dish, spoon, whatever

want to
yank
the tablecloth
out
from under
every
little
thing

(and to not bleed all over shards of broken glass
on my way to get what is left standing..

is that asking too much?)

(part one...)

ignite

skin-lit fire dives in
like some
undefined beginning
i spin
my grin
makes everything enchant me
i can't see
past
wishes
you
grant me
i believe i'm set free
i do..

inside
some you
was a piece of me
i
couldn't
see

my thrill,
you spill
anticipation all over me like i was born to wear it
and i stare it
down
till it lights..

will it? it absolutely might

all my might

i never nibble, always bite
make mistakes
with all
my might

but keep replacing real with 'where?'
(i'll find it
really..
sure..
i swear..)

i look under
random things
inside
my
house,
(under my wings)

expect a spark
incite a breath
inspire
myself
to
certain
death

i try
to fly
try feel the sky
with several foolish alibis

but i've seen sure
i've known
i've been
so why check under there, again?

it's moving day
put what GOES where.
find pieces, notice
why you care

you'll see it waiting, sitting there

dust settles
i don't
(i will i might i did?)

i won't

tasted

absolutely high
in spite of the sigh

making trails of tales in
sugary syrup

dieing for a taste

of that space

sweet definitive deliciously
will i?

up to the sky
or the latent
unbroken
sigh.

but i still recognize
the lie....

(last night's knowing haunts and taunts,
still..)

stupid little toy

this one spun of wild unabridged actions attractions reactions
she was never a hider
till spiders they crawled up beside her
(she, eating her words and prey)

fear admits mistakes in the truth's wake, sadly, promotes fake
and the girl
always
just
spoke
though sometimes
in riddles and jokes
mirrors, smoke,
were a foreign idea

she's a banshee of spirit
instantly unwise and raw at once
and the only saving grace in that,
is her agility in keeping real
though called upon fools to feel,
is the only sane in a chaos that incidentally, she should enjoy

now,
the leftover sickly scent of
the last impression
(perhaps of lies unmentioned)
is severing the cord to life's joy
regret: a
stupid
little
toy
no one cared to play with before
...until she became bored
tragic
plastic habits came seeping in the cracks, she'll smack herself then,
is that why, or when?
how what where...
why in
hell
does
anyone
care
to make a fool of real?

don't assume how she feels
or steal it away to make
some sick orchestrated play on words
what you heard
is perception (yours)
faulty reception (also yours)

this one spun of no-matter-what just say it
is trembling now silent
a sad day
to play
in this sandbox