No. Peter Pan. I do not have a twin.

And the mold shattered when they made me, so it's a slim chance that you'll find anything close to compare.

Bless.

glazed gazing

I wrote this 5 days after I moved to Manhattan...I want this girl back: glazed gazing

There is not a sound in this world that I could give voice to, wrap my vocal cords around, that would do justice to the noise in my head.

I am starting to resent the fact that I allow people to make me dislike who I am.  No really.  It's making me angry.

I wrote this when I drove to Atlanta by myself to see Sasha in a tiny smokey club there. Andy thankfully went with me, and while I hung with the guy who inspired this poem, Andy stalked the perimeter of the room and the peripheral of my vision. This poem has always reminded me of him, oddly enough.


Hard hands
lingering at my hips.
The pulse of the beat
throbbing through my bitten lips.
I feel your
blue pinstripped shirt
beneath my skin,
the touch of the fabric in my fist -
or brushing my flesh rakishly
as you wrap your arms
about my waist
helps to spin the passion
of the night into my brain.
I move.
Aware of how near you are
how warm with sweat and fun.
Aware of the arousal
that lingers like
the thick smoke in the air.
I close my eyes
and let waves of feeling
get carried away
by the master of a trance...
I open them and you are gone
and I am left only
with the smell of you
in the beginning light
to remind me
of hard hands and bitten lips

Roses...

Rosie Rosie Rosie...she is growing in my head.  Beauty and thorns, and all.
 
And then her name was Roses.

I wish that I could play these computer keys like a piano...that the words would charm like a simple melody and communicate without heavy logic - that I could say how the music haunts my heart and makes me feel beautiful and alive and achingly real.

Drawn as I am to the hauntingly off-key ...it only strikes me if it's oddly juxtaposed to what society would rather see. Slightly ugly, a little worn and oddly bold is so shiny and pretty to me. I see it, this bit of macabre and I want to consume it...like a blood red apple with a tiny, cute little worm.

Dark beauty strokes the underbelly of my heart, calms me. I understand how rich and pungent the fallow side of a rotting log in the forest is...I want that deep texture and color, even if it comes with creepys and crawlys and things of a skeevious nature. They crawl away, or they make friends...but they are not scary.

I am not scared by the darkness. I am scared by the false light.

LIKE BLOOD LIKE HONEY

You want to catch your breath you want to get out
But as you surface you don't really know how
How to live upon the solid ground
Sometimes it's easier to let yourself drown

Love is
Thick like
Blood like
Honey

You cannot spell it out there are no words
Mrs johnson never taught me those verbs
On how to give myself and how to receive
It is something that's inside of you and me

Love is
Thick like
Blood like
Honey

Forget everything you ever learned
No one listens when you want to be heard
Just bleed the bittersweet
Seven sunrises and seven more nights
You'd think that we could learn to do it right
If nothing changes then i'm gonna stop
But do i really have a choice?
I think not

-Holly Brook

Reminds me of you.

Written awhile ago, but still ringing true...

My words mock me. They are harsh reminders, down to the very letter, that I am only operating at a fraction of my capacity. I feel that if I just try, if I could just concentrate for long enough, I will find a vein, a pulse to follow, and it will be the beginning of everything.

My problem is allowing myself to want and take and need and give everything without care. With wisdom, but without worry. I think that people give up and settle in the hulls of themselves and I find myself doing that and it's alarming. I know that everyday can't be rich with all manner of beautiful stimuli (and even as I write that I think, "why not? Who says?") And I know that it's good to still feel surprise and wonder and gratitude. But I think it's tragic, in a small way, that happiness and joy shocks me so much. Like I don't deserve it. And sometimes, I find myself trying to hoard it, like a tangible thing because I am not sure when it will arrive again.

The barrage of thoughts and indictments of self that are the fallout of my bad habits are exhausting. Stability is good. Roots are good, forming a foundation and a network, all good things. But stagnant, stale, tired and hurtful behavior is self-destructive and only lends itself to honing out the hull.

You are not above this happening to you, but you can be. This should be your mission, everyday. As elusive and indescribable as these steps may be, you need to actively seek them out, every hour of everyday.

Now.