supercoolgirl

aspiring writer and poet

[ccherryywine]

The sun before I leave

Unearth me from my morning shroud, pull back the cotton veil that shades my head.

Exist forever in this earthly in-between with me.

In your presence, you reel me back in like the tide.

You chase out to sea every thought that aims to muddy the shores of my world.

This quiet is yours, this quiet is mine. Just keep on lying with me.

You’re tracing filigree down my spine. You’ve pulled back the curtains to let the light flood my room.

Take the time to adorn everything that’s mine in warmth and light,

I remain fed, body and soul by the choice to spend so many of your hours on me.

Contemplating this fact is like sipping on honey water, sweetened by the truth that to you, it’s never a cost.

I am but putty in the gentlest of hands.

Next to one another, we awaken again and bask in the temporary slowness of time.

When time gets up and moving again, life is given to even the smallest of my wishes.

Keys dangling from the ignition, you first turn to my songs.

I’ve made a habit of pausing before shut doors, anticipating you to come and rush before me.

When we’re outside, running on so little time, it’s like the world was made to be yours and mine.

My years are yours. My coming-of-age, my downfalls, nearly every first time.

I know by now you know me like the back of your hand. Does your heart still feel held like mine? You’ve still got my heart reeling.

With every exposure to every dark and ugly side of me under cold sterile lights, you’ve only pulled me closer.

You’ve got my hand as we walk beneath the trees, and suddenly the leaves above our heads are the biggest I’ve ever seen.

Water trickles in dim, backlit corners of this room and we stop to follow every natural sound.

Running water, scattered voices, a shortened version of my name on your lips. Despite my insecurities, in the moment I know we are picturesque.

As we’re framed by sunlight beaming through the walls of clear glass panes, my perception of myself is the furthest thing from my mind.

You watch me tend to my windowsill orchids every day, between the pains of my life.

Today you’d take me to the most magnificent greenhouse full of them.

We both know tonight is the first night in a while I’ll have to be away.

I return to you tomorrow, but there’s something about this moment, still:

The eagerness to fulfill every second, and feel it in its wholenes.

Each bright beam on your cheek softens your freckles into shadowy figures that dance along your face.

I thank a God I feel unsure about every day for you, because if there is one thing I must have been divinely granted, it had to be you.

In this gift there are mornings where you lull away every anxiety, entrancing me with your reflex to cover me in sunbeams.

I’d be a fool to take for granted even a single breath beside you.

The greatest gift and peace you bring is knowing you feel all of this and then some for me. My protection and this covenant of goodness comes easily to you.

That is why it is so hard for me, so hard for me to live, breathe, and be.

It’s a cruel, humbling thing to live cerebrally in between.

It’s unfair that I cannot fix my mind on perfectly savoring each second we share, even in the face of strife.

Be it that my mind were clear and clean, unbroken by the psychogenetic curse of my mother’s mother’s torments, I would still never be able to hold each one with the honor it merits.

There is love and then there is you, something greater and further beyond that. Love alone feels minimizing of what you’ve given to me.

There is gentleness, there is peace, and a memory perched upon a rock looking down on the water, a place for you and I.

There is a place for you in every part of me. I cannot fathom any existence in which this would ever not be.

It’s fulfilling and whole and raw and true.

I dream to take in every moment, like we did under leaves unequaled by any we’d ever seen. We have so little time, and I must go but I never want to leave.

You know I’ll always be quick to return, but we push back against time to our most joyful detriment again.

This love swells in my chest like the lungs that let me breathe, warm and light and comfortable.

We’d stay stopping to compliment every living species, and my mind would live forever in the sun before I leave.

K.T

[ccherryywine]

November is a heavy blanket

It is late November, a week of receiving test scores I’ve deemed unworthy of any praise.

Any hope on my brain’s horizon dwindles like the candle I smothered before bed.

The comforter protects me from my every disappointment, except those that are inherent to such a tenderhearted existence. I shelter myself beneath the linens regardless.

Don’t consider it sweet. It is not sweet to be such a vile, senselessly moveable creature. What is there to honor in my holding-out-of-hope? I’ve done this all before. I know this. I’ve watched the whole show and have never seen the curtains close. Trust that I know. It’s beastly, to believe such a thing could ever happen now. Not in the second act. Nor the third, or however many of these wicked cycles occur. It’s soul-crushing lately to even believe at all.

But that is such a privileged form of burdened existence. Bodies at borders are starving and confined, and I hole myself up with my own misery. I sicken myself with my lack of belief, but I also feel that I have all too much. Someone would kill to make a masterpiece of the life I’ve burrowed my heartache into. A warm body carrying such a gentle heart holds me to himself all night long, I have everything I need and nearly everything I want. What a shame it is, to still be burdened amidst all the preciousness of life. It’s a shame I know all too well.

Of course, It’s wrong to deny yourself the right to care at all, but I know how I sink my teeth into things, pathetically. Ridiculously. Inexplicably. Things that I can’t touch with my raging-fire persistence. Things that even years of determination couldn’t chip away at. It’s hard. Especially this time of year. The woes of this world all come together in the midst of my Sisyphean endeavors. The blue skies draped in nostalgia are tainted with chemtrails, the pillars of my home are submerged in the influence of political theater.

And on the birthday of someone I’ll never speak to again, though they’re always in my dreams, I’ll sit in comfortable silence, missing the more comfortable noise. Their apparition-like appearance is enough to have me wake up with an aching chest.

The only lifeline is little pastimes, some good for the soul, some probably rotting it right out.

I scratch scattered thoughts into my notebook just to leave as some kind of evidence for myself. November is hardly moving, letting the ulcers left behind from chewing my cheeks all October heal. Their red halos close in and soften into new flesh like my heart should have done by now. November is never getting to do what I swore I’d make time for. Time always costs more when the coming days stare you in the face with intimidation.

My grocery store daisies drop petals one by one, as I linger on truths I could never tell and fears I’m not strong enough to face. It’s a wretched thing to be so aware. I wouldn’t let the words be pulled from my lips, they’d only wish they could put them back in. I know part of it is karmic, but that sword spared no one. I’m suddenly walking back steps from the past, what went wrong, what could be different. It’s a trivial task, pointless according to all logic.

That’s the core of my purgatory, I think. Logic is a concept in which the reasoning abilities of my soul have a fundamental error. Only my mind has any logical capacity, but it remains unreached in such matters of the heart. Such that, now I’m stuck in a loop.

The warmth enveloping my body comforts me enough to drown out the overstimulating feeling of prickly legs in the cotton sheets. The fragrance of my own damp, clean hair distracts me, only briefly, from the sounds of my old tumbling dryer.

A couple of days of wasting my every potential, and I’ll be on the drive home for the holidays.

The burnt out strings of christmas lights I’ll discover helping decorate will be the only solace I have outside materialism towards a normal Christmas season, forgetting what’s been.

Three christmases in a row, every other year heavier than the last. Breaks this cruel pattern, let this be at least, a temporary end to my grueling pursuit of survival. Let it be that easy, just this once. Let my breath upon the earth exist just because it deserves to, and let me believe it too. I wish to stay there, just for a moment.

Until then, November is a heavy blanket, one that lulls me gently, encouraging my eyelids to give into their heaviness.

The darkness will have turned out of the sky before they finally shut, but then there is rest. Always rest.

k.t

[ccherryywine]

pushing purgatory

at this point, i’m pushing purgatory.

rotten vines entangle my weeping wounds as i lie on the tile floor, unsure of where i had just been.

the novelty feels as if it’s worn off.

it makes clear that these wounds are never to heal right, never to feel clean again,

never to become just a scar left behind.

everyone wishes it could’ve been easier.

there’s too much nuance and far too many laughable burdens i carry for me to use such a shapeless phrase.

the mind that has recaptured me is a long straight hallway, one who’s corners and edges are draped in room-temperature darkness.

i know there’s no chance for me to have seen every inch of this prison,

but i grow frustrated to pass by the same places each day.

sometimes slightly different details on the walls will reveal themselves.

with the next step i take, it’s framed in my memory in a cruelly similar manner.

So subtle in comparison that its just enough to sow plausible doubt.

it’s all somewhat cohesive, though some moments of clarity flee from my memory never to return.

at best it feels like a deep-cover practical joke on me.

stepping further into dimmest edges,

the space next to where i stand seems clearer. but with a look over my shoulder, the very footsteps i’ve taken are now shrouded in the absence of light.

where have i come from and what did i take with me?

i somehow have everything and nothing to say.

it seems that my life sentence is ever-growing with every step i watch you take through immaterial windows.

the one thing i can say is my grief has nowhere to go.

it’s morbid. it’s not true to my heart’s tongue,

who’s nature should be life giving.

still, I think it would’ve been simpler if you had just passed away, been ripped from my grasp in a way so scientifically explainable.

i hate to be the clinical type, it’s the result of my father’s stubborn disposition and my mother’s fire gone unwatched.

this is not the kind of thing i could ever truly wish, nothing i could ever have enough weakness to want.

but in that distant and illusionary reality, the earth covers someone who was truly known through every second, someone who’s integrity followed them to the stone.

willing a different existence is draining and fruitless, so in this parting I will always wish you well.

i’ve hit nearly every angle, placed my bets on talking it all through.

i’ll have to witness your joy living in paradise, one that so quickly fell into your hands.

my eyes and ears will continue to seek out the blinding, deafening truths.

I couldn’t ask you to look back, I can’t ask a man to be untrue.

so hold onto your feeble fidelity, speak love and light into all you want to purse.

co-opt my persona in ways that best serve you and those man’s desires.

keep on telling a sweet story, even if you know it isn’t true, even if it makes you a liar.

i pace the floor with no end in sight, wishing you gave me the chance to be informed.

every moment since seeing you didn’t, there’s been a heavy weight on my chest.

I want to be ready for your hand on my neck. I keep up my guard through the somber haze blanketing the beauty i could be seeing.

it’s a tough pill to swallow, a freezing cold hard fact.

it was all baseball practice, an unexpected funeral, and annoyance of superstition.

she’s still politics, party tricks, and moves on quick from situations. she’s always been that woman to me.

it was you who let that change and let it shift from your line of sight.

an unclean feeling drenches my body, sweat stings my wounds and keeps me from moving.

it’s a perfect paradox between feeling right and doing right, both in switching positions.

now that it truly matters, where can i find the nerve?

i’ve seen this film before, and I didn’t like the ending.

and every mourning after rears a new voracious being.

each one bears a stronger appetite for control between its teeth.

this is also the time when the morning doves sicken my stomach despite their familiar comfort.

this time may be different, for once i can’t decide about going down swinging.

there’d come to be better reasons i’m sure, most of which were never truly mine to show my teeth over.

are these walls even mine to break through? is it within my rights?

to me, they are. while i’m in this purgatory, it is.

you’re running it back like you’re your father, or your mother’s father before him. maybe you’ve always been destined to be this way.

that cowardly, sidestepping possession courses through your blood, entwined with the genes that code your creation.

but in the same way as that devil inhabits you, one just as cruel inhabits me.

and so I will do the same thing I would do in every possibility;

pace through every inch of this hallway,

stop to try and remember,

then forget the truth of where i had even come from,

even with a trail of blood from where i had just been.

k.t.

an: this is a poem about grieving someone who is still alive, losing a friend in the process, and not having a clue how to feel about it while still having moments of the purest clarity. what a classic repetition in my life. hope y’all enjoy<3

[ccherryywine]

Spring is the worst season for sentimentalists

Everything is messed up and I’m feeling the same chill through my t-shirts as I would any other winter night.

The ceiling fan hovers above me, humming softly. The deafening quiet broken by intermittent, faint ticking lulls my eyes into heaviness. The force on my eyelids must be greater than the mental need to spoonfeed myself the poison I’ll only continue to siphon out of whatever this well has become.

My father’s hometown probably looks just the same in this moment as it did in 2008. It’s never the same after the first loss, but each one that follows opens the fresh wound of them all.

Maybe I should go to the city again, surround myself with monuments of dedication, lifelong purpose-driven feats in action. In modernity.

I doubt I’d believe it still, why would I want to when it would seal the horrific fate and just tie it up with a pretty bow? It doesn’t bring me solace or comfort. Quite the contrary, really. The last time I was there I’d have been intoxicated by blissful ignorance wrapped in delicious certainty.

My arms have never not been wrapped so tightly, so paint me a seething sycophant, take every chance at plausible deniability.

I will not deny my own voice even through the sickest nights of my heartache.

Mornings look the same, except taking it in is often impossible. The nauseating pit eating a hole in my stomach makes the choice for me.

They creep in brighter and brighter, birdsong almost taunting. The ecosystem will always have some order, reason, and neatly presented fate. An owl coos from the big pine out front, and I think how she will never know the gnawing obligation to orchestrate endings and speak on behalf of every dying hope. Is it even a curse to be deemed so insignificant in the grand scheme of all this? I’d argue nature is both a brutality and luxury.

Spring is the worst season for sentimentalists. Not to mention the bitter anticipation I have for when the warmth finally comes and goes.

It’s realizing the passing of all this time, and yet I am still. Still minded, still hearted. Still waiting around on impossibilities and a chance at suggesting an author’s rewrite.

The fateful day, January, February, March, Forever.

It would of course, happen as the world collapses around me, within me, and right in front of me.

Perhaps this simmering ache will dull while my hair learns to gray. The hot coal under my ribs will learn to cool. To feel the coolness in and around me.

Wishful thinking, it’s a wish made over a decade based upon a romanticized memory of divine and perfect synchrony.

Just another rotation of the planet, what will soon become an eternity’s laps around the sun. All throughout which I’ll wear my same clothes, ones I once felt the biting cold through. Even as I’m rotting into the earth, just as it was when the heat seared through my chest and burned up its path.

I will become a part the earth in many places, I will be a greater influence to nature than I could’ve ever computed. But the curse of existence is that my every breath will be spent mourning a loss of what once was mine. But it’s as it had always been, every youthful night I shivered through cotton unlocking the front door, choking back the same words beginning to fall on further deaf ears.

k.t.

[mothercain]

[ccherryywine]

bitterness i taste.

you widen the net you cast,

you’re certain to reel in with proximity.

soft, warm spin me like wool into thread,

or more like a top on the table, a pawn on a checkered mat.

i see things in you to admire, but still things that i could never be.

it’s not a covetous thing, like wanting or jealousy.

it is rather fear and resentment for your desires that aren’t next to me.

sure maybe i’m right, and i’d win the whole thing before even entering the fight.

but there’s no fight worth our things breaking, but there is still bitterness, a silent aversion to conversating.

there is no right or wrong here, just different miscommunications.

i am a cat’s cradle woven between your palms, making tricks for your friends.

this once, i shy from the arena, just bits of catharsis in my hands.

pry my jaw open like a dog. hold my tongue and push the pill down my neck and into chest until it cracks through my ribs. let it seep into the blood that rushes past my thick skull. maybe then you’ll be able to go on unburdened, pick up a new hobby, go for a jog.

the blood-brain barrier is the key to subduing this horrid face of a decade’s grief, and the abject damnation it inflicts when it’s given a name.

the white-teeth teen, the one introduced you to me was pretty and clean as far as the eye could see.

and all i know is i’ve misunderstood the rules of our game.

your grin of silver bullets, it’s funny now, i didn’t know.

there’s nothing i would do if not pull on loose threads, but i’ve played my hand out and i then just sit and watch. I wait for you to go.

i couldn’t conjure up a devil more malevolent than human nature itself. pessimism, “good in the world”, a marriage of polarity. i’ve considered a form of every psychological point in most library shelves.

spin the bottle quickly, make sure it ends up on me.

kiss me twice but close your eyes, protect yourself from the heretic you’ll see.

days pass like weeks, yours slip in, out, and away as swiftly as an inhale. how is it that I am the one running back to you for answers?

is it you or me? who of us could be that far removed?

i know who will be the recipient of all this debt to be collected, however.

such heavy burdensome things cannot be simply put up for sale. karma is not a fate you readily choose.

i won’t even whisper the name, but then suddenly, i’m sobbing on the way home and speaking it into my steering wheel as if it were a question.

hot tears down my cheeks during a basketball game and self soothing fantasies poison my soul again. the consecutive ache from eighteen bitter cold months in this cross-wired cerebrum is like living in stillness and fear in a predator’s den. or even solitary confinement. it follows its rigorous cycle of cynical jokes and famous last words in times of perfect stability.

it’s ill-advised for the onlookers who are faint of heart. still, outside looking in, it is all a puppy love purple, black, and blue impossibility.

this wreckage, this landmine of my Appalachian heartbeat is carrying your sadness, perhaps instead. maybe it’s a noble thing.

then why show me your teeth? i recall that being a primal sign of fear, aggression, or discontentment, but I’m still only halfway through my degree. in terms of love and light and things apathetic to logic, why smile at me still? what, to make flowers bloom and bring ends to ancient holy wars from the inside of your head into reality? take it as a compliment, i still would never doubt your capabilities. comfortable silence is an all powerful resource. it brings the same dull twinge and sting in my chest every time.

the frameworks of your mind are as intricate as a palace in Tehran; objectively beautiful and wonderful. and now the I see the dirt in the lines. it’s grown bitter to the taste. blind associations are a force of grief. so simple to see, so hard to possibly conceive.

with so few words, you’re pulling me apart like twine in your hands.

I hate how now I have to wonder if all those shared sentiments were born feigned. did you wrap yourself in glitter and gold just to always be ready to take the headshot as i’m cheering in the stands? did it even matter if it was me?

I’ve backlogged all my questions for you. maybe i’m psychic, or maybe my memory is photographic, or really I’m just keeping score.

But i do not go quietly, and we should both tread lightly.

i fear it will all result in you concluding that this part of me has made you bitter; that this thing in me you once loved is all too good to be true.

maybe i’ve sweetened the deal, made up a decadent delightful silhouette of a woman.

i bend and break to relinquish my need to control the bitterness I taste in you.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

angel in disguise // times long past

terrible things happen in the wake of the night.

a wax seal over my soul, forsaking secrets i reserved for the grave.

the warmth of champagne burning in my stomach,

it’s like looking in a mirror; like a noose twists around my neck from the family tree.

steel doors and broken locks slam into one another.

soft and shrill comforts from the voice of a very familiar stranger seep deeply into the lifeblood of each hopeful bone in my body.

a typhoons whorl and the warplanes soar, and i feel so out of place here.

fluorescent, incandescent, cheap jokes, a club of stuck up reflections.

the bitter tang and the scrunched face between sips, the soft falling of my eyelids as i fight the heaviness of the night.

despite any absorption her own twisted reality, next to me she can still lay.

there she is, twitching in peace.

how is it she’s daring enough to blow through scenes like a vibrant explosive dying force? is she my hand to hold, my wild roman candle?

my angel in disguise, you’re brutality is no object to me.

steel shards fraying from your blade bear no resemblance to an act that could ever be yours.

however, i harbor great pride for your dedicated love; it exists in such ways only we could recognize.

in the heat of our mutual knowing, there is peace in then forgotten details.

times long past, blindly grip onto efforts that last.

the evening of our year witnessed holiness in the overwhelming news of the world and the full yet, empty silence of her stirring.

oh, come on home.

meet me there, per our conversation.

what a sickening sweet taste of auld lang syne.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

cursed by containment

it’s christmas eve

my world is ending right in front of me.

the pillars attached to my strings of hope crumble like sheet rock.

of course, always during the holidays.

it’s not as simple as doing what you can and leaving the rest be.

i’ve never been one to leave well enough alone.

i’m wavering between two parallels equally tarnished by cognitive dissonance.

i’m washing up on the shores of the emptiness left behind.

what’s done is done. the supposed right thing looks to be a fucked up thing.

pleading and begging mean nothing to someone with whom i hold no weight.

empty is far heavier than full could ever be, and even in the right hands it plummets to the earth all the same.

come back to me again, weave wreaths of regret through the late hours of the 24th.

a wicked historical rewrite in the wake of the end of the world is like a sickly kiss on the cheek.

it’s the end of the world that is both mine and everyone else’s.

tears over christmas dinner, falling just quick enough to be seen,

choking down small bites of the yearly favorites, a fancy china plate will sit cold in the microwave for the remainder of the evening.

it’s wishful thinking to believe it will not stay untouched.

just as it is wishful that these shards of a long lost sweet life could come back together intact.

theres not much i could ever do, though i’d rather unrelentingly die by my own hand than go through this again.

just curse the man who let it rot, cradle the weakly beating heart in your hands.

nothing is unshakable except this, it seems.

how it’s cruel to be so contained.

no perfect healing solution could fall from my lips, there is no road map i could contrive that would survive beyond reproach.

the crystal clear bounds of my heart and soul mark only the end of a perceived power, a lack of force for change.

luminaries line the street, a dismal navy blue sky hangs overhead.

the world is silent and still, telling stories of mythical expeditions and snowfall over their hometowns.

it’s christmas eve,

and it’s hard to consider there ever being peace on earth,

but from my curse of containment,

i watch the pieces of my world fall into oblivion right in front of me.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

love and time are both an inevitability

the thief of time bothers not with the creaking in the floors. it’s mask does not shield it from the revealing nature of its existence.

time was born naked, like us all. its coverings, all derivative of human shame, sharing the burden, one day fall at your feet. the nothingness that is time, the everthingness that it encompasses, doesn’t bother being quiet.

seeing it’s empty face is just a bittersweet inevitability. It’s as though it never was, and yet always will be. enlightened, by a walk across a stage. then emboldened, by the coldness of an empty space. the routine that overtakes feels like trodding on a fresh grave.

but neither irreverence nor streamlined acts of glorious love can turn the soul from the bones, or a wholesome presence from ash. there is no perfect wish, savior to whomever dearly pleads it. outcomes, poisoned with vitriolic facts of life could meet no tranquil return. tranquility was never home there, anyway.

besides gentle knocking on walls, one could remain unbothered by unknown anniversaries of devastation. bearing no real identity, and with such a sweet disposition, the criminal workings happen right in front of your face. silver strands dressing those with wisdom and hopeful insight mark the absence of what is soon to be taken from us all.

there is no ominous shining scythe, no black cloaked entity slowly approaching. there’s only glittering waters as the sun falls low in the sky. shadows brush softly into the hollows of cheeks and lines around eyes. the shadows themselves are not a promise, but a reminder.

something that always is, never was, but always will be unshackles this one-way-ticket. it could be tomorrow, but will not always offer the chance to meet at the doorstep. thieving is a form of harvest, a circular expression of existence. perhaps not to pluck those from the future, but reunite them with their beginnings. a hopeful thought at best.

its cruel and unfair bounds depict it as the ravenous force of greed it is. too many acts of evil get caught up in the wind of time. these individuals are senseless accessory to the pillaging forces that were already cruel enough. in a bittersweet thought of comfort, perhaps beyond our ends, impatience in being is greater than human, if we’re ever conscious at all. it’s an illusion to the true calling home. it’s another hopeful thought of course, but too many forces of malice and violence poison the consideration of such things.

the preciousness of life is hardly recognized in due time, which is why time bears the name of thief; we’re never early enough to see how much we ease the efforts of it’s taking. a world is not reverent to the life that inhabits it, often until each individual themselves can no longer outrun the beginnings that make their ends.

some take notice before then, but still, it’s nothing but a simple reminder that hovers and clouds their periphery. slowly killing one’s flesh in soft plumes of smoke and a warm tingling nightcap is but a desensitization of the inevitable. its bitter mark on those it touches is the most notable facet that tarnishes its merit. otherwise, it appears sensible and apathetic to the fast-approaching, invisible thief. a cynical c’est la vie.

there is all but everything to know about this thief. this is not a challenge to outrun, but a reminder to sit with in the cycle of forever passing days. love cannot simply reunite the spirit with the bones, but it is a reconciling force to be reckoned with. it’s extensive breadth breaks ground through all living years. moments of contentment and wholeness are carried on by ones left behind.

beauty and love is expansive, unbound by the reaping force of death, forevermore to write the pages of history, carve tradition into community, protect the future, and make permanent marks on loved ones and their descendants. this alone takes the upper hand away from the malice, indifference, or cruel calculation the thief commits.

diligent forces of love on behalf of the living and dead do not unveil the thief. still, it is an act of refusal; refusal to acknowledge that we do not make ease of its cruelty. resistance to the bitter laws of nature is paramount to science, revolution, and families both blood and chosen. these are at their core, all forces of love, working to arrest agency from the thief of time and divert it onto themselves; all to establish these acts of love into measures against both entropy and hatred. it’s heavy, a burdensome task with avenues for problematic outcome, but love is a stronger pillar to cling to than the order of time.

by bearing a communal weight of responsibility, the agency and power of the thief is stripped piece by piece, leaving us only to realize that time and love are both an inevitability.

k.t.

an: these are just some thoughts in poetry form that i’ve been having lately about mortality/existential feelings about time in general. love is the only force big enough to call the power of time into question. acts of revolutionary love save lives, and are often as simple as showing kindness and empathy towards your community. happy holidays yall. it’s a hard time of year for many people and i sincerely hope you take heart in knowing you are not alone and so many people that you don’t even know wish you peace on earth this season. much love. <3

[ccherryywine]

house of cards

one too many hours, too few in the night

spoil the sacred cycle, hardly ever see the light.

unfocusing my eyes at the grey blanket in the sky,

the mind resides in bigger cities, where i’m still too poor to fly.

it’s a pity, can’t take you with me. and now i’ll never try.

where has the serenity in thunderstorms gone?

it seems they’ve left without proper goodbye.

once a gentle reminder, now an ordinarily violent outside.

quietly privileged, crimson and clover

tread lightly on the grass, see the lake’s frozen over.

harboring apathy for the coming hangover,

from the loving arms of an airport lounge,

to accept never getting closure.

how does defiance’s demand outpace the laws of nature?

it’s wicked in the wild, a sick genetic carryover

or rather by pure chance, or some kind of overexposure.

in your resource scarcity, you were not kind enough to leave

i’m stuck sitting in the hallway, had to abandon to make peace.

cycles of choking on whorling smoke that never even ceased,

I had no intent to topple your house of cards,

but now see that you do what you please.

is there a loving, gentle way to say that I told you so?

know that I am the cynical one, and that it was a great joy to release

your hand off my throat, a mercy a man that drowns you above water could never concede.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

the bullpen turned into a pulpit’s preacher, and their means cannot justify these “unavoidable” ends.

a modern and domestic napalm

sits calm under bright fluorescent lights,

wicked bulls of bronze and brass

who always know just what’s right.

deny claims of outright desperation,

and silence can surely still befall.

whether ensuring health or insuring wealth,

the building pressure wouldn’t resolve.

laboring just to survive, and distract from a wound that’s been sore.

a richer man than me, his misery loves company, a luxury we just can’t afford.

a fierce defense of ghastly figures restricted to a quick-closed case,

it’s so easy to release an estranged hand,

but you wouldn’t dare to ever look it in the face.

the tactful acts of silence from those claiming noble missions,

servants bound to their fatal flaw

reveal the lie that united was their true position.

with a bullet grazing, guns a’blazing con-artist-made-king,

there’s great strength in the knowing

that our such small lives never meant a thing.

now you don’t have to be religious, but sure, it’s not right to play God.

easy to say, i have no will in this life to take one,

perhaps cause i’m lucky with the cards i’ve got.

but there’s no reprimand worth giving,

that still won’t set us back so hard.

truly, if everyone who could be was living,

most of us wouldn’t ever be this far.

there is crookednesses in the smiles

of the hidden figures wearing blood that’s not their own.

if this system isn’t fundamentally broken,

why is the dignity of the bleeding always deposed?

so now, what do even we take from this? is there a crux to make of it all?

scarcity forever breeds brutality,

modern evidence to the universal rise before a fall?

well, i see my reflection in the lost cause addicts

and on the faces splotched with snow.

i’m one step away, and what would Jesus say?

would i even like to know?

cause that divide ain’t much of a difference

when you see how much can change.

just write the check to what you know best

and hope and pray that you don’t meet the same.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

a pill that cannot be swallowed

i remain haunted by living ghosts, turpentine kisses, and all the things i can’t let go.

like if i’d lost to someone beyond reproach,

or forsaken something daring and divine.

cherry bark, flesh, blood, and bones.

the gentleness to be found in solitude;

dying to outrun the day like

fleeting, feathering flumes to the sky.

the wakeful hours of this life

are both the rose and the thorn.

the working, walking, wearing weary faces,

all prove to reveal the mercy and doom.

sardonic and cynical, almost satirical

it’s a fate as sure as the sun rises the moon.

zinnias peek up between edges of picket fence.

my mind speaks it a million times,

but will never dare to say it aloud.

sickening and sweet as molasses, i choke back

the words that hasten the pendulum swing of tomorrow, the inevitable and imminent.

an unseen hand wraps ‘round my larynx until the tinder is dry and right.

small vibrations of sound spark like a match to gasoline.

i remain purging you out of me in crooked ways, like i’m hooked on the cult of dianetics.

sitting in a circle, conspiring about mk ultra in the dim-lit envelopment of the high loft ceilings,

this group here has fallen reality behind.

some ways of backwardness drift under your collar like a chilling brush of wind.

blow me away home, it’s all i can hope for at all.

cross-legged and already gone, there is no platform to carry the weight of my heaviest words,

so silence wraps around me as a field of its own, unable to be navigated, unable to make them hear.

the company here is stuck up.

i scarcely can speak for my soul through the deadness of the air.

just a breath away, yet still so far from the truth of it all.

how cruel is the concept of the benefit of the doubt?

it’s a double edged sword, a knife to the throat of a prey animal foaming at its mouth in fear.

unbeknownst to them all, the snarling jaws of their self-appointed haven begins to clutch inwards.

the crushing of blood and bone are all that’s left to taste,

and not even a glimpse is given back towards the rabid force constricting such a crucial airway.

the cherry, oak, and pine overhead loom like entities of the days to come and pass.

the limbs are freely swaying toward each direction the wind could ever go.

in the midst of the warmth, peace, and wartime of homes near and far,

i sit quietly as I’m torn into by the vitriolic fangs of phantoms with breath still in their lungs.

though never unforeseen,

there is figment of rest and relaxation between it all.

ghostly silhouettes radiating familiarity tread softly on the linoleum.

there also, I sit lonely and wait for the welcome of my world to come back to me.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

roseanna

talk of the town

they’re spreading the news

they could’ve guessed it

they whisper in the pews

speak it, don’t say it

you’ll know then what to do

it won’t be how you like it,

blind to the great big bruise

roseanna i loved you

and swear that still, now i do.

knew you wouldn’t believe it

that this world was unmade for you.

split up from the earth

then fall back like a petal,

burnin up like a fire

just to strike down into metal.

a kin’s flame never dulls

but we hoped this one would.

heartstrings do the breaking

like we never could,

but if my hands are shaking

do we know this is good?

what’s up for the taking

where family once stood?

you’re the talk of this city,

you’ve made the news.

i didn’t know what we’re doing

but you sure had a clue.

in their eyes, they say it

what their mouths refuse to do.

i spare the rotten details,

still, we’ve nothing left to prove.

roseanna, i loved you.

don’t believe it, but it’s true.

you never could see it coming,

yet thats the light i saw in you.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

inward, outward, sideways

there comes a point in time

there is nothing else to stare at

but yourself;

the lines on your forehead,

the divots on the walls in which you live,

the half-eaten meals that rot quietly in corners,

and the forgotten to-dos that sit patiently on the pad.

there is an empty space here,

physically unwritten,

yet cerebrally burning into the page.

like looking in a cracked mirror,

just fragmented eyes look back.

with bitterness under the tongue,

it delves deeper into souls than mankind into earth during wartime.

it’s evident that letting it fester is a privilege.

still, the rot seldom ferments to something worthy of taste.

a full-bodied essence distills through a drip into the darkest parts of you.

you’re not afraid of being wrong.

you’re afraid to have been right all along.

every thought once collected is just as easily scattered to the wind.

but often it’s overlooked,

forgotten in a place devoid of living atmosphere.

left to decay like sitting barrels.

empty pages and plenty of stones unturned.

what could possibly be lost that you have not found?

truth is, in a boundless plain of existence,

quite literally everything.

here lies a quick route to madness.

there is no faster-corroding resource than sanity.

thus, the paradox of internal rot presents itself.

look no further, and a cancerous wound of the self will eat you inside out.

overextend efforts inward, and you’ll have forgotten to notice the rotted-off face you’ve long worn.

inward, outward, sideways.

don’t ever look too long,

however the abandonment of simple awareness

circles overhead as if you’re carrion.

the barrels of nectar left behind could kill with hardly any presence in blood.

seek to be knowing,

but be wary of the crooked paths you may take.

if a beaming red light’s not enough for you to see,

it’s best you’d be afraid of whatever else there may be.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

comfort and unrest

there’s fewer slivers of reality i find myself grasping onto.

it’s a dull feeling, but it is not bitter one.

there’s a satiating aspect to it; how pitiful it all is, how pitiful i can be.

the heat waves radiate off the black pavement. for a cruel moment i feel the warm stagnant air in the sunlight tilting between the blinds.

as sun creeps further into the sky, i am somewhere between being asleep, unconscious to the world, and knowingly sitting in the empty blackness behind my eyes.

in limbo.

this and gluttonous oversleeping have been routine to me lately.

i like to imagine there’s no finish line for life, just trail markers.

we all end up the same way. out cold. dead.

some of the steps come easy to me, but i never feel aware of my own potential.

everything i’ve done is done, and still my tan fades and my muscles atrophy.

it’s so simple, wicked, and continuous.

there’s both comfort and unrest in the present. peace is a passing glance.

it’s almost a year of staring at the crash, and considering history, likely another to come and pass.

will there be enough life-breath down the line?

will she never know after all this time, or rather thank her lucky stars she got out when she did?

a pity, to have relinquished this power at all.

there are slivers of me still in it.

it’s a dull feeling, not a bitter one.

twisted, spectral versions of come back to me in my restless sleep.

there isn’t a word for it. i’m not bereaved or at a loss, not even inconvenienced.

it sits right in my chest, but something incessantly gnaws at it, still.

it’s just a raw ache left behind.

maybe it’s a sign. it was real. it was rare.

my absence was a formula for devolution.

my presence was devotion.

there was once another way, forsaken to quiet treason.

the daylight hammers into my skull like an ice pick, like memories of before it boiled over.

in-season fruit and nicotine sweeten the sore, stagnant place within. it soothes, momentarily.

the early hours between one and six are intoxicating and equally sorrowful.

it would take a violent death, or the quiet radiating heat between my blinds saturating my bedroom to pull me out of this place.

by some incalculable stroke of nature, it is the only way.

otherwise my delirium would not be satiated.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

Happiness is a Warm Gun

from the outside looking in,

it’s a lot warmer in there.

frigid dewdrops dance on the lawn.

fogged up window glass,

the heat conducting outwards.

fast forward through our time:

nothing but bittersweet tragedies.

well beyond heated verbal scars,

you insisted all the weight’s yours,

always had to have the last word.

i traced all my mental groupings,

realized the reality in a phrase:

happiness is a warm gun.

perhaps it’s delight in the post-mortem,

not that I know the intent of Lennon.

but truly, powder spat both ways.

two down, no wounds, no white flags.

which of us bears the most evidence?

for you i’m entirely blind to myself,

yet my old blood’s still on your shirt.

from the outside looking in,

it’s like hell must have frozen solid.

empty rooms once full of prospect.

the iron taste of the mouth,

scorched earth reflecting inwards.

k.t.

[ccherryywine]

backroads, back country

backroads, back country.

seraphic light pours straight through.

you’re all over me like the vine that ate the south.

taking it in was all i knew.

strung across in green,

my heaving chest indulges in the rise and fall.

a shortcut ‘round the highest peak,

it’s quite impossible to forget to call.

i like it when you hover, your silhouette twisting over me.

it’s turned to an event of speciation for passion.

behold, the only sight to ever see.

the spread of warmth whipped by the wind,

it’s an inebriating buzz and it’s true.

thick curling vines veil sweet secrets.

i’ll feign my innocence to coax them from you.

take up the air beyond me, in this mirage of burning heat

how is it you’re so far above me,

yet still beg to fall at my feet?

backroads, back country.

the trees are wrapped in emerald leaves.

you’re the rough hand choking out my deep dark.

what a gentle place to be.

k.t.