Queen of Ice

Nothing is beautiful and everything hurts.

There is a dull ache in the pit of my stomach.

Not unlike nausea, but it is cold.

It brings cool uneasiness rather than

the familiar warm discomfort.

It sits heavily in the bottom, 

resistant to expulsion. 

Slowly pushing ice crystals through my veins 

and tearing me open inch by inch. 

Bleeding myself dry under my own skin.

It transforms my beating heart

into a citadel of mistrust and self loathing.

A fortress built upon every mean word and self inflicted second guess.

It grows colder by the moment.

Shriveled away, frozen, and hiding inside

is what used to make this vessel human. 

Now, I am an Ice Queen.

Using my ice heart to numb every emotion

that passes through. 

"Say Hi to Your Grandpa For Me"

I went to visit you today.
I called your name,
stomped my feet,
but you didn't get up to answer me.
You are a lot farther away
then 6 feet would seem to dictate.
So I sat cross legged on the grass
and stared at your new stone face
carefully engraved with your name
and that little bird.
Remember when you said forever?
I guess you had a different definition
of what that word meant.
I whispered it.
"forever..."
Your silence screamed back.

So I haven't written things in about 2929834 years so here is this piece of crap to tide you over....

I am feeling delightfully macabre right now so this comes off as a junior high emo's scribbles in the back of a diary, but whatever.

I hurt.
In about 12 different ways.
My skin tears open and rearranges on my bones
in new and exceedingly grotesque fashions.
The blood inside instantly starts to boil
and my throat springs into action
making noises that are barely even recognizable as human.
My face leaks all of its anger and frustrations into a puddle on the floor
and I am standing in my own squalor.
I want this shit-
this flagrant failure of a facade of life to just stop.
I want to turn and run away from this.
This whole charade of being human
of flaunting my existence in front of images
of those that don’t anymore.
I want my six foot blanket and the earth surrounding me.
I want to leave this feeling in the daylight and hide
underneath the cover of darkness.
Because that is where I feel the most human.
Where no one else can see.
I still hurt.
The dull aches still sit quietly in the pit of my stomach,
in the core in my chest,
and the source of my wit.
I will wait here patiently
as I am sure this pain will finally do me in.

"Snow"

This is a second draft of a poem I did for my creative writing class. I am still iffy about it, but it is the only substantial thing I have written in weeks.

There is a blanket covering our cities.
It brings confusion rather than comfort.
The hustle and flow of the city stops dead in its tracks.
The streets are a shadow of their former selves.
No longer filled with the pattering of feet,
or the screech of tires.
The games of children,
or the blares of horns.
Everyone is tucked inside.
They are too afraid to be lost to the snow.

We stand outside,
Each unique snowflake brings its own individual hurt
as they whip across our faces.
Trying to push the snow away from our homes,
keeping the cold at bay.
Soon to turn into ice men ourselves.
Running to a blanket that is much more inviting.

We poured our souls out in our breath.
There is the residual warmth in the air
of life passing through our mouths and floating in the cold breeze.
Dancing and swaying until it freezes in its place and fades away.
Until the next deep breath comes along.

We struggle to keep our warmth from dissipating
shivering, huddling, bundling ourselves up in everything we own.
Rubbing our hands together
as if we were praying for warmer days.

All we see is white
and all we can feel is the bitter cold from the soft layers
falling from the sky.
We can almost taste the cold on our lips between the cracks in the skin
and hear the sound of our heat flooding out of our beings.
The snow is so powerful it is stealing life right out of us.

Expertise

I am an expert at knowing
That I don’t know anything.
I stave off a state of ignorance by deciding that I have everything to learn
and nothing to lose.

We sit in our classrooms
and at our desks
in our quiet state of absent minded listening.
Hoping to absorb any fractions of the lessons being tossed to us.

I am an expert at knowing

that I don’t know what I am doing.
I watch the world flow around me.
Living like the world’s most boring 20 year old nothing.

We study and we try so hard to become scholars of our topics at hand.
Never realizing that claiming that we are all knowing,
tosses us right back into our own ignorance.
I know everything there is to know about knowing nothing.

I am an expert at being human,
but I get flustered by simple conversation.
I am an expert of how basic human speech takes place, but I cannot get my brain and mouth to cooperate.
I am an expert of unintentionally coded language.

I am an expert at being a student.
Every paper is handed back with red streaks all about.
More like disappointment than celebration.
I am the best at knowing what it is like to be on the edge of failure, after being at the peak of success.

I am an expert at being a female.
Yet I live like a male 10 years my junior.
I can outline the rise and fall of the zombie species. Even trace back the origin of the T-Virus.

I am an expert at these things
yet I still drown in my own ignorance.
After all of this I still know nothing.

Insomniac's Note

Is it worth it?
To lay out on the floor
watching the morning hours pass you by.
Is it tiresome to wake your soul in the night time?
Insomnia walks through the day
enjoying the sunlight
mocking me
and my lack of sleep
I stay awake so effortlessly.
sleep has become so debilitating.
Breathlessly laughing
he sits on my chest
pushing the breathe out of me.
Whispering so lightly
and closely
“Close your eyes”
“Drift off to sleep”
“It should be so easy”
He makes me walk through my life without memory.
I am never really awake
But I am never really asleep.
I live my life restlessly.

Vonnegut.

What is this?

Life, or something like it?

The best I have is a phantom feeling of how the rest of the world lives.

Most hearts beat freely, but mine can't seem to keep time.

There is a dark metronome tucked into the back of my mind.

'tick. tick. tick. tick.'

My heart beats stay in line. 

I used to hear my head calling to my heart.

Reminding it to wake every morning so we may rush into the world

and start to live like we should. 

My brain doesn't get out of bed in the morning.

My heart is shrouded in a sadness over losing its companion.

Direction-less it beats now.

The pattern flows from slow and quiet

to knocking the wind out of my lungs with it ferocity. 

It hurts more than it helps.

Some days I wish my heart would stay in bed.

Let the entirety of my being rest and float away to a world where

everything is beautiful and nothing hurts.

Everything hurts.

Words weigh so heavily.

(Silences are even worse)

Gestures can kill.

Glances can curse.

The rest of me is waiting.

The lungs are holding in the breath.

The ears are reminiscing in the sounds I hold dear.

The eyes clenched so tight that their eyelids have lost all color.

The hands grasp on to one another...

Waiting for the heart to take its rest.