ParadoxBurn

Deeply inked hands will tell the story lonely loving artists will understand but writers wont remember well enough to tell the tale as the painter will have too abstract visions to depict this twisted history leave it to the photographer at least he has his negatives and chemicals

Peoria swells with angst of teens Who talk to ghosts, carrying Souls in rocks and an old Worn necklace. At the diner Where they once talked Sex, they now discuss demons And talking boards over goosebump arms Despite the cups of coffee. Through the cloud of cigarette smoke Conversation continues. Beer bong later that night        But his arm is missing all the more blood Boredom returns all the same         Others' eyes ignore the inexplicable Friends play drinking games         They don't know who they are talking to Secrets are shared         We talk of the dead as though they are with us Sleep creeps in and friends O

Fever slips in                                           Sleep won't come Drums don't quiet                                    Icy pin pricks pluck Air stops moving- eyes won't focus         Goosebumps raise

Where were you last night while I was falling- I wont say In love. But for you I was falling I understand these midnight wanderings of yours as much as you understand this concept of affection. but yet you leave and return to me As I wait in your apartment I feel Shakespearean I am the male dressed in tights in my youth and naivete I have been given the role of female though my body betrays me, portrays me as the male I am- or was before you. Where were you last night? Your other lover called that slender pretty blond wisp of a girl and who are you to play us both though she no barbie and I am no ken But then- simple

With the criteria being met, the woman was clearly mad. There were haikus written about playing in traffic, sonnets to silhouettes and cigarettes, and bottles all over the apartment. They had her diagnosed within moments- borderline personality probably. Now all they had to do was find her. Two pills later – a new unit of measuring just how close death could get- and the neon lights were melting into her and clicking against her ribs. Must have been quality stuff, because just as a synesthetic the sounds around her became her pulse as the flow of her blood shivered beneath her skin where the words she heard b

when my world was a forest and I lived in a stream crab-apples were landmarks and I explored beneath the trees I knew all the deer trails and where the pasture ended I even knew the train tracks though they were long abandon I dreamed a life beneath the tree whose fingertips touched its roots I jumped from bank to bank and knew the river well but winter always came and cows took back their home I stood behind the electric fence and waited for winters release for my stream to thaw and life to begin back when my world was a forest

a stop a pause a break of heart I could not  would not  believe my eyes his face a poem in itself shone through my dusty computer screen his smile- bright shining as only a life taken too soon can and I pleaded -to your pixel perfect face monochrome catching every shadow in your eyes though your smile is wide- Dig me out though your life is now long past i'm an echo of you on this quest: regaining purity lost and i find myself tracing footsteps into your grave

The stuffed cat did its best to hug back while the little girl held fought against her rising tears. "It's okay, Lovelace. They can't fight long." The child said, attempting to reassure her stuffed toy. Soon, the sound of dog's paws pushed the back door open and the clack of nails skidding over linoleum marked the entrance of her brother. The yelling persisted, but the little girl no longer worried. "See! Told you it didn't matter anyway! Let's go get Chance. He always wants to play during their loud adult talks." The cat's eyes tried to remember the sparkle they once possessed before the glitter rubbed off. Grabbing the stuffed paw, the li

Staring out her window, she didn't dare guess, or think ahead. She waited for it to rain but the waiting hurt the most. Then the rain, as it came she knew nothing else. She hopped, lithe, from her window, limp, letting herself fall. The landing came abruptly, jarring her back into reality- what was left. She didn't bother with a coat nor the boots that the downpour called for. Chaari went out to meet the raindrops and she let herself wander. Following the lead of the music in her head, her form nimbly danced the streets. The scrambled notes, random and scattered, were like her heart beat and its irregular murmur. She walked, never permitting

"Where were you last night? Because I felt you in my bed… Before I turned around to check- Before I came to my senses…" I closed the email abruptly. It was lengthy, poetic… it was lovely. It was from a lover I hardly remembered. Me? Where was I? Drunk. Drunk at a tattoo parlor with a few too many ideas about voodoo- too little knowledge about the occult- and much too much curiosity about magic. Even scrying was only a manipulation of household objects. But it, with the right recipe, is the ability to see, to use a crystal ball, mirror, flat surface of water... Any tool you can use, you have the capability to watch…to