Parcel

Dry as parchment, splinters torn and reborn, clawing at a self unimagined.

Paralyzed in a box. It's confines split and repaired in a cycle bridging eternity.

Beyond lies worlds of plural possibility, a singsong duality of parceled hope to contents unrepairable

Whisps of dreams are more appealing than reality.

What she can have she doesn't want.

And what she wants, can she have?

Time is nothing to her. Life is not short but an aching groan of seconds that only threaten to become hours.

Thus, she chooses life in a box, settled in a teacup, overlooking a wasteland of everything that she doesn't know how to get.

Sunshine

I have built this kitsch eyesore out of others words.

A labyrinth to clutch feigned normalcy.

Entangled in it's jagged spires, I become lost.

A fading illusion was the best I could contrive. Did you like it?

Like thorns, I bleed onto wire cutting beyond flesh, into very essence.

I could drag the shards upon your flesh, carve my screaming futility into your bones.

I could burn your pretty world. Take you down to scorch earth and ember.

As equals standing in ash, you would understand.

Or I could simply shatter, dissipate into formless void.

Vapor to reform into mass, once again excited to greet the dawn.

I can no longer mindlessly stack these shards of glass pretending this is happiness.

Nor can I eschew my originality and waltz in this vapid parade.

I crave to taste my own madness and let it warm my skin like sunshine.

Burn away all this fecund horror devouring me without joy.

And I surrender to the monster in the stairwell

no more...

Never

Never

again.