Miss S. Saphirest.

Her letters.

To whomever it may concern,
Supposedly it just happens again, and now it is as dull and as much an annoyance as a slight and reoccurring toothache or rash. But when does an emotion become something like a rising eczema? Of all the years I have moved on and moved on and on and so forth have I now come to a suitable stop at which I am pleased to stay, and this emotion may inbed itself at my side. Niggling and prying. It is a difficult concept to put forward in word, but apparently, and happily, i do that well enough.
And I am aware of it's presence, beside/around/upon me, and it's trying not to get my point through, such as a child might constantly wail at it's mother as she attempts communicate the days events and rows to her much missed friend, whom she rarely sees due to said child and how it keeps her occupied. And it does.
I am always occupied with it. Like the voice in the back of the head of a murderer, or a worrier who misplaced a key he didn't much need.
Of course, I am not saying I am ill. Be I far from such a thing and thankfully glad so.
But I am distracted, it would seem. I do perform and then suddenly judge myself for whatever action I have taken, somehow lashing out at my own doing with the sly range of a snake, attempting to drag back in what cannot be undone. And yet my face sits still in this moment. And ponders.
My conclusion of the slight wrong that is with myself, is that I am indeed, or at least this emotion as it were, is my own worst enemy. And through the days that I try and blast it away and be 'careless' as the rest, it simply lingers and waits upon any moment of a bring-down. And what an event that turns to be.
For I have found that it waits in my stomach, it sleeps there and it is motionless. It does nothing but waits upon the wake up, and when those words are born, any of which may drag down to my pits, it stirs slowly and widely. Stretches out so that my stomach lurches and becomes suddenly aware that it is heavy, and my heart seems to be singing a rhythm against it if at all possible; It scratches with it stretch at the gentle lining of my scarred stomach, causing a rush of cold and stale adrenalin to pass through my skin, and redden my pale face.
It wants me to feel this way.

Fighting it alone is dull, and so I share, I write this letter in the hope that it may reach forgiving eyes who see beyond natural reality and believe in such a beast that might crawl about my veins. I have become nothing but an underseeing wreck in my spare time, and the pale face that sees the world is aging because of it.
I must banish it, perhaps simply control it. Use it for my own use? Anything, is what I plead. The only thing I find standing in my way, is myself. And i detest it greatly.

I end by reminding myself that I indeed have achievements, and that though they are not perhaps what may impress nor bother others, they are mine, and in my life they are what I have. They propel me forward into others, I hope, should this beast not label the rest of my doings 'Unworthy'.

Signed (In ink signature);

Collective Monstrosity.

Oh collectively!
Each sin, oh what we are,
Together beneath each sheet
This wretched, nasty being,
This monster between us,
I will be any thing with you.

How you push unto me,
And the blasted creature tickles a claw against my stomach, it lurches into my breast and it breaths so terribly heavy.
It won't let me to you!

How I want to give in,
Oh banish this as a sin!

Whilst this sinful thing within,
For I am truly, I am,
Wanting,
and in my young skin I should be able!
Blasted creature!
Leave me to my one,
For he, and he is mine and only: he;
He gives in.

Is able.
Such pathetic pen this is that scrawls.
It yearns to better its words, to practise it's give,
And like me to he,
It gives only what the creature between does filter.

It's scream will be audible to me only, the night it is torn from my skin,
wrenched from it's ever-home!
"Die Monster Die!"
Crawl, will it, up the spine to the base of the skull,
Will it linger at my neck, breathe into my ear,
Such is the snarl,
You nuture the other.

Can I possibly ink this thing whilst I am with he?
Can these tangle of words distract it long enough so that I might just be?!
Please, just a moment without one of these creatures to lure it's foul head!
Banish it from my bed!

There are always monsters behind the curtains.

~

Let us cherish our sin,
Even, has the creature forbade me from use of it's words.
But still it does whisper.
You are italics on parchment, my love,
You are the rose blooming over the once dull, routine wall that I pass on my journey.
You knelt in black, did my heart ever wilt.
Those eyes so sadly framed.
Let the monster rest for this caress.

The Steam Rail.

I have been asked for fears,
I have been confided in.
I have slept uncomfortably,
My bed has been the floor.

Of all those pale fears,
I have seen within my rooms,
I, today, feel scared of you.
I twiddle my finger beneath it's ring,
And I listen to the Japanese speak on the telly.

I have seen days far more beautiful than this,
I have had evenings of sweeter engagement,
And yet there is something so quietly sweet,
Surrounding our presence where ever we may dwell.

I have been many things, and I have been told many stories,
in the quiet of a cafe upon such rainy days.
I have been sick of my writing, I have drawn so terribly,
But beneath your eyes, still, I see admiration.
I see honest opinion.

I have led myself upon this track,
As if putting the gag in my own mouth,
How I have tied my own hands so tightly,
How the approaching steam once held romance!

And yet still I feel it, still i wail indignantly,
I feel like you could save me,
And yet you really needn't have to.
You are tied beside me.

If rain.

Delightful it is!; To sit beside a window cracked,
And letting in air as cool as is held in the crypt!
Rain does thud at my glass today,
And grey has coloured the dull blue that was.
Autumn feels closer than the month would suggest,
And a book of age lies at my chest.

To sit is absolute, and to listen to nothing but!
I have the calm and the serene today,
Of a lady who, once, knew precisely what she wanted,
Of a cat who hauled in the birds beside the mice!

I question my dreams today, I ask them why they haunt me so?
I may have taken a restful gaze toward a window dotted,
But the lingering images behind these eyes are of creatures, unsettling.
Yes, just last night I gave in to sleep,
And slept for as long as I might ever,
Until. And then dream did come. Did taunt!
It lay out fears my mind had only just come across,
And oh how well it did!

If my mind would write, quite the story you would read.
It put poison in my drink! It led him by another! It threatened at solitude of an outing,
It may as well have put fire in my sky!
I am distrustful of my mind in sleep!
Here, here I lay in a comfort I have made,
And it laughs, it gives a foul hissing laugh, as I fall empty into unconsciousness.

The sweet rain pounds harder now, it sweetens the horizon,
And my mind is withdrawing the memory,
I pry so that I may word the fears and paint the creature;
Yet it pulls back as slowly and effortlessly as the tide receeding.
My mind but sand, my fingers protruding with difficulty, clutching as if suffocating.
Only to dream again.

~

Murk has my mind been,
And just of late has it swum back with the tide.
I am aware, if at all, that such as the shadow through a window,
Of rain upon a familiar portrait, in a dark and deep, elaborate room,
Forgotten and anachronistic,
Love does begin to patter at perfection.

The Young Rambler.

The creatures that lie in the beds here,
Are the ones that once donned my bedroom walls.
I need not fear the monsters here,
For I did reside before them,
My deepest fear equipped masculinity,
It was caped in woes older than me.
When my years begin to gather,
I have written and I have witnessed the matter.

Make this true, within this natter,
I have got these things inside of me.
Rest child's eyes, and lie in the cool of stone.
The damp and the dry,
The aching, the fingers that pry,
My window was never a safeguard,
My humming nervous system did flail.


Damned away from the sun,
The same old monsters run.
As a child, I knew they would come,
During enjoyment, they waited with heaving chest and narrowed claw.

Rotted teeth and gaps in gum,
The glorious creatures shadowed.
The earth from my garden wrapped around each thumb,
Each claw, each tear in ancient, leather skin.

Is it the quiet of night that doth draw the worry,
Aware, was I, that my skeleton led within me.
Had mere younger years seen but enough?
They lurched in their places, even inhaling they bring a dull hiss.

And could my childhood ears have perked,
I pictured them at the window,
Even knowing they lived within the walls.
Still do they crawl at my hair, do they whisper at innocence.

'Oh what on earth is even holding you together?!'
And hear I, only, the response;
'Oh what is it that puts the colour in your skin?'.

-
- Notes to this piece;
Even as I speak the light dims and flickers, as if riding on my pulse. When will these demons leave me? The bell rang only once as I spoke 'The monsters were always faceless in the barn of my childhood home'.

It must be grey.

I should think you mighty,
To come and to challenge me,
So don't,
And simply be beside me.
Have you ever a question for me?

I am aware of tear stained cheeks,
We have both witnessed,
Such colour,
In dusks simple transaction.
Like winter lasting longer.

I have made you up a room,
The walls all rather pale,
To rest,
You must lay your head somewhere near mine.
The birds here sing all night.

Waking is a scent in itself,
And realisation is the sweestest follow,
Remember me,
The crow will caw before the dawn.
And I have been awake most of the night.

Should I fall prey to sleep,
Below the hollow tree in the garden,
Gentle quiet,
And day time's birds.
I expect your challenge withdrawn upon waking.

I'm forgetting what days lead into which.
A blur of a memory reveals to me, that once i used days.
I used them to divide
and to remember how long had passed since when.
Now a week since special don't really cut it.
And now my eyes are closed for most of what they call 'days'
And my skin got so pale since no one came home.
I slumped against a curved seat on a bus, and the time passed me.
God i don't know how i got away with one thirty,
and such charming smiles of drinks i never tasted.

Darling won't spend the night outside
Bitter-larity made sense when stood as high as round the corner took us.
He said, 'tell you what, we'll get past three'.
I said we'll go as far as the sun coming up.
So warmth beneath a duvet and a matress without a sheet,
just that light from through the blinds,
and half drunk cups.
My eyelids never felt heavy, and i thought i could lie there all night
The last matress was covered and i cried to stop myself from sleeping beside him.

Can't they wait, til i get gone?
Leaving became such an easy thing when I subjected my bones to accepting the light of day.

Shadows turnt my eyes to such sweet things.
I couldnt' see.
And i needn't look at any imperfection here.
Oh great, another one full of words.
So i stopped in the cold, and watched the breath throw itself from me
And all i could see were stars and orange lights.
They lined the horizon and were divided by trees, and the irony had it that i preferred these divides to that of the days and so i stayed where i sat, and let him go on.
For his words would run dry soon,
i to be left alone again.
And wait upon the next sorry soul to sit himself beside me
and claim beneficial
A pathetic substances to the meat on my bones.
Only whispering in the dark could make me pursue
And perhaps a push from a good claw.
I sighed in the dew
and i dragged my face through night time's grass.
And he was just like all the others, his footprints in the mud.
So dampened down the grass, i couldn't spot the moon.
I think the other one stole it,
when he left before even words odd.
My sky was barely litten, so it glowed an orange pollute.
And my sincere eyes were tainted in thoughts of what i could do
Had i stronger arms and firmer fists.

By now of course, he was in some next girl's bathroom.
And i was on a train.
But never some where new these days.
My night times were such waste.

Just because his lips were full, and his bowtie wasn't scew.
I had to stop before i got old.
Before i told him my name.

Beauty ran into a diner, and drank halves of tall glasses.
Secondly it made it's stand, and thirdly shocked the nation
I wished, and pondered, upon particular key attributes to this
And noticed in my haste,
that beauty got on it's way again, before the day returned.
And so i said from there, or mimed
Let me be as such, in time and
wait for no one, judge less so. For he'd already bolted the door
Before the end of the garden path met my feet.