The raw emotions of a woman (2 page)

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Insanity

How innocent are you, the inner life the inner beauty, another
person hiding underneath the seams, a second head, another mind,
collecting facts like dust off the carpets and upholstery trying to
find the sentiment in a lost cause moment hidden under the stars
and forgotten about.

I see you watching me even though you aren’t
here, The lips that have grown cold to me, as they chase me around
on day dreams, following ever so closely with thoughts and whispers
and illusions that tie me closer. And I challenge the dream of a
man who wants to know me, but can’t. The belief in love as it comes
through telephone calls and desires, but I claim that we are
enemies, love and I. I claim it has been forsaken the tickling and
talking and the taking me from behind my back, the subservient
drowning in someone else’s path-tub as the water drips down my
throat to where the fish will drown. I claim I am too good to love,
the impossible irreversible sanity that has become wells in my eyes
towards the nights of abandonment. That I am not what I seem, a
ghost. A woman who has thrown up her internal life for glimmers of
hope in dead end nights, reaching towards the abandonment all over
again like a self-fulfilling prophecy like a forced contract with
the devil and I will follow along dancing on the edge of a canyon
as if I was made to, a doll with strings, I will paint his eyes
blue and call him God, if only to fall down his will into an ocean
of my own making, to run up against the waves like a child who has
gone mad, like a lover who only lusts for moments, and I will run
there as far as I can, into the deepest part of my own
doing.

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Silence

Often there is nothing inside of me but the belief in you
again, the needless silence that I have coated with my own
whispers, the belief in purpose as I dress you up and down with
outfits that I claim fit your identity. I call you my own in
sleepless nights when I wonder where you are sleeping, and I claim
I am no martyr as I touch the devil’s hand as we dance on the edge
of life watching from another place, another man’s back, another
dream. I call us together when you are clearly guarded, preaching
your highest morality to strangers, as if confidence and a sales
pitches changed reality, as if ego and acceptance could explain a
limitation for only liking one type of person, or one object, one
painting in a room of beautiful art work and cars, of beautiful
women. I pretend to know you, in the zoo where you are caged, the
people who pass between us, as we grow like trees intertwining
branches and thoughts, leaves and flowers. I pretend to love you
too, the innocence of love, the beginning as I am constantly
chasing and concluding the end, wrapping it in a bow so it can make
sense again, so the logic will be tuned with a pitch fork and a
high melody. I pretend to love you daily, every day, every moment,
I pretend as much as I can as I hit the walls and I force my
feelings into these containable moments of chit chat over nothing,
over walls shaped like eyes and irreversible silences. I create a
nest for myself out of thin air through the sticks you throw my
way, I try to make it in the in-between moments we never say that I
am constantly waiting on, the belief, the fantasies of dirty
thoughts and raunchy appetites, the beginning of the rainy season.
I try to pretend love is more meaningful than this, than the broken
down communication that has left the brown slush stuck. I like to
believe within these walls between us there is this crack, there
are these tiny grains of love that get through into a jar that is
stored somewhere that will one day pour like sunlight into my life,
but we all know I am the only one keeping track.

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Drawing mountains on the wall

I love you, you
know, I tell myself every night. Thinking of the thoughts that echo
somewhere else, in side of a room that is so much bigger than I
want to admit to, the air that has gotten old and stale with the
dust on the photographs. The beliefs that come around in the winter
time, when lost love and hopelessness are charms on the necklace I
wear. The belief in what people don’t say as it turns into monsters
sometimes, the maybe they meant this, if I heard it correctly
moments, or I turn the silence into angels and lovers, hoping to
grab into hearts and steal back something I assume is mine, the
covers over my bare bones that have caused me to shake at night
from the cold. I live in a strange place of amusement of change as
the world is constantly made a new, with new faces, new projects,
new beginnings I assume, or old ones dressed up and refashioned
like upholstery on couches. I sit alone thinking of who I want to
be, who I was, as I find a solid place to land, a solid place
behind my head and a thought, a world within myself that is quiet
at night, the characters that dance around in my head have all gone
asleep leaving behind the outline of the words we never say, the
conversations I wish I could have but usually don’t, the belief in
magic and innocence. I cry sometimes staring into the moon the
castles I draw on the walls, the mountains I sometimes feel are too
large to climb, the other people who I once knew who are waiting
somewhere for the day I come back home. I stare at these far away
lands, these dreams that I can barely remember, the world I used to
know and I wonder how hard the climb will be on my own. I wonder
what my worse days will be like, and I silently pray they are
behind me. I wonder was it always supposed to be this way? Was it
real, the face and the flesh and the moments in my mind, the people
I have met, the dances and the games and the superficial lives we
coat our tongues with, was it all the way it was supposed to be?
Could I have changed something? But often even in silence
surrounded by the walls, there is only the crushing of the sticks I
have intertwined to make myself comfortable.

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The eye who knows me by heart

There is often an
inner life underneath the skin, another person banging against the
flesh the before we met and the never will see again, last line
that comes around so effortlessly through the strangers who dance
in superficial ponds, the before we know one another in the shadows
of a naked room, hallowed out by the kind words we were taught in
school, before words knew the outside world. “If we could only love
effortless,” would say the neglect and intent mirrored inside our
own minds, the lives before lives. The you before yous, as we
circle around again back to the rattle and the million heads all
growing from the same neck, all rehearsing again to be the same. I
can be everyone claimed the million and one I can be you, you can
be me, and I will be better at it.

I am the best one. We all hear that same voice
that is so small and innocent that has grown to be ten feet tall
that has taken on a name and an identity that claims reality even
while we stand strong in our truth. It claims solid ground in a
non-emotional world we can’t reach but we cling to in thought, as
our foundation.

And we stay frozen inside our houses as the
rain pours through the roof. We watch our gadgets and photographs
and cd collection drown against the walls of our closet in the back
of our mind, we want to run to replace the memories and people, to
replace the humanity that remains among our lined lives like the
vase we borrowed 3 years ago, we want to keep our trinkets of
thought ever so still to collect dust on the inside ourselves, in
the winter that have been deeply frozen and untouchable. We want
that, to keep something still as the water rises to drown us
against the chaos, we want to remain inside the buried down dirt
trapped in a corner somewhere so dry it has stuck there like glue.
We want to be loved, we want to be needed, we want to be the one no
one can walk away from, the irreplaceable you that is everywhere
and everyone and everything, that neon container in a land fill
that will never degrade, we just want that, that fixed stare in the
dark that knows us, which can’t be shaken.

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Society

I am stuck inside of a monster searching its inner brain
pulling at the threads, reaching at the tip of my toes to see
through another pair of eyes, another set of I love you again,
another human heart that lays on the table during a family meal
that people keep sticking forks into. “I am trying,” say the
hopeless even though real hope is constantly out of
reach.

Inside the broken down buttons of an old man’s
coat is just another preoccupied thought, it sits narrowly on a
finger like a rain drop and eventually it slip its way down a hand
on its own path.

“The horror of another freak show,” we cry like
an empty sky for the sentimental wishes of desire that are
absolutely imagined. The dark Tuesday when we thought our night
vision and a thick lock would protect the thieves from stealing our
transportation, out and in, in and out from this life into another.
The inside out version as we climb up the flesh again, ontop of
another one, a third one, a fifth one, until we lose count of who
we were never supposed to forget, who our mothers preached about
from encyclopedias of values and womanly
responsibilities.

We lose our minds into our hearts as we fit
into the narrow doors that men have painted on the walls of the
kitchen and the bedroom, and we sit there in the dark pretending
they open to more than concrete as we dream about the other women,
the women who have it harder than us, who killed themselves with
the weapon of other people’s thoughts. We live like we are heroes
in a story that is only an internal struggle and we die by
constructive logic, criticism paved on superficial
streets.

There is more than just who what we think we
are, as we are nothing but dust and skin, eyes that live in a
telepathic universe talking to aliens and walled up
strangers.

“There is another world, inside the foundations
we create our cities on,” say the monks who are waiting to die for
the rewards of prayer. And we believe them as we sit with them, and
wait for the ceiling that is crafted by guitar strings to finally
come down and strangle what looks too much like authority, who
looks to much like a solid group over-looking the individuals, who
looks too much like harmony, and we wait buried underneath the
music for unity within.

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A boy I met with a superman notebook, who lost
his family.

You know
me remember, we met during another life time, another human
experience of what we used to know by heart, the life lessons of
another soul whose reflections of roses and smiles remain in the
puddles of our dreams as silhouetted heads watching us sleep. We
are the reminder of entire life time together, don’t you remember?
When you stepped on my toes and I felt as if I had lost a dream
again, that whimsical thought that is catching air as we speak,
drifting father and father away on the breath of a Tuesday that we
will one day forget? Do you remember when we barely spoke the
news-week in your left hand, the loose change of another
transaction slipping on your tongue as you waited behind me and yet
it all changed already, the yesterdays have lost their hard edges
as we count them down, moment; moment, trying to catch up to
something in an imaginary land; we are chasing one thought into
another again, running away and running towards like this colliding
skin attached on a monster’s back. The broken down hero who has
found comfort in the middle of another set of common day
phrases.

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Grains of salt

My heart has a bit of a wall around it, will
someone make themselves as small as a grain of salt and drip into
my pores, become the film over my insights and fall into the raw
gut bitterness that makes me circle around and around the same
points on the floor like a dance toy that is broken, wrinkle up
between the bones and push my heart back out again, and its drips
will be caught by those who watch me, making shapes and animals as
ink blots doctor's use to decipher someone's sanity, thankyou. That
sticky red gooey guy has gotten stuck somewhere inside of me,
afraid of the wild again.

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Innocence

Inside of one set of eyes is often another, watching you with
a thick skin, pretending it knows, it remembers, the windows and
mountains and dripping ocean that has been ripped apart so that its
fish jump freely about without oxygen. It is the sour feeling of
words and thought and air escaping our last breath of a name we
can’t seem to recall, the distant gallop towards another lifetime
where we were better once, without the worries fear and dark needs
that society can’t understand. The broken hearted glance at a lover
who won’t return but we call anyways to hear an old answering
machine message or to see a green dot on a gmail account, we return
like a lost cause, a drop of water inching ever so closer to a
drain and the inner cliff. We wait there timid on the edge of
reason and emotion, thinking of rainbows and puppy dogs and the joy
of being submissive when we no longer have to take moral
responsibility for the world at large again, up-righting and
up-rooting the inner perspectives that have grown into us. Like day
old bread we can crumble again, we can go back to not understanding
life as children, when knowing it all could simply vanish like the
grains of dirt.

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Mindless chatter

Other people’s eyes are quietly scattered all over
my body like pin balls, watching moving circling the wisps of paper
that have fallen down from the sky, and within me, are a million
I’s they all claim to be right all of the time, the righter right
version of a societal line we all causally pretend not to step on
to avoid the marks it leaves. I am right claim the higher spiritual
angelic perspective of force, forcing us forward into these glee
full bodily functions of purpose, as we turn into the dust that
rains, as we cover the land like purple rainbow thoughts of
eachother yellow and green ribbons, dancing without a thought of
money, without a thought of justice of consequence like that woman
who is mad at me, because the men around her are belligerent and
there is no other way to distance herself from the
anger.