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death through progression

sometimes all I want is to crawl into my music and die. not even because death is what i long for, but just some permanence. I want to stay wrapped up in what i feel, what they sing--the passion they drown me in. in the end, it's really everything, love, and hate, and blood, and laughter. and it's safe.

i feel this anger drawing tight inside me, and it's not just anger, not just a violence of pain but a discontent on a wholly personal level. i feel it in these words. i feel it in this noise that pours through my head at too high a volume to be healthy at too fast a speed to keep me sane. this music, this beat, this rhythm, this passion turning me inside out and all i can do is grasp at the wisps of ideas. catching bubbles in hot little hands is easier.

through gritted teeth, i find and scream this truth. too loud to make my neighbors comfortable. but i'm cut, bleeding on this page of notes, sliced open by words impaled by thoughts, severed by guitar strings. it's death through progression, but it's all still fleeting, when i want to hold tight to this strain and that bar, when i need more than anything to own that idea. to just believe.

by: Rebecca 444

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Saturday, May 31, 2003 @ 6:38 PM

#2003 #age 27 #poetry #bad poetry

the girl with grit in her hair

Sing about brake lights. Sing about driving or dusty roads under a cool crystalline sky. Sing about rivers and bridges. Tell me stories that make me feel the way you only ever really feel when you're coming close to home after being gone and on the road for long thirsty hours. Make me feel the grit in your voice, in your tires, under your feet, under your fingernails. Show me that you've lived some life, learned some things, been a few people, travelled widely, and have returned with a heart and mind strong enough to paint the picture. Do this. Do any of this and you will own my heart. It will beat and bleed for you alone. It will be years at your service.

By: Rebecca 444

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09.03.08 // 10:19 pm

#2008 #age 32 #bad poetry #poetry

Beautiful Boy

The silence settles in and I know it's murder. Maybe it's just a broken heart, some broken trust. Maybe that's all it is. But that's enough. And it feels like murder to me.

His blood is warm between my fingers and stabbing is sex.

He was birthed of my body-- my lungs gave him air; my brain gave him depth. And my hands took his life.

Throttled him.

His last gasp of air was my song. My favorite song. Melodious and sacred. Ripping tendons are guitar strains, and his blood drip, drip, drips a furious tattoo.

You loved him because he was beautiful. I killed him for the same reason.

by: Rebecca 444

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1:00 p.m. September 11, 2005

#age 29 #bad poetry #poetry #2005 #murder #blood

What The Fuck Do You Want From Me

I try to be excited for you, and you peel all of my reasons away -one after another- digging for a core with blind fingers and a numb mind- too young to know any better. I try, I try to stand still while you run circles around me. (You nauseate me on good days.) I'm too naked to be real; I'm too exposed to be honest; I'm too close to you to think clearly and too intoxicated, deluded, and convinced to walk away. This is all my fault. This is all my fault. This is all my fault. I could cut you into bits and nail your pieces to my wall and I'd still have no understanding of your inner workings.

by: Rebecca 444

#undated #bad poetry #poetry

Women, Shannon

You hold on to love—that holds and flees and doesn't wave good-bye— and you can’t say no, under a black velvet sky and a silver slice of moon, with a blade in one hand, and a key in the other. Or, he’ll have nothing for show-n-tell in the locker room, while shedding polyester, the way you always imagined he could with you. Instead, he removed every layer without exposing a thing, and you peeled to the bone and gave to him your melted middle, while a joke he heard in grade school came back into his head and he laughed, open mouthed, closed hearted, and you cried because, once again, he won.

by: Rebecca 444

#undated #likely 1996 #bad poetry #poetry

Where I'd Like To Take You

There is a place just south of cognizance. Where only your hot blood speaks and your body obeys. A place where the warm touch of flesh on flesh sears itself into the heart. I want you there. I want your body before me open and willing, I want to see your hands shake and hear your breath falter as I reach to touch you. Can you feel me, hot (though trembling), pressed close to your skin?

by: Rebecca 444

#undated #bad poetry #poetry

Thrown

If I had 25 years to live again, would I still end up here? Would you be across the room, unreachable? Would I be silenced by my own weakness? Would I love you? Would it kill me? If I had the time, could I make you forgive me? Could I ever tell you enough that you are mine, like family? Would you ever believe me again? Could this ever be fixed? Will this be fixed? When will it stop haunting me? When will the time I’ve had with you be a salve? When will it be? When will it be enough? How will I repay you? How will I ever thank you enough? Give me 25 years and I’ll tell you what you mean to me.

by: Rebecca 444

#I'm guessing #age 25 #circa 2001 #bad poetry #poetry

Presidential Race 1996

Dozing the merry fields of thought provoking geraniums, mind fed, hand fed. Follow the leader to the right, to the left, to the right into oblivion, just like my uncles not to mention Rush and his t.v. side show.

by: Rebecca 444

#1996 #age 20 #bad poetry #really bad poetry #the worst poetry #poetry

Our Song

You and I dance around the hate to the tune of rusty iron gates slamming shut. We are old partners; the outline of your back is as familiar to me as the road home.

You and I can hum the tune, tap our feet to the rhythm of hate. Every smile a smite, we hum the tune through clenched lying teeth. We know every note by heart. This song is our song.

I’ll hold you in my arms forever, if I have to, if that’s what it takes to prove to myself that I am capable of love.

Through thick clouds we dance, brushing the smoke from our eyes. We consume the dance floor, our feet eating up the distance, leaving not one inch of space in which to hide. Face to face, forever.

Fraud. We love, we make love like hammer to anvil, like the pounding beat of the heart of an escaped slave. Even in our dreams, we are chained to each other.

Your hand on my breast is a wedge forcing us apart, my arms around your neck, a choking embrace. Your lips to my ear, you whisper of devotion, but your hollow voice churns up curses deep in my soul. The two voices mingle together, singing cadence to our dead love.

No one in the world knows me as well as you, and no one knows you as well as I. We are perfect together.

#unfinished #undated #bad poetry #poetry

Ode To Kurt Cobain

I’m dreaming back to a time in black, to the happiness, no one foretold, of a pain so great it tears the flesh. I can’t get enough of the vain angst of old. I can’t let go of all that I should have done with my life. It’s never enough… I am never satisfied with the holes I dig… so much dirt, so much emptiness but never enough to hold it all. If I let it go who will I be. I’ve defined myself in terms of anger, and the specific fears of an unspecific crowd. It’s so easy to be dissatisfied. It’s easy to be angry. It’s easy to destroy. It’s tougher, or toughest still, to buckle down and make a change. But I don’t know how to sort all that time is throwing at me. Time and I have forever been the enemies of my sanity.

#never finished #circa 1995 #circa age 19 #kurt cobain

Intermission

Lock me away and tie me. Keep me from telling you the importance of you. Keep me from holding on too tightly to the idea that time begins and ends with you. Forget I exist. It will be easier that way.

by: Rebecca 444

#undated #bad poetry #poetry

I’m Pissed

And he stands off, a man alone, and I see it like I’m supposed to,

but I’m left to wonder what’s real… because they all say- They all say-

They have their ideas- Their pretensions,

and the boys who win slaughter the boys who lose, every time, and my heart fucking bleeds for the loss of a boy who never left, but who will one day if I’m not the girl next door, wrapped with guilt and a bad disease called ‘acceptable amount of self loathing.’

by: Rebecca 444

#undated #bad poetry #poetry

Outing.

I stood there, alone. My brother and cousins had gone ahead, stood in line, and boarded the ride in front of me. Its wild black enamel highlighted by its hit and miss incandescent light bulbs. I always wondered how a ride with burnt out light bulbs could really be said to be safe. As the right dipped and spun, I could occasionally hear my brother call out, "Oh, God!" He and I both knew he'd be sick when the ride finally stopped spinning. Somehow, he always found the courage to ride these rides anyway. Somehow, he always mustered the guts to do whatever he wanted. A sudden feeling of cold washed over me making me glad I was in Florida. I stood there, alone, scanning the scene, looking for the sign that read "You Must Be This Brave To Ride."

by: Rebecca 444

#circa 2001 #circa age 25 #poetry #bad poetry

Growing Up

No more marks of sweet surprise whilst the sun chases away my sentimental childish-side and flanks me silly-sideways. “Loose,” He said, “In comparison to the far and wee balloon-man.” (Ugly paste of ugly waste— grey area all of it.) No more buzzing of honey’s thick love— alone in the house, alone in the wind, alone in the long, glass room— Smiling at sunshine streaks of Golden Light. Lost in the spires of penniless addiction, I pick my life up and change my name.

by: Rebecca 444

#bad poetry #poetry #undated #what?

Before The Fits

No one, when it means getting it; reaching forth in unknown worlds (things). You said, or offered rather, a chance, a tiny bit of hope— scary thing, though it may be to have opened myself to you, and scarier still to have accidentally opened you. Do we know each other (anything)? I wonder if the world (circle) you have shared with me is meant to pull me in or keep me just outside; looming; seeing the laughter; never understanding or even hearing the joke. They love you though. Will they, if forced, love me?

by: Rebecca 444

#bad poetry #poetry #undated

Moved Into Tyrannical Fits Of Extreme And Utter Boredom

Loose somewhere floating behind— always behind, I never had time to know you or to share my white bread dreams with you, or knowledge— volumes spoken. Sweet smoke leads to a smoldering sore spot of sourness and shallowness, all bound up and marked for sale. You gave me history, you gave me strength, you gave me something I could give back when you needed it… when you needed me. It is nice to be needed, nice and yet soon over, just two days more and then no more.

by: Rebecca 444

#undated #bad poetry #poetry

Unwoman

mother's blood, i suckled, i leeched, i lived. mother's marrow, broken like bread, nourished me. i am bone of her bone. and i am hollow, nothing to pass on, no way to pass it on. and my blood runs for nothing. for no one. in me, just the soured fetid milk of broken promise. my womb a question that will always go unasked unanswered Unwoman. by: Rebecca 444

#age 30 #poetry #2006

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