The Journal of a Delusional Writer
Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle
Run, run, run
Hurry, hurry, hurry
As fast as you can
So many things to do
So many things left undone
By the dip of the sun.
Night settles
For the thousandth time
And as you sit
With your drink
Eyes on the
TV screen
Wondering where
The day went
Your mind slows
Peace for now
Until the morrow.
Electronic beats drop a line
Steady hum and drum on low, back of my mind
Words set out in a row
Black font on a grey background.
Birds singing in the trees outside
Nature mingling with technology.
Social media notifications fall like an IV drip
Click the tab to see what’s going on
Lost in the unreal world of the Internet
Brain disconnected from the body.
Born gold
But faded and worn down
Like black-and-grey tattoos.
Listening to clothes
Spinning in the dryer
Something metal clangs
Against the drum.
Strong incense drifts
Through the air
While a low candle
Burns wild.
Chilling in between the sun and the shadows
Relatively free of weight
A light synth beat in my head
Broken angel wings strewn across the bed
Shining with dew and fairy dust.
Open curtains at the windows
Letting in late summer light
Autumn on the horizon with its scent of death
Carried on ghostly fingers like a lover’s breath
Trembling with the fragility of time.
“The state of one’s heart,” Gala countered,
“Is not so simple as that.”
And take heed – this is true.
There are moments of weakness
(Much more common, I find)
And there are moments of strength
(Hard to locate, but not nonexistent).
Depression can make you want to
Alter your physical appearance
While happiness can make you feel beautiful.
But the exterior is just a mold
Ever-changing, hardly more than putty
In a petulant child’s fist.
Why prize it so highly?
You may be pleased with your countenance
But while your heart is in shards
It does you little good.
Better to let the putty melt a bit
Better to let the child deform it a little
If a healthy heart is the end result.
Her name is Queen Ivory, and I love her because she is different from the one I knew before.
She is the elf queen of the Emerald Palace. She has long golden locks, bright blue eyes, and skin white as milk.
She tells me she loves me. “Human women,” she says, “they are so fickle. One moment they express interest, the next moment they have flitted away – pssh – after some colorful butterfly.”
“Ah, yes,” I say groggily, having become drunk on her darkenberry wine.
“They cannot sate you the way I can,” she goes on to say, locking my eyes with her ice-blue gaze.
“Perhaps not,” I whisper, the world swimming before my eyes. “But still – I loved her.”
“Did you?” she inquires. “You humans cannot even comprehend the meaning of love. ‘I love you, I love you,’ you are always blathering the words – but what the fuck do you think they mean?”
I shake my head, spilling my wine over the front of my shirt. Tears are pouring down my face.
“I suppose I don’t know,” I murmur lifelessly.
She comes forward to take my glass, then dashes it down against the stones. Broken glass skitters everywhere.
“Do you trust me?” she asks.
“Yes,” I whisper, looking dumbly into her ice-blue eyes.
She kisses me, sucking with her lungs, drawing the entirety of my soul from my body. Then she lowers her mouth to my neck, more vampire than elf, and drains the blood from my veins.
“You silly humans,” she whispers, patting my cheek with her warm hand. “You do not know what love is.”
My last sight is of her bright white dress, slithering away from me, as I fall down to the cold, bloody stones.
My heart is ticking.
There’s a clock on the dashboard
Right next to the odometer
Telling me how much time I have left.
It’s ticking down pretty low
But there’s no one round to wind me.
Yeah, I’m like a wind-up clock
Waiting for Cinderella to turn my gears.
She hasn’t come yet.
She might not come at all.
Do you have an extra beer?
“The day is gone, and dark has come
The beasts are running wild.
But the air is sweet, and I shall rest my feet
On earth exceeding mild.
The sun is gone, and night is here
To mark the path of death.
But life is long, and I shall sing this song
With the last of my living breath.”
Elastic wishes
Adjustable thoughts hanging on
Purple stars dipped in moonshine.
Unthinkable words
Inaudible whispers dripping from
Her red lips soaked in sugar and dew.
Clarity
Parody
Possible insincerity
Drift through her rose-petal mouth.
The clock outside my window
Is painted in crimson across the black sky
And it’s ticking ominously.
Life is a strange thing.
When you want it most
It’s snatched away
In the blink
Of an eye.
But when
You’ve grown weary of it
It lingers forever.
