walls.

and all these walls have tendencies.
they'll listen to every droplet that falls from your eyes,
and carefully count how many times they hit the ground you stand on.
they will absorb every conversation had, and take notice to how many times your voice cracks.
how often your tongue stumbled for words.
they'll hear everything you'll say,
as you search for the reasons to why you're here.

Day 17.

                                                                                    maybe i'll fall into the sky.

i'll forget that feeling that i forgot something.

the collapsed sensation under my scalp won't take over my day,

and i won't feel like my heart is falling.

i'll pay attention with pretty eyes,

and spend my time orbiting around the necessary bliss. 

i will think without pain one million times, and i wont control my passion. 

i will accept my faults and stare at winking stars.

i will shout at every atom, in their magnificent glow, and tell them that they are loved. 

"She was elusive. She was today. She was tomorrow. She was the faintest scent of a cactus flower, the flitting shadow of an elf owl. We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew."  - Jerry Spinelli. 

this is what i see

                when i look at the clock.

For Kristin.

stretched, and torn.
prodded at, and picked through.
the string tied around my heart has another end, it's reaching for yours.
for your heart to grab hold, and wrap it's existence with the jaded fabric.
it's linked with knots between the two segments.
connecting us.
and though the thread has been touched by fingers unknown.
and fooled with by those who don't understand,
you and i both know it's the strongest cord of fabric.

and my heart will pump.
throughout the duration of each moment.
and i can feel yours.
it's slight movement.
tired and soft.
my eyes will wander,
and the stars will fade to lighter shade.
the shoes my feet walk in will change, taking strange steps.
and while walking, the string will follow.
wrapped around the beating figure,
pulling your own beating figure
that rests inside your chest,
with it's every motion.
i can feel it talking.
my heart to yours.
a certain language i still cannot understand.
but when they speak up,
i fill these pages with concepts that make me feel as if i'm holding the moon.


i love you.

Anger Management Activity.

so, we were given these 9 questions and were asked to answer them.
the activity was followed with some "trust building" bullshit, but i liked this one.
looks like rehab has it's pro's.



1. Right now i am feeling- as if you have no idea how much i need you. i cant walk a step without wishing you were walking next to me.

2. i feel this way because- i've grown strong while holding the hands of chemicals, since yours left. But now their gone too, and i feel weaker than ever.

3. i wish i could tell- you face to face how sorry i am. how beautiful our family is, even though you're not a part of it.

4. because then i would- prove to you i'm still the daughter you left almost 9 years ago.

5. i miss- stumbling on the wet rocks of Maine while you stuffed your nose in a good read.

6. i want to tell- you i love you.

7. that would make me feel- more lonely though, because your answer is not voiced.

8. then i might- look for something else, cliché or not, a sign. to know you love me too.

9. being able to do that would- seem selfish to some, but i just need it. i need to know you love me, because then i would be able to live again.

a box of suggestions.

it all boils down to a box of suggestions for that noise space inside of your head.
and the whole world will watch sifting through the toxic tumbling mess,
a hiccuping disarray of words and phrases.
spoken by friends mostly made of pain.
they drive to work
and home again after the day has happened.
they often say, although alone, their thankful.
speaking to the officer who pulled them over while sleepy eyes guided them home.
explanation of their hourly traumas to the figure with a flashlight in their eyes.
there's holes in their tongues, stumbling for words.
their lives are so hard.
corporate and furnished.
shaken by the small words and phrases,
suggestions in a box.

i walk the lines between now and then.

do you know how it feels to be shrinking ?
to be falling short of everything asked ?
to become smaller
and smaller
every fucking day?
"in the end the only steps that matter are the ones you take all by yourself."
i have no legs.
no walking.
no steps.
i'm idle.
lonely.
and fucked in the head.

"you don't always need to be fixed, emma." - Diane. Leader of 4th AA meeting. Sober since 1992.

fix me.
but i work just fine.
fix me.
i guess i'm worn down.
fix me.
they say i have a few screws loose.
fix me.
i've been formatted wrong, it's a mistake.
fix me.
no this is wrong, i'm just...
fix me.
i'm broken.

path of painted lines.

i live by default.
follow the constructed lines painted on every road.
many have roamed this path previous to myself.
watched the limbs on each tree beside the road grow taller,
reaching the sun.
watched as each branch stretched across the horizon,
while worn in shoes treaded the gravel.
rubber against rock.
roots against soil.
beams against the blue back drop.
heart against chest.
tears against pores.
me against you.
you may think you took over.
as you robbed me from the path of painted lines.
but my rubber soles are still treading the gravel.
and i'm watching the limbs grow.

just another thing to distract you.

every room in this building is stuffy.

full of empty connections.

useless secrets.

dried scabs, chronic cold sweats and slow and heavy breaths.

rib cages are tired of being lifted.

each bone torn from the tissue connected.

shaped like the pipes beneath your sink.

you've discovered the beating figure.

in synch with the beat beneath the skin of the wrist attached to the one who tore those bones apart.

beating harder than the drum of mainstream tunes.

you watch it,

but don't dare to touch as it pulsates.

shrinks, pulls in for a split second.

releases, returning to it's plump state

thump 

thump.

              thump.

              thump.         

the wooden cabinets with metal handles in the art room.

they house each glass plate handed to you on your wedding day.
you wore satin shoes.
heavy vail.
their wooden, dark and consistent.
metal handles.
grasped by familiar hands.
searching for your morning coffee mug.
you need to wake up.
he already left for work.
satin shoes on the floor of the double door closet inside the room you share with him.
metal handles.
on the door to that mutual chamber.
it's dark and consistent
like those wooden cabinets.
glass plates resting in them.
the ones that were handed to you.
and him.

crooked ken.

tall and gawky.

awkwardly misplaced.

big hands.

small cup of coffee.

thin mustache.

thinner lips.

baffled me,

how he stood so still.

so content.

he spoke once.

of a prayer whispered to those above.

one repeated by my own lips after every gathering.

chanted.

and mumbled by few.

but he spoke well.

with his big hands.

coffee cup on the table.

Day 9. 6:24 pm.

you and i baby.
we're locked in the cellar.
door slammed by common pedestrians.
cross walks weren't enough for them to invade.
they all came, stampeded my hardwood floors.
the tiles in the master bath never looked so bare.
but their dirty sneakers aided the simplicity which accompanied each room.
i'm in the cellar though,
and all i can do is stare at you, and listen to them.
walk on my memories.
step on each year.
stomp. stomp. stomp.

Day 9. Second AA meeting. (white ovals)

doors crack open.
strangers stumble in.
hold the door for those behind.
sit down in those fold up chairs.
listen and speak
time leaves your thoughts,
and you get lost within the fluorescent lights above your head.
tapped on the shoulder by the finger of someone unknown.
distracted, they hand you a woven basket
full of crumpled dollar bills.
you shove your dry hands in the pocket of your pants.
chap-stick.
and a button from your sweater
it fell off during your cigarette break.
you climbed a tree.
perched on a limb, and smoked away.
you thought of sitting there.
while staring at the crumpled green paper
resting in the woven wood.
you spent all you money on poison.
contained in a plastic bag.
about the size of your keys.
in the form of an oval.
white.
about eight of them at a time.
and while you rested your eyes, and allowed your body to float,
those eight ovals swam inside of you.
you crushed them up, pre-floating.
leveled your head to the dresser,
and pressed your finger to your left nostril
hard
and fast
the lines disappeared.
school ID next to you.
closed eyes.
the ovals,
in powdered queues.
inside of you now.
and your eyes, are now focused on the crumpled money.
broker than ever.
what are you doing ?
question yourself.
but don't think to hard, because their watching you
sit and stare at the basket.
it all started with crumpled bills.
that green material equaled ovals.
ovals equaled floating.
floating equaled freedom.
so how come you feel so stuck ?
invisible ball and chain.
all because of white ovals.

eyes.

and you can't see me.
but the wind sees you.
and although each blow is stronger than the next,
your bodies stand strong.
we can see through you though.
we're watching.
just
      stand
               strong.  

Subtle but not underground.

 Look at me in the eyes and tell me where the good goes.
look at me in the heart and tell me breaking is among the impossible.
look me in the hands and tell me tired only exists within the seas.
look me in the head and tell me heavy is a mere illusion.

do they know how to cure the disease no others see?
speak slow.
walk slower.
follow the map.
don't allow your path to fall off track.


remain calm.
eyes ahead.

they'll catch you if you fall.
but don't think they'll keep you safe.
beneath the stairs you'll stay
and they'll walk upon you
walls will creak
the ceiling above your head, cracked.
eyes closed.
your path is off track.
panic
running

across the moss and over fallen branches.

i'll tell you now,
i guess i should have told you then;
clouds are rolling and i cannot feel a thing.
but i can promise you one thing,
even though exhausted, morning will come.
and i'll stand up straight.

i know i can't loose focus.
but i've been doing circles
and we're slowing down again
and i feel myself letting go.
subtle but not underground.
it's early evening.
and i can't wait until morning comes.
although exhausted, i will not pull away.

Lady at NA meeting.

round and clear.

the same color as my grandmothers silverware.
rusted.
golden brown, no longer shine.
they rest on your face.
perched on your nose.
held by your years.
ontop of your ears.
those openings which are poured through.
the words fall from mouths unwanted.
although you may block the sense which common minds reffer to as hearing.
you still see.
however, bare faced; you are blind.
but round and brown, accompanies your face.
those circular see through figures.
coated with that dark outline.
as dark as grandma's silverware,
which lays in a red velvet box.
beneath her round reading glasses.

.

sink deeper.
get lost, engulfed in the salt water.
tumbled sand castle at the shore.
tired mothers.
"come back here, honey."
long legged, dirty hands, left shoe on the right foot, lunch still on their cheek.
voices are faint.
but still present.
back to the ocean floor.
face to the sun.
eye lids, coverage.
you're naked though.
skin bare.
lifeless, but each wrist holds a pulse.
floating, remembering.
don't forget.
the water's got you.
sink.
sank.
sunken.

oh, test tube.

swallow me.
allow me to swim within you.
i want to feel what it's like to be inside of you.
i want to take you in.

First AA meeting.

white shirt.
tassled fabric
messy hair, collected stature.
she began.
one knee bent.
right leg locked.
left leg loose.
looser than my joints.
her dates have stories.
attatched and intertwined with each number.
"four years on the streets", she said.
chemicals were for breakfast.
a small needle for snack.
time with him for lunch.

cold air and a sidewalk for dinner.
"i'll be fine", she mumbled.
that's what i thought.

grandma's china.

follow city streets.
common passerby's.
commuting.
going home to dimmed lights and half a grin.
the food prepared for you sits on grandmas china.
placed on the table.
next to the note she left you.
beside the glass of wine she poured for you, while her regrets fell out of her eyes in liquid form.
drip.
drip.
drip.

practiced and repeated.

alarm wakes you.
startled, yet not suprised.
dazed, yet my feet know just where to step.
its routine.
practiced and repeated.
the choice isn't yours.
pages will turn without your asking.
passages read without your wanting.
pressed into each curve of your brain cells.
imprinted into every corned or your mind.
and while your given those few moments alone,
while warm water beats down your tired skin,
you remember what it is you left behing.
the saddened mind sets, and worried eyes.
you miss them.
i miss them.
it'll be over soon.

birds

although it feels like your brain can't handle the flight.
and although it feels as if your limbs grow weak from the height,
your wings will prove you're strong.
against your beak, cold gases flow.
ruffling your wings, finding it's way through each feather.

cold gases fill your lungs.
you long to feed those smaller than you,
those which are housed at the nest
the one you so carefully created.
each branch which you so cautiously crafted to be placed next to another.

you grow so easily tired.
fatigued from the plight.
weakened.
but your wings will prove you're strong.
fly baby, fly.
land, and love, feed and care, leave and soar.

ohhhhhhhh yes.

i kinda feel like that little plastic man in the red hat.

so,

i would like to dye my hair this color in the spring.
                                 thoughts ?

these floors are usually made of wood

these floors are usually made of wood.

and i normally walk upon them with ease, and a sense of self control.

today, however, i have walked with hinderance.

among the floors,

which are no longer made of wood,

but feathers instead.

instead everything is made of feathers.

light, and easy to understand.

easily housing each family on your street.

feather doors, and window curtains.

feather fruit bowls, and jewelry boxes.

walking on feathers feels nice.

it's simple, and quaint.

i just don't know if i quite get it yet.

cause of all the things that appear so simple, 

really are the most complex in my mind.

i'll pick apart every feather which my feet have stepped upon. 

and pry through every small strand which holds a belonging.

that's all-right.

it's quite all-right.

i'll be like a feather soon.

poked, and prodded, and picked apart.

it's all-right

it's quite all-right.

darlin'

looks like i'm goin' back.

i guess it's time.

i sorta feel like i'm watching myself.
like all this shit
it's happening and everything
and i'm experiencing it.
but not necessarily feeling it happen.
i'm just watching it all.
floating while decisions are made.
and pills are placed into small little paper cups.
those fucking paper cups.
y'know, maybe it wont be half bad.

maybe like a fourth.
but i fucking hate peeing in cups.
those fucking plastic cups.
bleh.

sometimes

i feel like my heart is outside my chest.

and you can see it beating.

i wish it would stop.

Made of natural components

Made of a natural components.

I stretch my limbs beneath the surface of which you walk upon.

And climb the stairs of your atmosphere.

Drunk on the liquid which is poured upon me.

My body is long, 

And thin.

Bear, and forgiving.

Im obsolete

An ancient concept which will never grow old.

This patch of land

Right beneath the windows of your living room,

It has been home to me for years.

I bore my children on this very soil.

Sometimes they take my neighbors.

With their big white hands

In one grasp.

And to the sanctuary they go

Where everyone sits

And sings in unison

A chanting to the candles lit,

And the figure strewn across the metal cross.

Other times the hands take my friends

To places where those with older hands

Are soon to leave.

My friends are symbols

And given to those which are in need

Those white hands picked my children.

And brought them to places I had never heard of

And I longed for a drinking 

I was thirsty for what the hands would pour.

you know,