Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Cracked

Though not the most attractive thing,
not even close to beautiful,
these hands of mine can do so many things,
lately,
it's been destroying,
more so than creating.
Through these hands you can,
come to understand,
my existence.
Please don't look,
and think of me as a mess.
These hands are calloused,
cracked,
dry,
and unkempt.
I have tried my best,
in vain,
to keep them in passable shape.
I fail because,
every time,
something fun comes along,
they get worn in,
all over again.

© Christa P. Minor, 2005

Architecture

Reconstruction through the 21st Century, 
construction of four walls in time. 
The Hour and Minute point into the beyond, 
look there, 
they are trying to show us much more. 

I would guess that everyone, 
at some point in their lives, 
is afraid of moving forward. 
Moving ahead, 
in any conceivable way,
is the end of their World,
the structure of beams and trusses,
comes crashing down,
like the card castles that we could never keep aloft. 
At least, 
it seems. 

You push on until a vital vessle in your brain snaps. 

No one is saying that you couldn't climb those tick marks, 
climb up to the stars,
and leave this place,
if it's really such an annoyance. 

© Christa P. Minor, 2005

Inspirate

If you are running out of inspiration, 
words to wring out of yourself, 
strands that grow taut as you pull, 
look a bit deeper. 

Try to scratch another line,
you're feeling dismay, 
I know we have all been criticized. 

But this is no reason to fall on your face.

You will sigh, 
you will forget your genuine passion, 
the nay sayers will taunt and scold,
and in time you will agree with them. 

Now that the future is upon you, 
there is a nagging feeling, 
that it is once again time to scratch those lines,
whether they be written, drawn, or etched. 
Your mind is what is forcing you now, 
but I have this nagging feeling of,
"When will my ideas run out?"

We hope that that day will never come, 
we scratch and swipe and paint and sing,
and we hope to various things in the Universe, 
that we can keep up the good work. 

© Christa P. Minor, 2005

Shy

Hold up, 
don't start to say, 
what I think you're saying. 

I wrote this ages ago, sealed it in a tomb, 
now I am confused as to who is speaking to whom. 

Take your time, 
I don't care to wait. 
I'm throwing this on you without much grace, 
and this is because I am not completely sane.

You don't see how much you mean, 
and you don't feel that you're everything. 
So, 
for now, 
I'll think fondly, tactfully, of you. 

I sleep and believe that my dreams are coming true,
waking in a haze of a daze,
first thing's first, 
go tie your green laced Converse shoe. 
My right foot is too large and dyed blue,
like a jester I will play and sing those songs for you. 

This is what I am these days, 
I belong with the jesters and the fools, 
and I alter my shirts late at night, 
rubbing my sore fingers on loosely threaded spools.

It's quiet, so quiet. 
I tell myself in my black eyed delusions, 
I ache in my months old contusions,
I think that I will make it better. 
I believe this to be sincere since you've done no less for me. 
These thoughts are wasted when you have no problems, 
but that is something I am glad for. 

And isn't it funny that I have scars to match those tattoos?
My accidents are in line with your decisions, 
you've been so determined while I trip over derisions. 

I have told myself a hundred times, 
to keep this tongue and mind in line. 
I speak too much, 
sometimes without thought. 
And I am not sorry for my honesty. 
It is never enough while I sit with eyes wide,
smoking a saved cigar and drinking tea,
I run my bare feet along the porch, back and forth,
I kick the rocking chair,
pretending that you are sitting by my side,  
because I don't care anymore.
And speaking with you stills my shaking knees,
and once again, I don't care anymore.
I fret, for myself, what the future has in store. 

I spend my time learning philosophy,
wishing I could enact philanthropy,
thrusting my heart through my fingertips. 
I swing in the mornings, 
and I pick apart all of the words I could say. 
I pick at them and they bleed all day through my mind, 
and this is because I am scared of rejection, 
and the word "NO".

I may have nothing but words. 
Nothing to offer you except adoration and respect. 
You may not think that you are beautiful. 
I will continue to sit here and stumble through my days, 
upholding my honesty, 
and maybe on one unassuming day,
my opinion will be enough to make you believe.  

© Christa P. Minor, 2013

Coat Sells Haraiman

Slow this down and take me to a more sensual place,
a place less restricted than this cage.
A word can move me,
this hollow existence no longer eludes me.
To all of the Martyrs,
a clearer state of mind CAN be reached.

I pity you for staying immobile.

So let us put this behind us.
Swat away the flies.
Come reunite, 
you'll have nothing better to do.
Other things will pass and fade,
but let's see who will bleed out first.

Every man is for himself,
but I must warn you,
not many Men know true chivalry,
nor have a pure heart.
They aren't even brave of heart.

Allow me to find her tonight,
without pause or cause of alarm.
Never will our wily souls part.

© Christa P. Minor, 2005

Doomed Into Shadow

Every night we'd chase our blues away,
and mend those pieces strewn through blustering days.

Every moment lingers on, stretches on.

We'll hide our faces,
draw those thin curtains,
block out the sun,
for it burns much too brightly.

I'll lock myself up so no one can see,
I'd give up these hopeless days and erase these faded memories.

You long for someone to hold,
but over and under again you've told,
yourself that there is no such chance,
remembering all of those times we could have danced...

You waited with patience and understanding eyes,
fearing the worst,
the truth you so despise.

What if I'm not good enough?

I'm doomed into shadow.
I'm lost in the crowd again.

© Christa P. Minor, 2012

There Are No Words

There are no words, 
to describe the way I am feeling. 
I have been thrown out to sea,
this story has me reeling. 
How long have I been away?
Ten years, I'm afraid to say.
I don't remember,
being so distraught.
I don't recall,
everything that I have been taught.
All of these songs in my head lead back to you.
I hope that tomorrow the sun will shine through.
I am afraid, 
I am alone in this mind. 
What if I never come to?
That is a future I hope not to find. 

How long have I been sleeping?
How long have we been weeping?
How many times have I died,
this pain has worn me down,
I'm fried and I'm tied,
I am drowned. 
I am lying in the Riverbed. 
I am waiting for you. 
I scream and rage, 
I cry and turn the page. 
Please be waiting for me behind the glass door -
I will wait for tomorrow and what I pray is in store. 

© Christa Paige Minor 2013