we are filthy rich with hope
there are holes in our pockets and when everything falls out there is a trail on the sidewalk
leading to quiet spaces no one would have named beautiful
until now

i am the girl who lives in the walls
i hear voices with no faces
until i cannot sleep
between halfway dreams of empty places
they visit on holidays
they wake up rested
while i am tired
from the dreams they should've been keeping in their heads

write in blood
pressure
wait - i'm freezing
i am not a stethoscope to be held to your skin

you are the boy who follows the pipes
you give speeches of brilliance
to running water
that drowns out the sound with its circular dance
we will keep each other
we will keep awake
pipe dreams of something
about beauty unrested and dancing aloud in our heads

i will freeze the pipes. you will sing and they will break and all will come rushing to the places they've kept locked. in between walls and water, we won't forget or be forgotten. yet.

write in blood
pressure
wait - i'm freezing
i am a stethoscope
hold me to your skin

i am the girl that lives in the walls
i hear voices with no faces

there is something so alive in you
that makes me want to fall down on the ground
and admit
i dont have the slightest idea of how to really live
you are awake
and it burns you
i know that
i see it
and it still makes me want to cry
yet to watch you move towards something beautiful wakes me up
awake awake
and halfway ready, finally
leaving them behind - they are dead
you are alive
they wont ever get behind my eyes and tell me what lies underneath
what ive been neglecting
they are dead and you are alive
i pray the day comes soon when you understand and walk with your head held higher
until then - i do love you

doesnt this prove it? doesnt this prove it? i am weak.
(and as i type this i am told otherwise)
the only thing ive ever been good at is words.

we've already outlasted a miracle.

underneath there were hands and angels.

does it really make you such a martyr when youve only lost what youve never had?

now i know the problem...i cant write fiction.
not in my head
not with my fingers
not for my life

(sometimesifeelcold)

...are these gloves really helping at all?

i am being tamed.

these days i love the sky and i wouldnt complain if wire passageways were breaking up to interrupt signals i was never meant to receive. leave more room for the clouds. (that's why i love you.)

i am surprisingly comfortable with the bizarre.

i wish i could somehow be more kind
i understand but i dont want to give in to silly ploys and twists and puppet shows
i find myself at the puppet theater
i havent paid admission, i snuck in through the back gate
not expecting to stay
now ive set up camp
stage left
dramatic monologue
it's twisted up i am twisted up

all i want is someone who will read to me.

repeat it and your mouth will get used to the feeling you get from the formation of words that were foreign to you.

i know it's over, over, over.

He must increase so that I may decrease.
.John 3.30

I will betroth you to Me forever;
Yes, I will betroth you to Me in righteousness and justice,
in lovingkindness and in compassion
and I will betroth you to Me in faithfulness.
Then you will know the Lord.
[Hosea 2.19-20]

you speak to me of your love and it burns pictures into my mind that replay themselves when the weather gets colder and my eyes get tired of all of the scenery.

the Lord your God is in your midst
a victorious warrior
He will exult over you with joy,
He will be quiet in His love,
He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.
[zephaniah 3.17]

[THIS] is [love]

this is a story about a girl who was not patient for anything or anyone
and the way it poisoned her heart

lately my words seem trite
like they are scratching my throat and just force themselves out as a means of relief instead of with a purpose in themselves

my dreams are full and colorful with dark undertones running throughout...
is something being said to me?
is it the only way to reach me?

well, i said something
but it was still pretty quiet...

i looked for wedding rings on the fingers of the dolls
and was disappointed when i could not find them
the sign driving home was backwards and upside down
(it made me smile)

i will not mind being picked up and spun around until i am rather dizzy
(well, maybe i will mind a little bit, but i will know that it will turn out to be alright)
and i will be leaving the room with something on my mind that is written in sloppy letters
(the kind i pretend to forget about and replace with some makeshift aesthetic)
i will remember a lot and forget twice as much
(if not more)
and things wont be what ive planned
and things will be beautiful

i did not mean to sound like a politician.

i will take a sheet of notebook paper out
drawing two columns
the perfections and the imperfections
i will write in words
(knowing that they will haunt me like a flawed smile)
i will think in pictures
(knowing that they will play without a beautiful soundtrack)
i will not remember what i should know
i will not forget what never was

i will go to sleep and forget i ever even said this.

be quiet and do something about it.

dont make guesses at what it means.

there's no formula. and i am learning that you readily catch the frequency of a whisper best of anything. i am learning to speak in new tones.

new winterwake song
//written thursday night, played friday night

[the boy with one leg is winning the race.]

when you see through your new eyes
past the brushstrokes of fear
and the painted disguise
it will be a beginning

the sun slows enough
you put your heart on the table
to find the bruise
the words you use
meet together in the air
that is filled with a presence you had never understood

now it's music to your ears
you know the melody like youve seen it
now it's music to your ears
now you're dancing and you mean it

the way hope would bless you with wings as a child
the way hope would bless you to stand undefiled

(written all over my body) : let's arrange another happenstance meeting

my bones are sometimes brittle, please be gentle with me.

(i know you know.)

oh how the days are darker when you stop and wait and see the way colors fold and spin around ideas that you had when you were younger. now climb up the stairs to the attic and maybe you will remember why you used to smile and mean it.

if love were subtraction youd be long division.

we are young, we are silent, we are speaking in abstractions, touching with the way our eyes move, kissing when our hands brush. we will not reach for anything. it has got to be placed in our hands. and when it is there we will sit and think of how nice it is for something to come straight to us, without any effort. we will spend the day in silence, sitting forever, waiting for everything else to fall into place. we cant move until it does. we cant move. we cant.

i am tired of this i am tired of myself i am tired.

again words fail me
i am wanting you to carry the weight
but i still hold it in my own hands
and turn away from you with any suggestion of transfer.

the story fact truth of the woman at the well helps me feel think know what rest is

time out.
i cant hold it the way that you do, it doesnt become me
(and i am afraid that it does not become you either, my friend).
those words that are carelessly falling out of your mouth are not words to be treated like candy
(staining your teeth and your tongue)
or cigarettes
(as we all cough from your secondhand smoke).
if you want to push it into my system without my compliance
neither us will be the better after the exchange.
it means a lot to me
i cant throw it around for fear of throwing it away.
when i speak, i want it to mean something
so that ears wont be closed due to endless mindless repetition.
this something is grace, coming from a death that i wont turn into a pop song.

i have often forgotten that, while time is elapsing,
the words i couldnt remember before are becoming more vivid
and i am able to speak with a certainty i did not expect to have.

travel still makes my eyes shine more brightly.

something about this still twists my stomach up and gives me the awful feeling of wanting to cry when i know i cant wont or shouldnt.

i dont know how much of this i do to myself.

i have self destructed so many times, i am less than ready to let myself be destroyed by another.

show me the form of kindness.

//too heavy and too expensive

if it mattered i hope you would tell me.
the way it's all been constructed there are doubts in too many corners
if i move my piece there, it will surely be captured in the next round

i am caught either way

do you know that?

you are chipping away at something inside of me
(i am letting you do it every time
am i asking you?)
and for now i cannot tell
whether you are carving something within my framework
or peeling back layers and finding something that has been waiting to be uncovered

i need to know what you want
because i am forgetting what i had been hoping for.

"i'm not the way i thought i was"

continually viewing fragments of myself in others becomes a bit like piecing together a stained glass window.
i want to reflect light and help it fall in pretty colors onto the floor.

there is so much joy
in so many things.

little things will never fail to make me run into the next room and tell someone else why i laughed or felt loved or caught a taste of hope.

faith hope and love
[and the greatest of these is love]

i was asked a question
to which there was no honest answer
either way seemed deceptive.

the timing is off
the timing is off
the timing is off

there is blood on my teeth from the tearing apart of ideas with my misshapen words
conversation is not as pristine as it is made to be with these perfectly shaped letters on this screen
i promise never to do it again
and i do
they know it's coming
the uneasiness falling after the sounds that just wont harmonize

i cant read music.

i want to take the beautiful pieces and write them on my heart so i wont forget, in the times when there are ashes on the ground after youve left. there is a perfection in a few silent moments that will not be matched by whatever words i try to voice. my throat is straining and all that i say comes out in a whisper that you couldnt decipher.

the time for letters and numbers is slowly fading into a background of noise and motion.

i find it strange that...

i often feel more connected to words that belong to others instead of the words that i own.

i desire [expect] things from people that i often dont do myself.

the past shows up in so many insuppressible ways. there are songs i dont ever forget. people dont ever really disappear. there are parts of me that i think ive left behind, but, really, theyve just taken shape and been formed into new pieces. i hope that they are a better fit.

fear is underneath so many things, if you look carefully.

it is so simple to make promises.

change always seems just around the corner.

jesus please forgive me.
how much i have been entangled...
i dont want it to be this way.

'That what our lips deny, our pulse confesses.'
-Moliere

sleep is underrated.