art in words
Bleeding red
in between lines of blue;
the words I never spoke,
always written.
Sitting silent
spilling
intimate thoughts in cursive.
Keep my secrets close,
never share a word,
tell a soul; let me bleed.
Here with you.
Here in couplets and verses.
Holes in her leggings
tangled blonde hair
color-worn finger nails
pale-white skin.
A torn body,
beautiful soul.
Call me your full moon.
Pull me close. I am your gravity.
Let’s crash along the shoreline
dip and dance to the rhythmic tides,
sparkle in the moonlight,
reflect in puddle-filled faded footprints,
and tangle amongst the seaweed.
We’re the water
the salt
the reflection
the tide.
If she only knew how beautiful she looks;
how her grey-blue eyes turn different shades
of blue as tears drip down her face.
As much as I want to help,
I can’t comfort her;
I’m selfish. I can’t stand to see
her eyes turn back into a normal shade of gray.
I need her to cry, so I can
write words about her from a distance;
personify her beauty at her darkest moment.
I love to watch her eyes
speak of emotion through color.
Damn, I love her when she cries.
Worn on sleeves,
exposed to hurt,
told to never give away.
Through pain
it beats;
through love,
it beats.
Torn,
broken,
ripped.
It never misses rhythm,
sheds a tear,
or finds a reason
to beat no more
She dresses in see-through.
She’s opaque and clarity, fiction and reality;
she’s perfection.
She would never look my way.
She knows my flaws; I know she knows.
I can’t compliment her the way she deserves it.
I best express my spoken words
in creative, nonsensical poetry.
Before she walks away,
maybe I’ll keep my
ten seconds of doubt
I’ll approach her,
tell her she’s beautiful,
grab her by the hand,
put my finger on her lips
before she can respond.
All before she goes,
I go, and my illusory mind
wanders off, again.
Draped in white lace, she sits
encircled in smoke. Ash put beside
her, burn marks on her shoulder; she
enjoys the pain, buzz.
Her dress lays lightly over her shoulder
shielding, exposing her. Surrounded
by grey-black smoke, wrist on her knee,
a dangling hand; her mind drifts away
inhaling, exhaling
inhaling, exhaling
inhaling, exhaling
the world encircled around her
Memories lay
scattered on the table,
like a puzzle,
broken in hundreds;
pushed aside,
spilt across the floor
forgotten and lost
broken in pieces
of fragmented thought
Remember me as I was:
blood, bones, insides, and
splattered dried-up ink,
dripping into a puddle beneath me;
words unspoken
regrets buried skin deep,
my soul creative soul dying to escape.
Written here, on this page,
I speak in a soliloquy.
Share my words,
keep them under covers, or shout them aloud.
Promise me, you’ll hold these words near,
in the darkest of nights.
Sleep with them,
love them,
personify them;
speak back in whispers,
ignore them altogether
or curse them in response.
Read or tossed aside, my spoken thoughts
are shared, exposed to the world,
never kept in (my) mind.
I write better in ink,
words are dangerous.
Some words burn deep, others
speak of love in whimsical ways.
Air pushed through lips, softly,
can speak the harshest of curses
or the most beautiful of melodies
in rhyming lyric
and coherent thought.
As for me, I’ll drench my emotions into letters,
press my lips firmly against yours, and
refrain from dangerous, spoken words.
White her dress,
black her mind,
open her chest,
red her hands.
Running black mascara
streams down
a once alluring-like face.
Her dress swirls behind her; her heart is ripped.
Blood trails and footprints follow.
Gone, damaged, free.
Dance with me,
spill your
darkest secrets.
Grab me by the hand, intertwine our fingers, whisper in my ear empty your soul, and tell me every one of your flaws.
Hold onto your sweet-nothings, your perfect smile crystal-blue eyes; I don’t want them.
Expose yourself, inside, I need to know.
I promise your secrets
are safe with me, here
in the dark, dancing under the moonlight
Strangers exchange words
through damp, polluted air.
People hurry,
fill subway trains,
push through crowds,
shout obscenities.
A gun shot follows:
scream, pain,
blood, death.
Blaring horns encircle:
red and blue lights,
fighting spectators,
flashing paparazzi cameras,
and chasing ambulances.
All in a New York minute,
if you can make it here.
New York (in still) life.
vinnylanni 
