The Words I Never Said

Written: Tuesday, October 31, 2006           Waters Wading in waters full of red and greens. Utter contradictions delude my mind. Inhale the viscous air, smells so sweet, and drips down my lungs, suffocating me. Confined to the restrictions of my own phantoms. Do I fight these haunting visions of the un-suppressed, like the sand of quickness pulling me down, or indulging in a desire to be sucked under? At the same time, I reach for a hand to pull me out, revaluating only my own can help this one. My heart is saturated with the need and desire for someone else to make it beat. But it’s time to pump my own blood. Supply the life flowing through my veins, circulating to function, on its own.

Written 2002 (?) What Happened? What has happened to my desire, the urge to etch lost emotions onto a page? The passion driven flow of feeling once expressed. The pound of my own heart beat in my chest, my ears as I scribble methodical sequences of letters derived from fears. What has happened to my heart, that I can no longer feel as deeply? That leaves me colder, I feel as though I've digressed intellectually. Once artistic, warm, articulate. My body only functions according to how my mind allows it. Why can I not portray the lessons I've learned in my actions, my play of life, my tale to write? The echo of self-deception is devouring me. Do I know the truth buried somewhere in all of this duplicity? Or is it permanently denied by what I allow myself to perceive? Is it just an innate duality; this paradox I cannot conceive? Can I endure the terrors created by self-loathing? Do I even believe them? Or have they captured me unruly? How can I o...

2010’s Peter Pan The man that’s a boy, who turns me into a little girl, He has the hands of a man, with the soul of a man, But the laughter of a boy~ that tickles me, My laughter, My soul, This boy that’s a man,   Chokes my heart up into my throat,   And scutules back down into my stomac,   With a swiftly tempo’d rhythm. The mans that’s a boy   That almost turns this cynic woman   Into a little girl   With the sensibilities of a naive romantic When I indulge in him…    Seems to be succeeding,    At suffocating those last embers    Left from the blazing Notions devoid of hope    That brimmed the burn for 26 years    Of My laughless, tickleless, smirking Soul... It’s oxymoronic? And thus untrue? A boy can’t be a man, a woman a little girl Or do we defy normality  To revel in the pleasure, That could exist In ano...