CrikWing

How long has it been, Really, Since I’ve put pen to paper And screamed at the ink To flow in just the right way? Perhaps there’s not been a reason, As of late, Because I’ve known exactly What I’m thinking And have grown accustomed to it. Or perhaps there’s not been a reason, As of late, Because I’ve been so thoroughly Distracted In building a new life, in a new place. But now the pen is back on paper And there is something In the ink To which I have grown very much Unaccustomed: There is a sense of wondering, A sense of uncertainty, A sense of not quite knowing What I am thinking, Or when the words s

Snow fell fourteen times Before the first. Leaves changed twice more Before the next. Now, when leaves welcome snow, It becomes a burst Of light: a memory, A shattering impact, connects With an impossible target. Standing on thin ice, Now just as cold and unforgiving, She watches the demons' dance. The movement is a token, A souvenir from twice Being told to collect the scars, And so watching the blood prance Through the veins in her arm With the knife in the other hand. Nothing was left behind Except a figment.

They held the testimonials Of an emotional mute-- Written confessions, the ink To replace lost speech. They squandered the hours Of the over-extended, While they provided and escape For the over-thought. They painted pictures Without a brush stroke, And they created life Without life themselves. They were the ramblings Of the disturbed, And the epiphanies Of the enlightened. And Yet… They were crumpled up, Thrown into waste bins, Hidden in back pages, And tossed carelessly aside. Who would have guessed That after all this time The ink would remain Just as clear As the day it was printed?

I want to show you a place Where the depression never hits, Where the scrapes and scars Aren't reminders, Or bad memories. Where the smiles don't hide The holes in your wall, Or the blood under your fingernails. I want to find a Never Land Built just for you Where you don't have to worry About the shortening length of time Between those inexplicable moments, Or whether or not the voices that whisper To you from a pillow Will have you waking up With foggy vision and shaking hands. But if it had to be simple, I'd settle for watching you Write one of your songs And just knowing that the first measure Wasn't written As a

It was in one single moment That I was able to paint A bright red target Around an idea, So I could toss clichés Until one stuck to the center, Only to watch each carefully aimed shot Miss the connection. It was in one single moment That I discovered two like poles Will always repel No matter the angle At which they are thrown together. Because in that single moment, After watching throw after throw Miss a meticulously painted mark, The idea became that It is no more possible To pinpoint what it is About the way she smiles, About the way she laughs, Than it is to toss out Any combination of expressions, Praying

     Reiley snatched her rifle from my grasp and looked up at me with a not-so-uncommon look of utter disdain. "Fuck you, Cameron. You know, if you weren't so god-damned important to this organization, I'd have shot you months ago."      I stood there with the same wide, mocking grin on my face. Perhaps this little joke of ours crossed a line, but who's keeping track of when and where that line actually is, anyhow. Just as well, I couldn't help but feel a little sore about all of it. The initial giddy, childlike joy, thus, began to fade away as quickly as it had come. My mocking grin twisted

      Sean Digiantomasso—6'3" and two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle. The only simple way I could think to describe him would be a teddy bear with razor sharp claws, packing a shotgun. He'll stick by your side, but if you make him angry, then God help you. His jet-black hair and scruffy appearance do, however, tend to cover any warm and loving "teddy-bear-like" vibes that he might give off. I suppose you really have to know the guy to see anything like that. Otherwise, I'm sure all you would see would be a grizzly with a street sweeper. And, considering that initial image, getting to know Sean isn't exactly high up on the list of

Tonight I'll warm my hands by a fire Found in a home that is nothing more than part of a Fabricated Fairytale. Tonight, I'll lay down my head where communion is shared Through rings of opaque white smoke— Where the dejected and the disgruntled can shed their shame To walk upon the clouds After having swallowed the stars. Tonight, I'll close my eyes and dream of the blessed and the ignorant After I've watched the performance of the condemned And bourn witness to an initiation Into a fraternity of the Chosen. Tonight my mind will wander to a heated home And a loving family. I'll dream of the day when I won't have to hide br

We gave into our collaborative curiosity And found ourselves adopting surreptitious superstition. So we turned a key, Made with shards of broken mirror, And unleashed a torrent Of the mundane, and the macabre, And found ourselves unable To face what lurched forward. So, we turned away. And now, all of our fears are gone.

Someone sticks a crank in her back, Like an old plaything, And twists it round Holding hopes of watching her march on forward Like the good little soldier She has always been. But the thing about these old toys Is that, often, they don't do What they've always done And simply stand near idle. Shaking. The crank is removed And the twisting over and done But the gears have already begun to turn So the quivering continues, Unyielding and uncontrollable, Until the spinning stops entirely Or the little toy soldier breaks. It seems Someone was never told That if you handle a fragile thing But twice in less than thrice Aroun