Voices

Everyday seemed the same.
The glass cutting her skin with her own dry soap,
tearing off her nails, and the radio
deafening her with its noises, the voices of the dead
over lapping, echoing in caves.

She felt the benevolence of the father.
His black hide,
the extreme cuffs of his emerald crystal eyes.
They had an intense speed, a wild beauty,
and were unpredictable like pain.

She had been in this place for thirty-five years.
Boiling with a makeover,
the voices narrowed into the wall.
the paintings seemed more fixed than day one,
faces, staring at nothing,
hopeless like the neck captured deer.

The absence of voices
made the cats cry in the spring night, a beginning.
the stars shot through like nails in the sky

I had an eerie quietness, a purpose.
I felt my hands round a white cat, soft, firm,
marching my crossed legs.
How they awaited her these silent voices!
they awaited where nothing would be the same.

Family

In the beginning
silence
fed by the old hands
whispered throughout the hallway
lined with dark wall paper
that bandaged these lips
which cried for the beaten truth
resting in empty corners
where the fire flamed again
others tried to put it in a water bottle
my sister walked past again
still wearing glasses.

In the end the days were nights,
uncovered pain I did
crawling on the cracked glass
they had laid down for me,
numb limbs crippled to these
artificial names bound by blood
clotting some more everyday.

^

Biography

Well im 21 years of age, I have currently finished my fourth year at university studying forensic psychology. Writing has become a major part of my life. The ability to express through such creativity is liberating however I could say it has come from a lot of pain. I am interested in all forms of creative expression, drama, and music. I also paint,and sketch. As I individuate more and become more of who I am I respect others form of expression and life and individuality. Justice, truth and love are also very important values in my life.