Saturday, January 29, 2011

16 Watt



Calluses.


Fleshy shields
born from repetition,
born from overuse.


Lips never callus
and a heart,
while it may grow harder,
is always a sponge
sopping pain and
beating stories of
regret.
The realizations of the past
are recounted with each
thump, and
every pump is a step closer
to scarlet tears.


A slow burn.


The pain of living.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Signs of Misuse

The cigarettes of my youth
are floating in the puddles of Los Angeles


They have long since been drained and yellowed.




Acid still creeps
and sleep never comes- no matter the pill.
It all builds against,
mocking the adult version of 
a once 'old-soul'
now just a commonplace fellow
brushing shoulders with
a world that is moving
entirely too fast.


An old clock radio clicks on,
the morning news plays
and dust dances in the first rays of the morning sun.


Books all feel old now


their pages are deteriorating
dog ears drooping ever further.


I remember when I hadn't muddied the waters
I remember tree houses floating above Siverlake
I remember,
I remember.


Orange trees crept in through security bars, glare through dirty windows
and bitter coffee; never a clean cup.


I miss the filth and unease, 
I miss the daring of it all.


I miss my legs.