Tear out the Heart

Tear out the heart. Bleeding, throbbing, explodes.

Lost feelings and emotions. No control.

A sacrifice on a stake. Eat it whole.

The hollow man remains. No sympathy.

This cold wretched world that stole his true heart.

The priests and the temples won’t mourn his loss.

The scars won’t heal. Forever reminded.

The pieces and splatter on the sidewalk.

People trample and ignore the man’s pain.

English: A homeless man in Paris Français : Un...

Suffering seen, but unheard. Close their eyes.

Another staggered by life consequence.

He stumbles around, searching for someone.

They avoid his eyes, let him continue.

Along a trail unchosen, path denied.

There’s not much time left, all he wants is help.

He can hear the ticking. Incessant clock.

He hears a drum, a beat he used to know.

Another one suffers, join them in the rain.

Scream at God, maybe the cries will be heard.

United, together, fucked throughout life.

A street lamp, a hope, a whisper of change.

Precious little time. Moments flutter, gone.

When moments matter, memories will come.

A flood to fill the void, his empty soul.

Blinking, fading, waiting to start again.


My Invisible Friend

mesopotamia, iraq - babylon relief

A broken record, a device abused.

Something for those times we’re hurt or confused.

Needed in the moment, but let go fast.

Something needed until the moment’s past.

Abandon, neglect. Temporary tool.

Excitement. Erect. What a silly fool.

Nights alone, with a connection outside.

The faith, the belief, the world changer’s here.

All for material, how could it be?

Friendship, ally, not another ride home.

Lies and deceit? Never would I have guessed.

The stories, the victim, misunderstood?

An egregious error if there was one.

Forgotten like the world I’ve always fought.

No intentions of purchase. Just myself.

Surprised at no hello after goodbye.

Oceans amassed and quiet tides rolled in.

Mysterious disappearance. Where now?

No more films or other stories exchanged.

An unbetrothed betrayal. Listening.

A kingdom bought with a smile and touch.

I could have been the jester. I played well.

Well enough leaves it alone. A small wave.

An enchanting tale. Looking for the signs.

When I am king, regret takes the same path.

Statue of Limitations

Pygmalion & Galatea

Crieried is a beautiful statue girl with skin like porcelain. Her perfectly shaped features are preserved as a statue. The light of day glints off her cheeks and under her breasts, accentuating curves and bringing attention to all of her best features. But on days when her smooth porcelain skin is shrouded by an internal darkness, another glint can be seen on her face. Tears. Crieried’s beauty contrasted her sadness within, for all God had given Crieried to be looked upon, she could feel nothing. For her porcelain skin preserves her beauty, yes, but it is so cold to the touch.

It wasn’t until Crieried’s father touched her at the age of two that she learned the effects of a man’s touch on her. Crieried’s porcelain-skin diapered child’s body would learn that her father’s touch slowly warmed and softened her skin, beginning at her wrists, and slowly melting the hard exterior to skin warm and soft that longed for his touch. Her uncle began to touch her at the age of five, and her desire for the warmth and softness of skin that so many others knew better than her, it made her want it even more.

Crieried began to allow the boys in school to touch her. What she desired, she did not seek, but allowed to occur with fully complacent complicity. When she was 13, and boys and girls began to play together and mingle, having sleepovers and telling secrets, but before feelings were told, Crieried let the boys at school touch her. Giggling nights led to giggling overnights, and to wee hours of the morning. Those nights were when Crieried allowed the boys from school to touch her, nervously fulfilling the hidden desires of sensations of the touch.

Children at a .

Crieried continued this behavior through her youth, but saturations of desire led to the loosening of standards and the lenience of boundaries until she lost all control. Once that last battle was fought, her once satiated self experienced drained emotions, sucked away until nothing was left inside except a longing for what was, and yet the feeling of filth remains to taint her desires. This was when Crieried turned 17, and yearned for something even more, that her life should be changed, and that she could live the way others do, become normal. So Crieried let the boys touch her less, so she could recover her self-worth and stave her desires of the flesh.

But the effects of this wracked her emotions. It could be seen by her once silky hair becoming preserved in a rather disheveled state. Crieried wandered around the city, lonesome, empty, seeking not something, because it could not be named, and not anything, because she could not settle, so she was left wanting. Her judgments then became clouded, and her mind numbed, wandering as she did, making her oblivious to the rest of the world. That is when she crossed the street, and a man named Maurice, driving his car, speeding along, clipped poor Crieried and sent her through the air bouncing against the pavement until she finally came to a stop. Maurice frantically exited the car, slammed the door, and rushed to kneel beside our poor soul Crieried.

Pont de l'Alma

She lied on the ground motionless, blank eyes staring to the sky, not acknowledging Maurice or his presence. Maurice wondered, Oh God what have I done!? and reached down to clasp Crieried’s small hand within his. As he touched her, her skin began to warm, slowly spreading along her body, distorting limbs along the way, gradually revealing cuts, scrapes, bruises, and upon her face, tears. Realizing what he had done, Maurice began to cry, closing his eyes, and as he did, Crieried looked up at him with a gentle smile on her face and whispered, Thank You. Maurice opened his eyes to look at her, and that is when Crieried’s life ended.