Magazine, website & books written by teens since 1989

Rolling Up the Eyelash Blinds

Custom User Avatar
More by this author
These cute things.
Those who no longer wish to exist with hungry hearts
No longer wish to walk with the treaded souls,
Breathe fury
And speak with stretched tongues.
Awake the monsters,
The angels,
And collide together in an explosion of
Mass carnage and warm lies.
Fresh from the mouth their leaders will
Speak a numb injustice that they see as
Beautiful and
Understandable.

Like a trapped insect in a
Carnivores web
I will be devoured.
Back into the abyss of
Misanthropic disease carriers
Whose spores reach into my
Eyes, my legs, my arms, my toes.
And leave memorable scratches
Everywhere.
They can whisper in my ear
Little secrets too tantalizing to
Be said aloud.

But now it amounts to nothing.
I’ll stop because I have no need
Or higher purpose.
Their like test subjects.
Who you trick with melodious incentive
Only to supply metal springs
And poison gas as nutrition.
Though the gas mask around my neck kept
Me feeling safe,
Nothing else could.
Plagues of greed can sweep the heart
Until it’s worth less than your optimism.
A population you have murdered away.
She should mean something more
And hold greater significance,
Shouldn’t she?
To others she is gold
Shiny,
New,
Moldable.
Yet unattainable.

I am forced a laugh,
A smile,
A closeness,

Only used as some form of payment.
In return, an undeniable fervor
Is stoked by
Lingering eyes.
The creature stirs and sighs.
And later it will gnaw at my organs
Chewing them with a lazy
Half smile,
Always leaving slightly satisfied.

I know this isn’t good for me.
The little catholic girl still
Residing somewhere
Says yield,
Forget,
Move on,
No.
But she was suffocated long ago
By the sweet, tasty fumes
Of carelessness
That licks the lid of my ribcage, desiring more.
We anticipate the sun in a ceaseless
Eclipse.
Why say that some greater force,
God perhaps,
Is wrong?
Why is the reality
Later than sooner,
Still such a blow, a slap,
A cut.
Youth or a wrong mindset can


No longer be used as an excuse,
With the exception of ignorance.
The answer, never to be revealed can be
Felt upon her lips,
Sitting on the edge of a pinkish cliff
Waiting to leap,
To sacrifice.
Making assumptions recklessly
Is considered good practice.
Ironically
The sacrifice of these provocations
Would be impossible because
They protect me.
Children of the demon that spawned
Nothing but an inferno of
Embarrassment and oblivious cruelty,
Products of weaponry that dangle on
Noisy chains around my wrists,
Survived.
The two warped together
Like lovers.
Yet dapple in the practice
Of self-absorbent.
A chuckle,
Silly little snakes who vanish
Under his solid foot.

He’ll then obliterate the already
Barren aftermath left
Behind.
A new,
Consoling
Undiscovered
Wasteland that kisses his
Neck with sweat
And heat.
Then the weather will change as it does.
‘In a rebellious phase,’
They say.
Soon it will end and the future
Will come,
Quick and sharp.
The snap of her petite fingers
Chime and
Create an orderly chaos
A tool often used to roll up
The eyelash blinds,
That have been peered
Slightly open too many times
By a young freckled hand.
Run away and don’t look back
He told me.
Only when I did try did the
Thick twine around my spine
Twist and moan,
Pulling me to the side
Repeatedly.
Push and pull
Push and pull
The poison.
Let it seep into my taste buds,
Let me salivate upon this
Greasy solution.
My eyes are covered and my hands
Tied behind my back.
I will greet execution like a
Friend I haven’t seen in
Years.
Then when reality is
Exposed,
She will be present.
She will see how you look at your reflection in these
Hazel eyes.
And then fix your rumpled shirt.
Her fingers will slide down my face
Caress the lips, the nose,
And close the gravely shaped
Box.

Each stone on your path to
Redemption,
Is a mirror.
You’ll look and see
An old man
With a white beard and green collared shirt.

You’ll watch as a mop of dark hair
Tumbles in the woods,
Mumbling.

You’ll see me.
But I’m unusual to you.
Shiny eyes become glazed over.
The little girl will smile,
Laugh a little maybe.
Poor thing.
Solely bound to her own world
And hypnotized when you
Taker her hand
Helping her take each step
To the very top.
It’s been hours
When the tiny flower bud
Is shoved back down,
Ripped of its pure skin.
A mutilated baby bird
Who fell from
Its sacred bowl
Of twigs.



Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!




Site Feedback