Golden evening,
sun-kissed and longing,
the light rotates around her.

It's written in his eyes

perfect, sky blue daylight,

while she curls in stark gray mornings.

Unreachable.

It rings from his every fiber,

slides in drops from his fingers,

radiates like an aura.

{We always want what isn't ours to keep.}

They are sick

sick

sickly sweet

white teeth and laces every edge

increased and faded.

Glossy goddesses,
hair a cascade
outstretched arms
in gauzy facade.

Light pouring on them:

Thin

red-lipped

inhaling

kissing

dancing

suspending

in stilled frame.

"Aren't I

aren't I glamorous

in my collared boned shame?

Don't you wish you were me,

with sunken, mocking face?

I am the picture of perfecteion

my eye-lights never fade

I am guiltless temptations

but beauty knows no pain."

New Blog

No, I am not getting rid of this one. I just realized last night how apart our little worlds are and wondered, what if we could connect? We could create in the company of other writers, and help each other grow. We could post our seperate blogs there as well, so that we could bring closer our little worlds. So I created this blog, intractablewhispers.blogspot.com and I hope you will all look at it and seriously consider joining. You are all such amazing, inspiring writers. xxx

I am a crumbling, powdering disease.

I hallucinate the things you say

prancing demons, distorting my ageless glass.

I cover my face with a silk veil

creating with tight-shut eyes

because it's better if you don't look back.

They are pouring molten-

Plucking-

Tugging-

Shredding-

They whisper things, sticky caramel

honey sick-sweet with lies

and refactions

and warping.

My little box was always solid, in the end...

... Though, surprisingly brittle, don't you think?

I've been picking at loose skin again and I'm almost sick of it. Tired and ill with the gut wrenching feeling of frayed ends, unhealed layers.

I lose myself in wonderlands and lovely thoughts and wonder "Do you, like me, hold close Crystals?"

We are bending, rehearsing, reciting, and encoding. We tell our tales of Blackberrying and Cartoon Physics, readily sharing because any practice is worth that shaking, churning feeling of presenting yourself, bare, beneath spotlights.

All the while the date rolls in When Sagattarius eyes count by 20s and hum in handsome green (forest green, to match winter pines)

He is my best friend, as you know, and he can tell I dislike Alone. For Alone greets me with apathetic grace, and hangs pocket watches in my face.

When at last, I crumble into dusty shores, promise me this: That you'll weave me into daises and spin me into paper I'd love, for just one moment, to be Chopin's sheet or Plath's composition.

I title myself lovely bones and pray You
"hear me?"

I drag shells across pages

empty

devoid.

Disconnect
my

lonely

thoughts....

I wish to be instead a micrphone

so to amplify
our secret dreamings,
and harness stars
beyond reach.

Reading through crystals,

I long for your honesty.

Perhaps someday,
I'll have lovely thoughts too

I thought this up while searching for new pictures for my Wishes page.
(I suggest you sing Masquerade from The Phantom Of The Opera while reading :)  )



It was in the way he looked at me,

across the busy ballroom
His cloak like wings,

his fingers like strings,

a dance was sure to follow.
He smiled a deviant,
whispered in lace

and asked me near,
with sparkling eyes
to have a dance beneath
the twinkling chandelier.

Bottled ships that shatter on the shore.
I pin love letters to my arms
and wish to them
"become wings?"
If love could last beyond
would we staple ourselves
glued to snowglobes
like pain was all we'd ever know?

Or could we learn
to take a breath,
skip a beat,
and then let go.

Forgive me,
for not being what you'd expect,
for bending with the wind
for shattering against that wall.
I am interchangable,
a slide that fits in any projector,

I've perfected ultimate porcelean.

And please look past

what I did,

what I gave up,

and what I very well might give in to.

If you could, s'il vous plait, look past all that,

perhaps we could together

spend eternity in an endless spiral of syllables,

abuse alliteration,
and inspire each other for always.

If Only.