To The Unseen

To the unseen,
what might you look like?
Where our eyes fail to reach you may we touch you.
To know all of what you are as the blind may spindle their way through grains of plastic in invisible books. Memorize each crevasse and line of your face with our fingertips.
May we catch you in our fingernails and hold you there until your taste and smell may sink into our senses. Pungent white filled odor and a dough like empty taste. Not quite air, not that full. Just a cloud of blank; a symphony of silence resting on our tastebuds. The way a starless night invades our thoughts.
If we were to spray your form in sticky paint, would it illuminate your figure, so we may watch as you shine.
Or would it just sink through you, as in slow motion water. White paint strings dripping through open space, we should call it glue as we hope it will glue you to our lives but paint seems so much friendlier. Our eyes magnitude to watch only the drops, as they splat to the surface and inch over every pebble and bump until we could dip into it with our toes.
How do you appear so inexistent, teach us your secrets so we may follow the path.
Do you stroke our hair while we lay in silent nightmares. Body too cold and frozen out of fear, stuck in a blizzard where our cries come out as dust and we look down to realize we are no more than a skeleton; holding onto life by threads too soft to break but so stale they might suddenly snap. Then we’ll fall into our own nightmares, the fright of our souls and silences of our youth.
Will you have your arms, wrapped round up to our chin when we wake and convulse into chest wrenching sobs. Soak your shirt with our tears, pat our back when we choke on the salt that drips back into our lungs and threatens to drown us.
So impossible to really hold you in our eyes, or arms, or tongues.
But when we know you’re here, really need the extra pair of eyes.
We know our head will see you no matter what, or else you wouldn’t appear every time.

Dark Poem

I may have posted this before, probably with a different title but this is  heavily edited version.

Drip, drip, drip, goes the steady water’s drop from the eerie, low lit lamp.
And she sits crumpled up on her side, in a bundle, twisted up, both inside and out.
The cool damp cement is grinding into her cheek and pulling her streaming eyes into a lowly drooping state.
Cold prickles her skin, up and down her arms, to wrap over her back and shiver down her legs, so that her hair stands on end and goosebumps arise.
Flashing through her mind, a familiar well built figure glaring down with eyes that blocked out every trickle of murmurs which spilled from her feeble lips.
She flinches, hands held tight, curled to fists, ready for the fight replayed on the big screen in her mind. Her back rolls up and she continues to hit the cold unfriendly gravel worn cement. Her nails scratching criss crosses on the ground, engraving pebbles in to the fragile skin of her fingertips.
She was so hurt, and unable to return any of the pain.
She could only cower in fright, receiving blow after blow on her long broken, never mended body.
So torn apart, ripped up, let down, stood up, she couldn't breath. She lost her life.
But she lived. She lies here today, mind withered dead as a flower wilted in the sun. She was burnt by the rays and couldn't get back up. A shattered mess held down, her heart beats on and through dreams she takes steps to dust and her eyes see picture frames. Each frame holds a flash of the memories, each flash the mark of a new tear wasted as it no longer rests in the cornering pillows of her eyes.
Thud after thud, her heart pulses drumming through her ears but it can't drown out her head, in her head she can hear the sound of the past. Fists on flesh. His fists, her body.
She couldn't stop it, not the action and not the memories now
She drags and bends her arm toward her face for a better look at shaded colors staining her shirt, in the process strewn with fresh splots of the bright crimson on presently dried ovals.
She sees her blood as an oath. An oath on her life of which she feels unworthy. Her eyes are inches from the flowing red, blossoming and growing like a flower of her breath. She wants to lick the sticky substance. To taste the salt and iron that makes her. Maybe if she could pour the pain back into her body it could fix her wounds to newly pink skin.
Her body is just in so much agony. Naturally sore with lazy ran out legs and  masked in scars painted fresh in her wit. Wit of regret, loss of conscious, choking on freedom
and the heart thumping in her chest numb but still hurting from the long lost love.
Warmth in her body and heat in her soul, dizzy spells on her mind, always leaving her with a giggle. Now a ghost. Teeth shown through her smiling lips, corners lifted without thoughts of dialogue. Daisies picked as backhand presents, met with smiles of named cute acts. Picnics next to the setting sun. Time shared, tears shared and love shared.
She still feels each ghastly memory.