esoteric-ponderings

You’re like balloon With one too many breaths in you Just waiting to burst.

Astounding that Because of Careless Distractions Evil learned to hate From Good, and How fast I Jokingly pretended to Kill love. My narcissism Openly Praying Quick Radiant Speeches Then, among Understand yet Vicious White Xenophobes, I scream You are not Zeus.

     One. In second grade we raised a caterpillar into a butterfly. It came out of its cocoon and we marveled at its beauty until it shit in its cage and we all realized that beauty was like that moment – fleeting and full of shit.      Two. I had a friend Diamond all throughout elementary school. God, she was sweet but she was destined to become trailer trash and all the teachers knew it. They didn’t bother with her – knowing that she would just end up a teenage mother married to a white kid that thinks he’s a rapper.      Three. The butterfly

     One. I feel like I've fallen down the rabbit hole and I'll end up too big in a world too small.     Two. I'm not asking you to believe what I believe, just accept that I believe it because truth is o b j e c t i v e. Force a belief and you're forcing a goddamned lie.     Three. Alice is symbolic for innocence, but we forget that she went down the hole w i l l i n g l y.

Albatross - oppressive burden or hindrance.     One. I told my teacher in fourth grade that I heard Jesus in the wind. She sent me to the school therapist and on the way I dropped my pass. I leant over to pick it up; unaware that faith had fallen out of my pocket and shattered on the ground. I don’t blame my teacher for her reaction – in her place, though, I wouldn’t have done the same. I still don’t understand why people just accept their beliefs because their parents told them it was right. Don’t they wonder? Don’t you wonder? [I get scared sometimes because I don’t know if I’m just one of the un

 senescent - growing old.     One. I realized I was older when I saw a garage door and didn't think of them as large mouths to larger monsters that swallowed cars and people whole. I got scared that I was losing myself and used words as a life raft to keep my head above adulthood. But it was futile and I knew it. But I still tried.      Two. I cried a lot in fifth grade. My teacher tried her best to console me but she never understood why. At that time all I could muster from my sobs was a pathetic, "I don't want to. I don't want to." "What? You don't want to what?" she would ask. [Mrs. Quig

Cynical – Distrustful of human nature; sarcastic. He told me that I was turning into a cynic. I stared at him for five minutes, letting him slowly realize that I wasn’t in the mood to listen to him. “I’m not taking it back,” he snapped. He stomped his foot on the ground like an indignant brat. I just continued to stare until he walked away. Later, he came up to me again in Physics. Cornered in my desk, he towered above me. “You’ve become a misanthropist,” he whispered. I stared at him still. But this time he didn’t budge. “Do you really want to know why?” I said, getting up. I brush

These hands were in prayer – in the realm of faith, pressed together so tightly that not even Enlightenment could enter. These hands built fences against Wonder and moats to keep from Revelation. They crucified Sense and worshipped Ignorance. These hands thought that when they were closed – like eyes and minds – that they were somehow Holy; that by being closed they were simply trapping Innocence. But instead, they were just ensnaring themselves. These hands have learned that the only way to find Truth is to – like eyes and minds – open.

She would break his heart in ways he knew he could grow to love - how she spoke his name like smoke, drawing it out in cool blue syllables between her teeth, her mouth talking that sweet trash he coveted like new coin. the red spike heels he could feel crack his spine and the slit of her eyes stripping his muscles and tendons down to tender shoots crushed against her chest - her bones on his, the sound of being played.

i. you are a mish-mash of never-ending smiles and toxic beauty. you're a tangle of scattered thoughts and makeshift perfection; you make the seven wonders of the world jealous. "maybe someday arrows will guide us through the milky way, and we'll use the stars as stepping stones." "maybe we'll play hopscotch in the sky, surrounded by little fragments of dreams that dancers forgot to remember." ii. you're the displacement in a chemical reaction; you're the magnesium, and i'm mercury (only liquid at room temperature, too close to the sun for life to exist, and the messenger they loved to shoot). you are a butterfly's wings

I wait through a dreary morning; waiting for your pressed hand over my shoulder. I don't expect you. I wanted you to arrive; for conversation and coffee. I need to tell you how unhealthy I am, how the only time I move is to go to the bathroom. I do not know how I refuse to shower. It has become a custom, a culture, a language, the art of resistance since you've been absent. I miss your errant smiles.  The way you hold a penny in your left hand when you write with your right. I'm exhausted from lying in bed. The house seems unfamiliar. Used to be alive; feeling a sensation I can no longer describe.

pulling the bra from a fresh pack of cancer sticks bare assed and on the wintered face of a porcelain sanctity, flame dancing wild at the head of my cigarette as it reduced to cherry and I blew believable smoke signals to a human race that couldn't possibly exist. correcting my posture only to realize everything, everyone is dead and the art is hung                                      crooked. ( it looked as if christ and his disciples w

On fine golden chains With numerous names We fail from the fear of falling. With Indian eyes and broken spines We bleed just to know we still feel. On splintered stilts we raise our self, To crash into bland disappointment. With self doubt we restrict ourselves, And with bloody tears we accuse. Bruises hold the evidence of lies and truths anew, But with razor blades and fire flies we silently refuse. On broken wings we try to fly when all along we're grounded. Seeping from the hand of God we are silently reminded, We are all but fragile birds with feathers made of glass, And constantly reminded that this pain will always last.