A Date With Burnout

That night

I was entombed in a world,

a world that knew nothing of my inflamed, ulcerate heart,

a world that I had expected to carry a friend,

a world that was nothing other

than a pit of quicksand seizing my fatal dreams,

dreams that laid spilled across the tear soaked kitchen table,

a table that juddered from holding up a volcano body regretfully erupting against two palms,

palms that masked a crumbling face,

a face that begged to be buried in the shoulders of the spectator on the opposite side of the table.

Tears fell with a pang of shame, melting into the grout of the tile floor,

a floor that held the stale memories of fine wine and laughter.

It was tears that fell, tears that dried;

tears that had been contained within the brittle gates of a demanding schedule.

 

 

It was tears noticed,

tears counted;

tears that needed to hear truth,

the truth of His grace and unconditional love.

 

Loved at a Loveless Wedding‏

Being hired to capture two lovers exchanging rings on film, you are given a one day pass to peek into their world – a world whose walls usually only allow those wearing heavy friendship  badges. But with a camera as your weapon and SD cards as ammo, you can march straight into the core of it and shoot as much as you want.

And such was the case this weekend. It was a world that threw daily deeds aside in preparation for the bride and bridegroom’s perfect day. And it was perfect: with a flawlessly beaded, Swarovski-weighted dress, she floated down the aisle towards him with DKNY-weighted wrists. Each vowel of each vow lingered in the air after escaping their shortened breaths. As they embraced, they spun themselves into a single cocoon, hoping to emerge as a beautiful butterfly.

Instead: They were two tattered worms wearing very expensive butterfly masks.

Each mask gradually chipped with every tipping of a shot glass, with every foul word effortlessly slipping into conversation, with every curse of the bride at her guests not dancing. Where there once had been prayers on their lips, stale alcohol resided.

After a twelve hour shift, we packed up our weaponry and headed towards the exit.

We prayed.

It was not a neatly prepared piece of poetry. It was not a performance to an audience. It was not talking to the idea of God. It was sharing with a Father, a Protector, a Lover. And so, a long day past and a long road to come brought fourth what it had promised: inside a small city car, the evening allowed us to slowly un-wrap of the stories of our hearts.

And

in

that

moment,

we had loved more

than two newly-weds at an upside down party.

It should’ve stayed behind the door of lips.

It is when things and thoughts are demanded and pulled from the mouth which should have stayed simmering in the heart and molding in the brain a little longer, that the aroma of friendship in the air is replaced with bitter remorse as each word trips over my lips.

Bleeding Wrists

Your thoughts: your soul enemy; a toxic syringe injected into your emotions.
It hurts, burns and churns your stomach. And you press blades against, through your skin.
The pain so long held back seeps through the walls of your veins.
Your wrists needn’t bleed, because His already did, and His bled Grace.

We Dance

We Dance

When words and screams and tears and dreams cannot express, we dance. Each muscle: inspired by a pulse, a pounding, a passion, a pause of the heart. Each limb: stirred by a beat, a build-up, a bridge, a break in the music. If it rises we rise with it, if it moves we follow, if it falls we slam our brave bold brittle bodies to the floor and if it              stops,

we halt to inhale the silence. Where you put pens to paper, words to muteness, music to empty lines and paint to a canvas – we give wind to the air, beatings to the floor and movement to dust as it slowly balloons to the ground after being swept up by emotion, expression, opinion, life in a body that once was still.

He boy that sings chords

He boy that sings chords

During the last weeks of winter, the snow no longer holds days filled with futile snowfall fights, animated laughter and the smell of new leather gloves. No. Days are overwhelmed by icicle heaps waiting outside your heated walls and floors to surprise you with another arctic bite to the bones as you head off for the day. Even though the long overdue cold smears a bitter depression across the city like sticky peanut butter on a soft bread slice, for Alan each day was merely a clone of the previous. This was not because he had an unfortunate disability that kept him from seeing or feeling the season changes, but because like none of his friends (if he had any), he lived inside the box of an acoustic guitar. The only way he had any idea of what the weather had entailed for his husky-voiced owner, was by the way his finger would shudder across the fret board. Alan didn’t mind the quaking. Daily he anticipated the first flick of each tightly pulled nylon thread. As each string oscillated between the distance determined by the drive of a finger or plectrum, Alan would voice back each pure and beautiful note as expected from the maestro. Days would pass where Alan had to sing for five to eight hours: Bsus9, Cmin7, harmonics. Other days would pass where his voice would linger with silence until it was once again set free by the warm gentle practiced callused fingers. His owner would always return with little saline drops for drinks that would slip occasionally though the hole of the box. Alan knew each heart ache and heart break of his holder, but oh I wish I could say that the knowledge was mutual.

The artist played oblivious to Alan’s angel voice and so it seemed that he had become a finger puppet.

Heels and Uphills

Girl, what are you doing with those heels as your hip pops to the side and your shoulders droop to rectify your gawky length?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as your silhouette looks like a fizzer that’s been pulled apart where the tips can no longer be upright but curls over like a willow tree branch?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as you wrench them from the gaps between the cobble stones with every other step?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as faces pass you with no more than a wry smile, because what use to be exuberant greetings have dismantled into stifled ‘hello’s, because one inch of concentration lost could end you with pavement imprints across your perfectly makeup-ed face?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as you look like a fool, sinking a few inches into the soil as you walk across the Godly gift of velvety grass?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as you embarrassingly whip your head from side to side to see if anyone observed the twist of an already aching ankle?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as you wear them for the first time and it keeps you from exploring the depths of a tree house?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels as it punishes and prunes your toes into sickly crisscrossing crooked limbs?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels when wearing them defies the very initial aesthetic reason that made you shove them on your feet?
Girl, what are you doing with those heels when you look beautiful after you slip them off and let them drop and gently slide your feet into the eddying swirls of the park streams?

Acid Tear

Acid Tear

Pacing, aimless, back and forth and forth and back

between the walls of a personal labyrinth.

There she stands imitating every move, every frown.

I meet face-to-face with the face I fear (most).

Beneath each eye remains an acid tear,

On each hand, a wound of remembrance.

She digs in her pocket for the last straw of love.

But there is none,

none to have,

none to hold,

none to give

to the girl on this side of the skewed mirror.

All she has left is

an

acid

tear.