My Feather pen

I chase Smiles across his face
if I caught one, I’d lock it there
for as long as his worried heart
would let me.

I lay control in his palms
as the warmth of his hands
makes mine reach
for their comfort.

I run through his veins
With the confidence
that I wish he had,
as I lean on his
promised “forever”s

I press my ear
against his chest;
a spot custom carved for me,
the familiar rhythm sings
his thoughts
in a strange language
that I almost understand

I want to melt into his body
to feel the beats
that keep him breathing
and while I’m there
I will thank his heart
for every thump
and beg for it
to never stop.

I’d start with a sponge
to the lead feet of L.A.
who slam fists to steering wheel
blindfolded and pissed,
redirect wasted fingertips
from spray paint can
to paint brush,
and take the switchblades
from their lonely minds
desperate to be a crow
in the crowded murder.

I’d rewrite the world
from outside the
leather wallets,
become a corporate robin hood,
break down the big
and spread the coins
to mom and pop.

I’d shake this generation
of chameleon youth,
put out their cigarettes,
show them the perks
of walking their own step,
and re-teach them
how to use their minds.

Instead I’ll dream in ink
and wish that my pen
would change it all
in well written phrases
because “words are the voice
of the heart”*
and mine screams.

*Confucious

The front door swings open and the lock on the scratched metal doorknob bites the wall again, deepening the permanent bruise in the drywall and yanking me from a dead sleep. My pulse twitches unevenly against my chest, startled and expectant. I don’t try to close my eyes again, it will be hours before I can do that. Instead, I breathe out a searing breath and wait for the familiar, inevitable racket to shake my limbs and the walls. Your feet shuffle against the fake wood floor and into your bedroom, the door slams shut behind you. I hear her voice, shrill and angry, against yours, deep and jagged, both slurring stupidly. I can’t read the words and it makes me mad, even though I know that knowing what they are would only piss me off more. I only hear ambiguous sounds humming loudly like a broken machine, an annoying sound shoved in between all variations of the word fuck. I can hear that word. Verb, adjective, noun. She gets louder and so do you. It’s the same fight as always, powered by wasted energy. You never solve the problem, you only drown it in beer and god knows what else. Then someone else opens your door with sleepy eyes, tells her she needs to leave now and never come back, tells you that you need to stop yelling. Your going to wake your sisters. I picture you, teeth clenched, fists closed, knuckles white as I hear them carve a new scar in the house. The sound makes me jump even though I’ve heard it a million and one times before. I picture her, salt water on her cheeks, hurling blades at you from her eyes. I hate her for existing, for clenching your teeth and closing your fists. But I hate you for being my big brother in the morning. I hate you for making me laugh in the morning. I hate you because I have to love you again in the morning, and that will never ever go away.

pavorst:

Dear whoever-is-reading,

I have a challenge for you. It’s simple. Make somebody up. Write a story about them, draw them, sing a song about them, make a matchstick sculpture of them. Make them up, and name your creation after the character. 

That’s it, really.

PS I wish you the best.

(via pavorst-deactivated20120105)

The same bird, sits on the same light post almost every time I pass it. So I thought to myself, he’s not a human but, I’m gonna write about him anyway.

This isn’t how it used to be, all grey, hard and loud. A bird I used to know had a nest in a tree that used to be there, I was here when his children took to the air for the first time. They spread their little scrawny wings, as the soft feathers followed the wind and flapped just hard enough to survive the fall. There were none of those animals with the round legs that roll across the flat black rock in flocks. The ground was soft with pine needles, and the air was clear. The “humans”, they’ve been called, traded my tree branches for something else, but I still won’t go away. Part of me gets satisfaction out of my tiny rebellion, I don’t know if they notice, but it sure feels good that they haven’t won completely. I’ll come back here every day for the rest of my life. I’ll stare at what used to be, and remember how much better it all was. Sure, it hurts, but it’s so much better then letting them erase it forever.

Two people that I watched from afar in my sisters second grade class, formulating their life in just a few seconds. This is their story from my eyes

“Cynthia, honey, those shoes don’t match.” Says Ray with a teasing and adoring smile. It’s his daughters first day of second grade and he has taken the morning off. Cynthia is wearing one pink shoe and one green, and looking mighty proud of her style choice.
“But daddy, I like them booooth.” She retorts, one hand on her hip and the other pointing to her feet.
“Why don’t you pick one pair for today, and one pair for tomorrow?”
Cynthia sighs in frustration, daddy will never understand the fashion sense of a seven year old. “Fine.”
Ray laughs as he watches her strut innocently back to her room.
His wife takes her place in the hallway “Good morning, Honey”
“Morning, Jill” He takes a sip of his cofee and doesn’t notice that his wife is wearing lipstick for the first time in months. Her shoulders drop in disappointment, It used to be his favorite shade.
Cynthia is back and in matching shoes. “I’m ready to go now.” She announces to the room, with her nose stuck high in the air and her eyes bright.

The school is a five minute walk from their house, and the journey’s soundtrack is Cynthia’s giddy rambling about who she does and doesn’t want to be stuck sitting next to. They find the classroom easily and when Cynthia let’s go of Ray’s hand to go find her seat, he looks up and his stomach drops to his knees. He shifts his eyes to the floor, hoping that his wife hadn’t seen him look at her. He subtly makes his way to the other side of the room, attempting to keep as much distance between them as possible.
Jill soils the attempt when she recognizes her and her husband. “Oh, Ray! Look! It’s our neighbors!”
Ray’s stomach drops to his feet
Jill raises her hand in a friendly wave. “Hi, how are you?” She starts walking towards her and Ray follows mechanically
“Hello.” He mumbles, offering his hand to hers, and feeling silly for the formality that has never passed between these two hands “My name is Ray.”
“I’m Kaitlyn.” she smiles, that familiar smile, the one that he would love under any other circumstances.
He pulls his hand away and their wedding rings scratch against each other, making him blush awkwardly.
“Oh, you two haven’t met yet?” His wife asks.
“No.” He says, at the same time as she does, both answer too quickly.
And at that moment, Jill’s chest seems to implode upon itself. She has finally found the woman that has been pulling her husband away from her, the woman who has sucked the affection out of his eyes, that used to be there every time he looked at her. The woman that has been sleeping with him.
Ray recognizes her change in posture, and the sudden ice that covers her golden irises. He can’t stand to hold her gaze so he looks away, thinking how stupid he was to think that she wouldn’t figure it out. Internally screaming at himself for letting it happen, and trying to remember when he stopped loving her and started looking other places for the love that was lost.
“Well we better be going.” Jill says, all friendliness frozen.
They both kiss Cynthia goodbye, and as they walk out of the classroom Jill grabs his hand in a facade of affection, her nails start to dig into his knuckles. “I want you out of the house by three o’ clock.”
This time, the five minute walk is silent.