girl golightly

nothing less, nothing more

2 notes

unfinished

 

Screwing with my hypothalamus

Stimulating brain synapses

With your hands up on my hips and

Nerves on surfaces of skin

No not even on skin

Two layers of fabric

All while my heart is palpitating

Body patiently waiting

Mind not patiently debating

Just impatiently pacing

Pursued psychology patient

Insued emotionally latent

These uncontrollable cravings

Have my mouth salivating

Filed under Tension Poetry Stimulation Cravings Writing

1 note

narcolepsy

Lying up in bed with a bag of gold fish,

right before sleep and I’ll be dreaming of death

with a shortness of breath I’ll be sleeping with the fishes.

I forgot to do the dishes

and live more like a minimalist

this afternoon,

so naturally I won’t sleep very well tonight,

regardless of sheets tucked in coffin tight,

regardless of camomile rituals by bed light.

The white noise

on my white phone

can wipe out

the depth of

my functional brain waves like brain wash,

the night watch turning brains into porridge 

or oatmeal or hot cereal or cream of wheat, 

but I’d take the nothingness over nightmares most nights.

Sometimes I like the challenge

in spite of the nature of the torture,

the hare beats the tortoise,

and I’d like control of my thoughts,

eventually.

Maybe dreaming is like sneezing

that fluctuates with breathing

and seasonal colds

and pet allergies,

pass me that aprodine please, 

to regulate nasal spasms,

tensing muscles, sporadic flailing reactions,

without those drowsy side effects.

NyQuil doesn’t parallel

and battle the irrational blood spill

in my dreams,

irrigating imaginary soil, all the hatred conceived.

*still working on the punctuation.

Filed under Narcolepsy Poetry Troubles Dreams Nightmares

0 notes

beats per minute

The days are seductive.

My body reacts.

Give in to the hours.

Breathe; relax.

-

Our bodies,

We move to the only truth.

But skin lies,

Belief in that “truth” is foolish.

-

Hidden passion lies,

Exposing hungry eyes.

The

Time sighs

As

The

Clock ticks,

And

We

Get our fix

Of

Flesh

And

Nic-oh-tine.

-

Ssseconds scream.

-

Silence, goes our thoughts,

And the measurement stops,

Moved by the pounding of our synced body parts.  

Filed under BPM Poetry Words Writing Writers Silence Heartbeats Scream

1 note

the hydroclock

2/20/13

The water surrounds me… almost.  No need to panic… yet.

There is a candle in a small cup propped in the corner.  The warmth of the bath is transfixing.  I turn over to lie on my stomach.  My skin is aware of the tiny bubbles who simply didn’t have the ambition to expand or procreate. I am aware of my toes, wet but not submerged. I am aware of my knees, bent and pressing on the bottom of the tub.  I am aware of my belly, hanging a little lower than I would like.  All as I prop myself on my elbows to face the water.
I push my chin down first, gently touching the lower half of my face underwater.  Big breath, then descend. Its as if I’m two different people, on the opposite ends of life.  I am still myself.  I am so many people.  I feel myself, my face, right in front of me.  One minute, I am as I am now, on February 20th, 2013.  The next… I feel the age, I feel my own face at seventy, maybe eighty years old.  I swear it, I can feel the wrinkles; the folds in my eyelids, the extra skin around my neck, the room in my cheeks; all so soft.  
Scared and aware all at once, I emerge.  I am gasping for air, body heaving.  I just need to breathe right now.  Turning back over and sinking lower into the bath, I see the water escape down the mouth of the drain.  I feel my skin cells shed as the seconds go by.  I take the cup, the candle, and I take a sip. 

Filed under Time Travel Writing Write Creative Writing Bath Bathtime Bathtub Bubble Bath Panic Self Examination Self Awareness Fear Aging Death Dive In

0 notes

past thoughts

Perhaps I can only fall in love now.
Perhaps I’m still in love with everyone I’ve loved, since the moment I fell.
Perhaps that love will never leave, and I shall keep it in my heart forever.
Is there a capacity, a limit, of love?
Do I offer the current less because I honor the past?

Filed under True Love Thoughts Curiousities Love