Muse 59: Birds

found via tumblr

It's always when the quiet is the loudest that I get scared the most. The fear approaches me like birds. Birds - I always hear the birds before I see them. Their wings flap like sheets of paper whipping against each other, and the noise grows louder, freakishly louder, until I'm pretty convinced that the birds are here to eat me. They're vultures in my mind. They're chasing me in vicious circles - cycles - until I drop down dead. "I don't want to go," my voice is mildly pathetic and I fold my hands over my face. I'm scared of the birds. I hear them before I can see them. They warn me I'm already dead.

Muse 55: Zoo

found via m-meow

I felt like an accessory to a collection; not so much a mark on the bedpost or a tally in a long succession of winnings, but something beautiful that would enhance the physical appeal. Moving in the world has never been any different from attending a zoo, a park full of wild animals that don't belong there. This world is a gilded cage. Your world is no different from the rest. The safe gates ease souls into believing that the easy life is behind doors. Silver spoons, forks and knives feed your trapped lips and you have no worry.

Muse 15: Beau-ionette

found via freckledcup

"You only collect beautiful things," she noted verbally. The high chair was much higher than anticipated for her tiny body. Although her legs were disproportionately long for her shortened frame, they could not reach half way to the third rung of the stool and so the toes, like small, thick trinket beads rolled in the open air, reaching for some support but got none. She watched as the Man went about the dusty, amber-tinged room looking for small dresses for her to wear.

"Yes. That is what I like."

She turned her fairy head away. Waiting to see his dark eyes fill her gaze, she kept her sight on the Man's giant body, waiting to read his tell tale micro-movements. These invisible words would tell the truth as they had before, when he simultaneously shook his head left to right all while saying yes. She reminded herself over and over to keep deaf to his comforting words as she saw the dry, rotting wood pieces that hung all around the workshop. All the details, the intricate carvings mesmerizingly filled her eyes, grabbing her attention with artistic magnetism. All the beautiful pieces were breathlessly lifeless.

Muse 13: Secret Garden

There is a place everyone wishes they could go to, somewhere secret and unknown, that has a path so they won't get lost. Alice has been there. Peter lives there. It is a land that we have only dreamed of seeing. Lost has myriad implications that will never mean that same thing once; like a fire that cannot be photographed identically. In a frenzy of definitions, I wonder: How can I feel good when I'm lost, on my own, knowing that the only route is a carved direction filled with simplicity. And yet how can I feel so bad when I'm lost, on my own, knowing that no one will ever find me again. The path feels so soft and earthly underneath my feet, where the dirt slowly eats away at my calloused soles to expose the gentle, baby skin. The wet morning dew kissing my sore, blistered red feet is the only thing that can hurt me. I think I will continue running, no matter what "lost" has in store for me.

Muse 11: Hot Like Fire

While the moments were dutifully reminisced through hours of replay in the dark cavern of her mind, she suddenly remembered that someone once said, "Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known." And somehow that was how she understood that love is nothing but a composite of feelings. Nothing of love is original. It is agony. It is joy. It has purity; it enforces evil. It multiplies while decreases. It is hot and cold. Easy and difficult. It is when you fly through the sky on wings made of wax, trying to reach the sun because it burns so beautifully. She whispered right before she fell asleep, "Love is sweet, sweet masochism. " No one has ever survived flight except those who don't return.

Muse 10: Teacup

image via pavlunka

The table was so radiantly beautiful. Everything was placed invitingly in a way only such boastful colors could offer. It was not green or purple - no, the colors were much more named, such as lime or magenta. These colors with magnificent character cried out not to be ignored. As if the party was crying out to her, "Come to me, come to me. Come rest your body near me and take whatever you wish!" In the midst of a well groomed garden grove, the littered delights on the table called to her like wind chimes responding to a breath of crisp, fresh air that swept through the scenery. As her tiny feet pedaled down the hill, tumbled daintily with the grace of a quick ballerina, she found herself tumbling down the hill where Jack had been waiting all his life.

Muse 7: Paper Heart

flickr medical museum

She wanted to cut out his heart, and he was going to let her do it. She wanted to have a piece of him for herself, and he didn't mind that she was going to take it. And she started, she started cutting along the dotted lines that she envisioned on his flawless body, until she realized that the shape she was cutting was all wrong. So she stopped halfway, letting the blood run out in perfect streams of tears as he begged her, wondering what was wrong, to continue, to take his love. With a blank look, she blinked cruelly and said, "I thought I wanted it, but not anymore."

Muse 6: Eros

sam webber

You remind me of a sculpture, the cool marble skin is smooth and flawless, making my eyes travel for miles and miles because once I begin, I cannot end. When I swallow, I feel as if I am inhaling you in; your presence slipping down my throat like liquid platinum, so pure, so raw. I am sure, so sure - Your heart is made of gold, but why, oh-why, won't you let anyone love you?

Muse 5: Lovedry

via no but and or yes

I was sitting behind the bed, where the light from the window couldn't find me. The phone, whose wire tangled in between my toes and fingers, rested coldly against my cheek as I listened to him speak. Come over, he would say repeatedly like a vinyl that only had one loop, and I want to see you, he said again and again like the light on the other side of my bed. It was an 'I want to see you, but I won't try to cross to the other side' kind of tone, perhaps the laziest kind of all. And so I told him no, "I can't come over. I have a lot of things to do." Yeah? "Yeah," I told myself as I twirled a strange of unwashed hair, unwashed because there were memories and scents that I was too afraid to lose, "yeah. I have lots of things to care for. I have to feed my cat...and my Facebook fish or he'll die today. Then I need to call my mom and see if she's doing alright without me so far. Later I think I have to hit Cosco for food that will last me another number of months, and there's laundry because the dryer stopped working again and my pants are just wetting my bed..." And then the list becomes a bucket list because the last thing I want to care about is falling in love with you.

Muse 4: Coffin Ash

"Did you know," he said as they drove past the miles and miles of land scattered with tall trees - although there were more acres of emptiness than tree, "that once upon a time they did not bury people in coffins and gravestones? Yeah, even us, the ones who probably honor this grave tradition more than anyone else. But even in King Arthur's time they did not bury people in their own graves - no, they buried them under trees, and the trees became a symbol of memory, of life. Then I guess somewhere along the way, generations decided that they were too self-important to be put back into the ground, too important to decompose like all things should, and started to clear up the trees for burial ground, started to fill dead bodies with chemicals and unnatural things so they would be physically immortal in death. Then thousands of year later, we sit and wonder why the earth is dying, but we never give thought that maybe she is a giver, not a provider. So where is the provider now, when she has no more to give?"

Muse 3: Ribcage Song

credit: http://ghostpatrol.net/

We sat beneath the wych elm tree, and you were singing, "Oh skeletal bones, oh skeletal bones where will you be when I've gone home." I looked at you curiously, wondering where that song had played on the radio. Were you trying to sing a song about us? And you looked at me with that child-like song vibrating in the air as you kept on singing, "Can I hold your hand, can I call you home - you're, you're that cage that protects when I'm alone." Your voice might have been ratty and gritty like old bones in dry sand, but you still sounded so lovely to me.

Muse 2: We wish Books were real

He sat on the floor, two feet away from the long bare legs that reached a point where flesh twisted into the curves and shapes of a callow female. "Look, look," he cried as something winked between the ink and the crinkles of the old fantasy story. He reached out and placed his warm little hand on her knee - pushing back and forth the way a mother would rock a baby to sleep, but the sitter was no baby, and she was more consumed with reality embedded in binary stages between the mental and metal. "Look, look - looook," he said once more as the story came to life and hopped, hopped, bounced across the page as if the individual letters were not words but of the greener pastures. As he kept shaking the sitter's leg, he reached out with his other hand to touch the fumbling rabbit. "Look, look, look...." his voice faded in the distance, and when the girl looked up, the warm hand was gone, and the boy of three was mentioned in the fairy tales. In a paragraph of its own, the words "Look, look, look!" became immortally known.

Muse 1: Broken Keys

(via loveyourchaos)

They droningly plunked with a tune like broken teeth, like broken teeth. I don’t think I ever noticed that they were out of tune, out of tune; I just noticed they were brown and crooked - kind of like yours after you started smoking, cussing. Truthfully, touching this piano may be the closest I will ever get to your drugged, dead lips.