The Abyss


Reaching across the barrier
into the darkness.
Blind to the forces
congregated in the abyss.

Faces emerge
through the obsidian air
but to what they are,
you are unaware.

Demons that lurk
in the depth of the night?
or figments
that have escaped your mind?

Your eyes closed-
and your hand extended.
Facing those fears
that remained suspended.

Suspended- in the back
of your wandering thoughts.
Just floating above
that line you’d never cross.

But here you stand-
on the edge of innocence and sin,
questioning where one ends
and the other begins.

What Happens

What happens-
when it all stops?
You’re moving forward
– nothing can get in your way.
Then suddenly,
a boulder crashes down,
blocking your path.
There’s no detours.
No service to call for help.
You’re stranded.
Fearing the coming dark.

What happens-
when the light fades?
You’re caught.
In the black of the night.
There’s no light,
no guide.
Only the darkness
blocking your sight.
So you wait
for the sun to shine again.

What happens-
when skies open up?
Is it just another day
to sit, stranded?
How do you crash the boulder
that crashed your life?

What happens-
when it all stops?

Drops of Paint


He opened the door
and slowly entered the house.
The quiet creak of each floorboard
as he passed above
gave hint that he was there.
To those below,
he was something monstrous
something treacherous
something evil.
But to him
he was someone confused
someone scared
someone lost.
Trembling hands reached
to the cellar door.
Locked out.
Locked in.
Both sides
striving for the same thing.
their life.
He yanked, tugged and pulled.
They, too.
His hands
strong, used
urged the door open.
They saw the glint
shining from his hand
as he notices the glint
shining in their eyes.
He was disgusted with himself.
But he knew what he had to do.
He was a painter,
choosing his pallet,
while holding his brush.
But when the first drop of paint hit the canvas,
His masterpiece had begun.
he swept his brush along the paper.
Before he knew,
his actions had become art.
As he headed back above.
He left them in the cellar below.
He knew the only way
to save himself
Was to spill some paint
and create something
grotesquely marvelous.

The Choice

How do you know what to do?
The choices you make define you.
You could choose one or the other,
but what if you should have chose another?

If I choose a choice
to speak my voice
will my words remain unheard?

But if I choose the choice
to muffle my voice
will my words become too blurred?

But is the choice to choose
the one I feel
is the one I cannot refuse?

Or is the choice to choose
the one I know
is the one that will ignite my fuse?

A life,
no matter what choices you choose,
is only worth living,
if your choices were made for you.

“Something” – Part 5

He rounded the same corner my mother vanished into. Deja vu overcame me and it sent an unnerving feeling down my spine as he stepped into the room.

“Alicia, your mother cannot tell you why you are here, or why she is here. But she does have a story, and it’s time for you all to listen.” His deep voice cracked and his big, empty, light blue eyes remained steady on me as he spoke. He stood, studying the room, keeping one hand in the pocket of his hoodie and running the other through his long, black hair. My cousin, Jolie, adjusted in her seat, probably trying to release her pent up nerves. As soon as he heard her shuffle, he turned to her and warned, “stay seated. It’s not time yet.” He finally pulled his right hand out of his pocket to check the time on his watch. What he had left of his fingers were mangled and twisted and his fingernails were brown and crusted. Realizing what he had done, he quickly hid it back into in the confines of his hoodie as he slowly paced out of the room.

I glanced over to my younger brother, Toby, who looked… excited? Like he was about to walk down the steps on Christmas morning and find a corvette sitting under the tree. He was 16 after all, and he was sitting there, smiling, like a clueless child. We caught eyes and I asked why he was wearing that face.

“I know, sis. I think I figured it-”

There it was again, that strange noise that sliced through my stomach. That loud shrill. It didn’t sound like any human I had ever heard. Could it have been some kind of a machine? Or animal? I don’t know what that noise was, but it was daunting and taunting me to find out.

I looked back at Toby and asked him what he was saying and he refused to speak or make eye contact with me again. What does he know that I don’t?

I suddenly stood up from my chair, as my family looks over at me, silent. What is wrong with them? I stand by the hallway and look back at my family. “I guess I’m doing this alone then.” I swallowed and took a step into the narrow space. After about five steps, I felt a strong grasp on my shoulder yank me into a dark room, I banged my head on something and collapsed into the floor.

To Be Continued…

“Something” – Part 4

What was she doing here? What was I doing here? Why has she been lying to me? Why has she been hiding? Who or what caused this?
Questions rained down and flooded my mind.  I was drowning in my insecurity and confusion.
“-if only you all coul-”
“Mom!” I suddenly interjected.
She lowered her head as her eyes slowly shut. She swallowed, tightened her lips until they were nothing but a white crease, and shifted her gaze onto me with a look on her face as if she just tasted the bitterness of black coffee for the first time.
“Can you not just tell us why we’re here? Why you’re here? I thought you were dead! I graduated, went to the prom, had my heart broken…. I grew up without my mom to stand beside me and tell me that she’s proud, that she loves me, and that everything will be alright. I have spent the past seven years missing you every day, as you’ve been sitting here, doing what? Laughing about how you had me fooled? Why are you here?”
“I don’t expect your forgiveness, Alicia, however I do pray for it. But that is not why you’re here. It’s not why any of you are here. I have made a lot of mistakes and I greatly resent each one of them. If only I could explain, honey. But I can’t. You’ll know soon enough.”
She lifted herself out of her chair and walked past me, brushing her hand along my shoulder. My family and I watched her as she exited out of the room. We looked at one another, probably all thinking the same thing, why are none of us going after her? But there was something strange about this place. Something unwelcoming but we were drawn to it. I know we all felt it, we couldn’t leave but we didn’t want to stay.
My father, sitting on the other side of the semi-circle looked at me and smiled, like he always has during trying times. Why does he seem to have no emotion? His wife, the love of his life, is alive! Shouldn’t he be happy? Maybe he knows something. But why would he hide it from me? We’ve been so close ever since my mom’s “death,”what would he ever have to lie to me about?
As more and more questions filed in, I became more and more uneasy. Nausea over came me and I had to do everything I could to hold myself together. I felt like I was melting, like there was nothing holding me together, my solidity was dissolving and answers were my only solvent.
I pushed myself up  and turned to my family. “Does anyone know what’s going on? Why do I feel like I’m the only one who’s lost right now? Why am I here? Why are any of us here?”
“Because of me..” A voice so familiar, but so distant whispered behind me.
As I turned around, my confusion was no longer only a down pour, it became a hurricane.

To Be Contined…

My Process of Writing

Staring at a blank screen
Thoughts trampling through my mind.
If love were like a-”
Maybe I’ll try
My heart beats pound out-”
Not that either.
I want to write a poem
On love and how much I just adore this guy!
But nothing sounds right.
I have too many ideas,
they’re running all over the place
and stomping each other to the ground.
The cursor is cursing at me,
“Just start typing, go with it!”
My brain yells,
“Just write what you feel!”
But my fingers keep stopping,
and searching for the “backspace”
Deleting my thoughts
until something clearer appears.
But what if nothing ever comes?
What if I continue to sit at this computer,
staring at this screen,
with my fingers posed
to write something moving
something meaningful
just… something I can bring myself to finish!?
No, that’s not going to happen
I have a goal.
I am writing this poem.
Then love turns to hearts
Which turns to red
which turns to blood
which turns to murder
which… wait.
That’s not what I wanted to write at all!
…But I kinda like it.
Ah, I’ll just submit that instead.