Breathless and still, my stomach is heavy as a stone.
The floating emptiness inching towards the heavens of my mouth.
The blood in my veins circulate through my body, above the chaos of abdomen.
The inner tubing of my chest carries the thud that beats from my heart to the left ear.
The collar bone, lying above this network of tissue, resists against my spandex skin:
A beauty of the Jurassic kind.
I feel lost in my writing like my words lead no where.
They are empty steps on paper stairs that are lined blue with red railings.
I go no where but up and up;
My hopes go with them.
I fall off the meaningless edge.
Think of me as a child:
adorable and unwise,
clumsy and awkward.
He is eye-candy that tastes bitter when you reach the center,
but you still want to taste him,
to go through the meal.
My eyelids are cold, they itch with sleep.
How they long to meet each other for the night.
Brief meetings are nice,
But long periods of togetherness are sweeter.
Eyelids are like lovers,
Brushing against one another, yearning for bed.
Hmmm I’m not sure how to categorize this post. A story in verse would be the best way to describe it I guess. It is fictional but based on actual ideals some people in this world have. I wrote this after a conversation with a friend of mine and I guess it speaks strongly of my beliefs. Some people might see this as somewhat controversial… but my eyes only see a clear, thick, black line that divides ethics, love, & morals from a savage unnecessary torture that is too similar to the actions that lead to mass killings in the second world war of people considered “unworthy of life.”
Anyway, I’m getting drawn away from the essence of this post. Here’s the story:
Beautiful Ethan, born April 16, 2007
How beautiful he was:
Little nose; red apple cheeks;
A little head full of dark brown hair;
Vibrant blue eyes that shocked all who saw them.
He was everything Tammy and John had wanted.
Adorable and curious,
He seemed interested in everything he saw.
He learned quickly.
Tammy and John were very proud;
But then there was the fire in their condo building.
He hadn’t cried. It was very odd.
They discovered he was deaf.
Tammy could only cry,
John sat in angry silence.
The doctors said he could hear,
They just had to do a simple surgery.
The government covered the cost.
So, the baby boy went back to the hospital.
He wasn’t ill, he wasn’t dying,
But surgery would be imposed.
Tammy stayed at the hospital with the boy until he went into surgery.
John’s actions spoke louder then his lousy excuse.
The doctors took the one year old boy
And shaved the hair around his ear.
They inserted a scalpel into his soft skin,
Drilled the scull that had not even developed to its full potential.
God wept, his ears bleeding in shared pain.
And the boy would cry from pain his parents would never feel,
With swelling and bruised skin.
Why would parents inflict this pain on children they brought into this world?
Ah, they do it because they want their children to be the same as they are.
But what is easier, learning sign language or imposing surgery on a child?
Laziness is all that comes to mind,
And vomit to my mouth.
Deaf parents don’t jab pens into their hearing children’s ears,
But I’m sure the thought of that shocks you
More than ripping into the soft head of a beautiful baby boy.
F.Y.I. – I don’t know exactly how the surgery for a cochlear implant works, but I don’t care to research the topic. (No matter how the surgery is “perfected” I wouldn’t accept it being performed on a child; what adults do is their own business, even though I still think it is not right.)
Hmmm I’m in a mood…relieved, relaxed, enchanted…I can’t describe it. My heart lingers with emotion. Does your heart expand until your throat feels it will shut? Glance into a world of gods and angels…
Julian didn’t want to seduce this goddess into thinking this was about sex; it was about pleasure, living a life of pleasure and ecstasy. He loved her, Dea, in every meaning of the word – in obsession and possession, in gentle touches and kind caresses, in rough, demanding passion. She is cute and shy, avoiding his eyes and blushing at the words he whispers into her delicate ear. He loves the thick, brown hair that surrounds this ear, some sort of mix between curly and straight that she hates for its difficulty. He loves it, finding a rare curl and capturing it around his finger, it was his, a silken tether to a goddess that blessed him by roaming his home in a toga of bed sheets.
Sara laid there, Michael’s angel, sleeping quietly. He lay beside her, watching her heavenly face as she dreamed something that curled her lips into a sweet smile. He contemplated running his fingers over the side of her face, brushing aside a strand of curled, black hair, or kissing her delicate finger tips that knew the piano so well.
Crushed breaths in my chest, he whispers against my lips. His powerful hands interlace themselves with my caramel hair as he supports my bare shoulders with his forearms. This playful nothingness is torture, ecstasy, and more intimate than words.
I can sit here all day, looking into your face of beautiful lashes and thick lips. Is it so wrong to admire you, to adore your looks, to find you strangely sexy? I know nothing could ever happen, but there is no stop to the silent film that plays in my head.
John could cry looking at Mia’s beautiful face with eyes full of impossibly long lashes. It boggled his mind how this beautiful creature could exist in his life; she was stunning in her sleep. But it hurt to touch her skin, burned the pads of his finger until it reached his heart and punctured it like a body stabbed and bleeding. He tried to remember her voice, the words that had fallen from her full lips; it only gave him a head ache. He left her on the bed, the faint morning light penetrating the white curtains above her sleeping figure, wrapped in the dark lime green blanket that was as soft as her skin.
How does one become sophisticated? Do you learn it? Can it only be absorbed as a child? I know it is not like maturity. Maturity is attained through hard lessons and loss of innocence. You are mature when you can make decisions that are considered good but you hate to make.
I wonder what the loss of innocence will bring. I have my mature moments but in many ways I am still innocent. It makes me think of the essence of your soul being sucked out by the vacuum we call life. It makes me think of a blurb I wrote for class:
“That funny boy with the long, thin face and blue eyes that are somewhat standoffish. He likes to be edgy or is it racy? Scandalous. Yet he seems distant and lonely, opting to keep people at arms length. Maybe I perceive that from reading him. He seems mature, or is that just time wearing him down? Do we mature or just get worn down to a point that changes us? Only to be brought to another point where any change is beyond us? I forget his name; it is always changes: a chameleon in letters. I should just use his one, but that is too revealing. He seems sweet, with his smile and face of stubble.”
Innocence is the water that fills the well of our being. As we age it dries out from use and spills as we stumble. It seeps through the cracks and into the ground until we are empty. All that remains is the subdued heart and the crowded mind, still wet from childhood.
