speak.
but your words must immerge through a veil
as thin murmmers
as cautious whispers
they must tread lightly, gently
leaving only hints of footsteps in their wake


move.
but your motions must be fluid
have a purpose, destination, plan
be soundless
be casual
flow like water
carve simple paths, travel silently
create things they will notice, appreciate
behind you leave grand canyons and beautious landscaping

dont leave scars or nightmares as you pass
only memories and art


written december 12 2008

dont cry
or the world will overcome you
seeping in through open tear ducts
dont cry

dont laugh
or your happiness will run away
escaping from between your lips
dont laugh

dont smile
or they will enter your head
sift through your thoughts, tamper with emotions
dont smile

keep silent
and things will stay
nothing in or out.
you will be safe, guarded, whole
stay silent
you wont be hurt



written december 12 2008

the snow has melted
day has claimed it thrown through the frost
the leaves stir in a frigid winter breeze
morning grew to midday, Autumn is lost
gangly, crooked sticks remain of the trees
the beauty of snow has arrived with a cost
flowers lay dead under skeleton leaves
change comes even to things we value most
the snow has melted
a day to remember



written december 14 2008

morning sun
sky is a pastel painting
cold accumulates abroad my body
it feels as if my ears are wilting
birds cry out in fresh melody
the world is hidden in dew
sidewalk untouched, bare
a day just starting, the world anew
the scent of smoke thickens frigid air
the sun has yet to appear
through a veil of coloured sky
and what a fretful fear
that the sun may never rise
morning run
morning sun
night fades slowly until its demise

fall entry

fall appears to be slipping from underneath us
a biting cold has mixed into the air
nipping at exposed flesh
unguarded noses
wiggling its way up your arms
into, under your jacket
the sky had taken up a certain cloudiness
regardless of whether the sun is out or not
blotches of uneven yellow are becoming more obvious
in every stretch of grass
frost rests on everything in the mornings
coating the world in a blanket of frigidity
tiny critters slink underground
desperate for a warmer place
birds have packed their bags
now they ready chilled wings
the trees yawn, wooden mouths gaping wide
as the last of their hair flutters from tangled branches
to litter the sidewalk in a crunchy variety of autumn shades
the little people bundle in downy jackets and thicker socks
resembling shivering herds of coloured penguins
winter sieges fall
the last of autumn is slipping from underneath us
as the carpet of season is pulled from beneath our toes

written sometime around fall 2009

Underneath The Skin

Frank staggers out the neatly painted, white door. A wry grin sprawls across his face. “Free, free, freeee!” he shrieks at the starry night sky. “Free at last.” His voice trails off. He glares behind him at the bleak building that has held him for so long. A friendly looking sign above the entrance reads Sunnydale Insane Asylum. The structure grows smaller and smaller as Frank stumbles away. The blank double doors still swing slightly in the distance.

Tina struts out the front door of the diner. It slams violently behind her. Her scarlet stilettos click loudly on the grimy sidewalk as she steps. Tina’s boss Garret had been keeping her way past her hours repeatedly for the last week. Her grandma (who she is living with do to a lack of money for a nursing home) is sick and home alone. She can’t afford not to work, but with her boss Garret forcing her to stay after her hours lately, Tina is seriously considering quitting.

She tilts her head back gently to look up at the sky, dark and gloomy. Looking down again, Tina gropes around in her bright red apron pocket for a cigarette. After searching for several seconds, her fingers curl around a slender stick. She pulls out her last smoke. Sighing angrily she lights it and takes a deep drag. The thin line of grey smoke trails behind her as she exhales, contrasting with the dark that arrived with the setting sun. Tina click-clacks down the street, exhausted, upset, miserable, and completely unaware.
He has walked for hours. Civilization is almost within his reach for the first time in years. Frank’s feet are sore,legs weakening. The silhouette of a little house appears through the nighttime haze. Frank’s face is contorted in a sinister smile; eyes dilated, dart from side to side, focusing on something only for a fraction of a second before jumping away. “Freeee!” he yelps. “Free at last. And now Frank is gonna have some fun, fun, fun!” his shrill, high pitched voice sends shivers down the spine and raises tiny goose bumps on those unfortunate enough to hear it. The shack-like residence that Frank saw as a silhouette before is now in front of him. The back door is open and somewhat askew. “Fun, fun, fun!” he calls out into the darkness.

Tina takes her last long breath of cigarette and flicks the faintly glowing, stub into the gutter. She has at least a good 45 minutes until she will reach her home. Her fit of anger has simmered off to a desolate depression. Her pace has slowed, her arms hang loosely at her sides, lips slightly parted, her eyes have taken a somber grey color. She feels crushed, overwhelmed, broken, alone.

Frank holds the dead woman gently in his arms. He is shaking, eyes are wild, he feels insecure, uncertain, hysterical. The lady is old, that is made obvious by the sea of wrinkles and liver spots coating her skin; but besides that he knows nothing about her. Briefly he wonders what she was like, then he throws her away in disgust, as his mood violently swings, anger overcoming him.Her fragile figure hits the floor, there is a few muffled cracks as she lands, then she slides, her limbs bent at odd angles. A trail of blood streaks the floor behind her. Frank jumps from his chair, knocking it over with a crash. He leaps into the kitchen and begins to rummage through several drawers and cabinets. After a few minutes he carries a terrifying array of knifes and cutlery in his arms. Frank hobbles over to the old woman and arranges the blades beside her mangled corpse, humming a pitch less tune to himself.

Tina’s mouth stretches open in a mighty yawn. “Only two blocks left Tina.” She mutters groggily to herself. Her eyelids droop and the sides of her mouth point downward in a fatigued expression. “You’ll be home soon.” She whispered comfortingly. “You’ll be home soon.”

It’s littered with holes and tears, and some parts are much thicker than others, but Frank is proud of his work. He is completely, entirely soaked in blood. His arms, hands, face, chest, legs, feet are all stained a dark red. Bits of flesh, hair, clots of blood are crammed under his fingernails. His eyeballs dance and skip around, different parts of his body twitch randomly. His plain white clothing is torn, ripped, cut, and died a murky crimson. Before him swimming in a pool of shimmering red liquid is what’s left of her flayed body.

Tina fumbles with the keys. They tinkle, chime as they knock against each other. Her eyes are closed, she has barely any energy left to fight the need for sleep that plagues her mind. Somehow she manages to open the door, and drag herself through the doorway. She doesn’t open her eyes as she enters the house, or even when she slips (she doesn’t notice that the floor is wet) and almost falls. Her thoughts have before she drops onto the bed.

Frank starts sharply as the door is pushed open. Grandma’s foreign flesh feels heavy on his shoulders. Blood leaks out the holes where eyes once were, and spills from the parted lips like a stream of scarlet vomit. Tiny droplets well on what used to be the old woman’s earlobes. Frank is silent, unmoving, crouched like some sort of demonic creature anticipating the right moment to pounce.

The girl that stumbled through the door lies fully clothed on the bed. She’s wearing a short, bright red dress and red apron. Frank stands over her, staring intently at her soft, sleeping face. His thoughts churn and tumble around in a tormented, frenzied mind. The knife gleams in the dim light produced by a single bulb dangling from the ceiling. The girl’s breathing is slow, steady. Out the filthy window, night is beginning to fade gradually into dawn.

Frank rests the point of the weapon on her exposed throat. One fluid swing, her neck gushes scarlet. The yellowing blanket beneath her is red in a flash. Her eyelids never even flutter. Her breath stops silently. On her face is stilled a look of solace. Finally the girl is at peace. She will never worry again, cry again, fear again. Although she will never laugh, smile, or dream again either.

The dress is held together by a line of buttons that runs up the front. After being worn and abused countless times, it doesn’t take much effort for Frank to pull the garment apart. Frank feels powerful and dangerous holding the knife in his hand. It’s not far off razor sharp, and cuts through skin well (as he discovered with Grandmamma). The blade slides down the middle of her exposed torso. The flesh peels away from the edge of the knife. “Let’s play dress up!” he cries. “I love dress up.”

Through the widow, the streets are barren, deserted. The sun has yet to make an appearance, but the sky is milky and streaked with pastel blue, pink and orange. Street lights litter the sidewalks, still bright as if caught in the last moments of night. The air is still, the scene soundless. Misgiving, unease, dread hover above the town, waiting for the dreaming, sleeping people to awake.

Her skin was easier for Frank to separate, to peel off than the old woman’s. Of course, the girl’s bleeding was much more excessive than Grandma’s, so this made it more difficult, but Frank enjoyed it all the same. He especially liked that her skin was still warm as he slipped it over his own. Grandmas hadn’t been very heated to begin with, and by the time he had finished removing it from her carcass it was frigid, icy, cold.

Blood cakes the girl’s pasty white cheeks, the soft rosy tint that was once there is forever gone now. Her skin weighs down on his shoulders, almost as if he was wearing a wet coat. Bits of gore and layers of blood spill from her eye holes, ear holes, and mouth. Frank can hardly see, breathe, or hear. The stench of death and decay waft off of him. “I like playing dress up!” he cackles to himself ominously. “Fun, fun, fun!”

Several doors down from Frank a woman sleeps alone in her bed. She quivers, shakes, cries quietly as a vicious nightmare holds her consciousness. Suddenly she awakes and sits up. Tremors course through her anatomy, down her spine, shortly followed by waves of tiny goose bumps. The tears that lined her face are beginning to dry, her breathing is unsteady. She feels something is wrong; uneasiness hangs in the air so thick, almost tangible. Without knowing why, she begins to clothe and ready herself. She wipes her face with a towel and pulls her hair back into a loose bun. As a last minute thought, she slips a pocket knife into the side of her jeans. Then she steps out the door. Without knowing why, she heads for the run down house that sits on the outskirts of town, home to an old woman and her granddaughter.

Bright
brilliant sunlight streaks through the dotted window
seeping between the branches of a thick old tree
illuminating the classroom with dazzling lemon spears
Blue
a patch of azure sky immerges through the emerald leaves
undisturbed, a cloudless oval peering out from a leafy aperture
Good Morning
trees stir in whispered yawn
wooden limbs creak as they stretch mighty arms
birds slide open thier tiny eyes, begin to twitter amongst the neighbors
a waking breaze flys through the lush grass
a sea fo green blades lean forward in unisen as the wind sweeps over them
then relax as it moves ahead
like a giant wave rolling through the ocean
good morning