to love you as I did.
I speak of you as though you are something past, something to be reviewed, and yet I feel that you are still with me, and these words resonate within you - and all the while you long for more. That I might penetrate your soul outside the confines of time and space excites you, my Goddess, and it makes me feel as though I am God. It brings me joy to witness your pleasure.
Through it all we know that this is a game, but a fleeting moment, yet that darkness we see between the closing and opening of the eye that blinks for us is filled with light. As I think of you I feel as though I become you, it is as though I occupy you; I become you. I feel your features as my own, I feel your thoughts and your feelings as my own. In this moment I possess you, yet you are like change in my pocket. Long might you remain there, my fingers moving over you spontaneously, only to one day be given away without a moment's thought.
I think of what could have been, but know that if it had been, we would not have what we do now. We have nothing; I have everything; you have everything.
It has been too long since I don't write anything. The words are spinning in my head, day and night, but they don't seem to find the correct order to flow through my hands.
It's 2 am, it's raining and I realize that we, humans, are just like the rain. There are some cloudy days when only a teardrop or two fall from us and then the sky looks bright again. Other days are a little more rainy, just enough to form a little puddle in the ground. But there are days that we create a storm and we crash violently against a wall and there are thunders in our eyes, rivers in our floors, tornadoes in our heads. In the end it's all about the rain and the conditions of our skies. We are not humans. We are rain.
