Longing.

and she stared out the window. the trees were green, the sky was creamy grey.
and her face was blank and
her eyes were cold
but she sat and placed her fingertips on the pane
inwardly, she was a river, a torrent of emotions
ripping through her, tearing her heart in two-poisoned
of love and chaos and wishing and smouldering
but her face remained the same, save the coal dark eyes placed in the middle of her pale forehead.
they burned, shone, shimmered.
inwardly she knew something was not right. something was terribly wrong. the fairies
were dying and the rainbows had fractured into tiny bits of greying colour. The seastars had turned black. the moon was red, a deep blood colour that reflected in the dark watery graves of the shipyard.
something had died. somewhere.  something sweet and beautiful was
lost, forever, beyond her fingertips.but who and what, she didn’t know.
all she knew was that she was left with a lump in the bottom of her neck and water in
in her eyes and she didn’t know where it came from
but it was there.
and beneath her breast her heart ached and wouldn’t stop screaming.

I am here

There’s a hidden world
that only exists
when you sit in silence-
and your heart
whispers
fiercely.

there’s a hidden world
that only breathes when
you stand in the rain and
kiss the stars
that shine
far away.

or when the music
burns your cold spirit
and you feel it speak
as if it were
your lips
but yet
you’re rendered
beautifully
silent.

i feel it
in the air
in the rust of industrialized neon lights
in the poetry of shy stars
in the oiled smeared ocean waves
in the aluminum moon.
but in silence
most of all

In silence it screams.

some think
it feels like a dream
almost-
though it’s real
but
most can’t see.

they want plastic
and garbled sounds
and lipstick smears.
but never this
sweet
sad
place.
because here-
the masquerade breaks.
and everything
fades.

~Steffi

In That Quiet Earth

“Kiss me again, but don’t let me see your eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love my murderer–but yours! How can I?”
Wuthering Heights

In darkened rooms she wasted
silently breathing, always bleeding-

Entwined voices on distant hills
take the stars, make them ours
graced skies in our eyes
the stained boy loved the dead girl.

He lives, she loves
their eyes set together
the final resolve
lost forever.

But it’s too late-
the gravestones lie.
silvery shadows
stole across the sky.

And The dead girl died
and became his star.
a shimmering softness-
on his heart, a scar.

In silence words breathe
Come close to me
say my name, a whisper
In this quiet earth-
amidst crimson lines of ghosts’ despair
we fall
but find
our reason there.

~Steffi

“Help us, we’re drowning.”

Why does it rain, rain, rain down on utopia?
How will the lights die down, telling us who we are?
I’m searching for Answers
you’re hurting inside…

Within Temptation’s single from their “An Acoustic Night at the Theatre” album dropping October 23rd.

The Day i Awoke

Pain, a chord snapped
pools of liquid gushed away
burning pain-skin cracked
Eyes shot open, twisting.

The day the glasses shattered
light spilled into the spidery lens.
the sights poured in-my world stood tattered.
ash drapes the city-
the skeletal confines of what was lost.

Gaping masks look at me
Pale plastic sculptured faces
Black holes where the eyes should be.
They speak in monotone.

Synchronized hearts beating
in enforced rapid succession
Pulsing blood, now slowly seeping
across my white torn sleeve.

they place the stars in the sky
lightbulbs on a black tarping
liquid dispensers produce rain-
metallic to glistening palms.

Blue melts into burning black
White swirls into grey,
i think we’ve found
Remedy for pain
No one loves
No one dies
No one lives.

Oh My.

{Despite preconceived notions, Steffi discovers that Japanese music is actually rather spiffy}

1. Darkwave Surfer–Aural Vampire

2. Kuroi Torikago–Kanon Wakeshima
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GzfNgN4L-pg

3. Muddy Romantic– Bespa Kumamero
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5SMpldN7Us

4. Lacrimosa–Kalifina
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GRrKwNKdR6Q

5. Current–Schwarz Stein
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mGrsg65U9Qc

Sorrow (dies).

Left alone with only reflections of the memory
To face the ugly girl that’s smothering me
Sitting closer than my pain
He knew each tear before it came
Soon He will perforate the fabric of the peaceful by and by…

For just one second I felt whole
As you flew right through me
And up into the stars.
Sorrow dies.

Futile Scribbles Mean so Much

Hearts heard some strange call
And we build this pretty place
This pretty place that wouldn’t fall.
No, couldn’t. Our hands ached.

We smiled and laughed
And sang together
Our hearts would glow in our forever.
We built this place. It wouldn’t fade-
A light amidst the city’s decay.

We crafted the glass,
Blue, scintillate beams
Arrayed in shrill silver
Our coveted dreams.
And we filled this place
With our steps and names.
Signed with our hands
Every hope and blame.

Yet spirits fade, as sins grow
Loosening all we came to know
Fingering weeds crept silently
Across our newly painted walls
Across our newly painted walls.
We were blind, and our city falls.
Steadily, decaying, in the words we’re stating
And like cold rain, our city falls.

We were the poisoned eroding stains
The glossed Vices in our perfect pains
To make the glitter seem just so.
Of painted dreams, we can’t let go.

And then two years, and five, and ten.
We’ve left this place to begin again.
But ashes and ashes
Make up the man.
And sinners will fall to where they began.

~Steffi

“when all the flames came rushing, it was oh so beautiful “

i see the truth rising up in the flames, oh it burns away at the remains.
and it’s strong enough to overtake the rain,
bright enough to see the light of day

Listen to Mae.
Pretty please.

September 25th. I await you with anticipation. And maybe Dave will sign my shoes. Right next to Cheyenne’s pretty cursive signature.

http://whatismae.com

~Steffi

“I Awoke, she fled and Day brought back my night.”

Some are doomed to think. To ponder.  To muse over shimmering possibilities, even if they are faint like the stars in the nightsky you can barely make out because they blink so much, darting from your gaze. Sometimes you wonder if the star is even there, if they’re fooling your eye, and what you’re staring at is merely a portion of the black vastness of space and not a star, but void. A burning darkness.

Yes, thoughts and dreams may bring roses amid ashes, princesses amid peasants. But these sort of people, these daydreamers in our midst,  are both blessed and cursed. Their nights are haunted by the ghosts of the possible, the maybe, the would-have’s and could have’s. Our dreams are dreams of fairies and naiads, of sparkling things in faraway places where everything is bright and beautiful. But at times, of the dark and dim, the shadowy corridors with muted whispers singing of some sad forgotten hope. But they long for what was, what will be, not what is. What is breaks and tears, leaving hope ragged and torn, and the clouds obscured by clouds in the form of smoldering chemicals. Days where the earth was fresh and pure, where the oceans lapped upon white sands, pure blue edged with white froth. Where one could walk amid the spirits of the trees without the blip of phones, or retching of cars, or the feeling that all is sleeping, under a spell that chokes and leaves grey. A time that says that life has been reduced to steel and plaster, plastic and paper. Pixels and tawdry signs, covering it all. Covering what was.
Are we all dead? Are all we all alive…fixated by a sparkling world, that’s given us so much but taken so much away.

Those who are doomed to thoughts realize this, search for something more, something else, something vivid and bright and captivating all at once. They search in books, reading, pouring over the gems only words possess. Or perhaps in songs, classics, letting Debussy carry them away until wholly new realms serenade the heart. Realms defined by Valse Romantique or Clair De Lune.

Thinking is both a curse and a blessing. It occupies but it destroys. To the girl, the child, who can just sit and think upon the wooden deck of her porch for hours, everything is new, but at the same time, everything is changing into utter listlessness. The stars are beautiful, the flowers smell, the faces, changing faces, are full of bright things and bright smiles. But yet everything seems so distant, obscured as if in a muddy puddle, opaque, worn, faded. Like a picture with a thin film of gauze, or an  image your mind seems on the verge of grasping, but as soon as you reach it it fades away. And you sigh for it feels as if something so important has been lost forever.
The sky is blue, as always. A bright burning blue. But it’s blue seems too painted. Why must they seek the wrong in every right? Curse hope for it makes us wish for more, and discontentment seethes in our spirits, wanting, wishing, dreaming. And the moon beams fall around us and we are left with only them.

To think or to dream is to see society for what is is. To see the creeping fingers of a monster of  ravaging conformity. To scream and shout to others to leave before it overtakes, and claims, and drives the True and the Beautiful away forever and ever. But our cries fall on death ears, our lips move but form no sounds. They laugh and point and then ignore, partaking blithely in a tawdry game that is eating their insides away. And then the thoughts come again. The would have’s and should have’s overcome the present, sapping the meaning out of everything for our arms flail with no point, and we sigh and fall in line.

And yet, some walk this road, and they find their solace in one thing: for all  of  it’s curses, the tendency to daydream and think is both the master and liberator. And for that we claim it as our own. It guides and drives, and reminds us that though there is nothing, there is something, something truer, something beautiful, something beyond the Styrofoam decorations, something that will take our breath away. It’s hard to be content with make believe when you know of a vivid reality.

Is it so wrong to prefer your dreams to what is real? Or is it so wrong to wish of things that will never be, never exist, simply because you live in the pessimistic mindset that states “I’m not okay, I promise.”
God, reconcile the idealistic to the world, the heavens to their hell, the dreamers to their nightmares.
And then maybe we’ll rid ourselves of these beautiful fools.