New beginings, possibly

I thank you kindly for following the dribble that slips from my mind and out of my fingertips. I am seriously pursuing a writing career at this point with all the fear, nausea, hope and gaiety that goes along with it. Part of this step is that I am moving my blog to a tumblr account and giving it a go. I would be both honored and humbled if you would like to follow me on. The start is just some of my musings from here that I transferred but it will take life soon. The new account is
http://my-literary-bulimia.tumblr.com/

Much love and improper snuggling!
Eleanor Flynn

You are not me. Although I have not an inkling of what exactly I am, I know for certain it could never be you. You hold riots in closets. Shout out at shadows and clearly I have no time for any of that. You stagger into battle while I have never had the fight in me. I look through it all, absorbing fragments, filigrees of the world. Halcyon dreams taunt and fulfil me. You see only surfaces, creating jagged points of smooth situations. It baffles me. It weakens me and I can no longer carry us both. Collapsing, suffocating, I can no longer play the game that over the years has so cruelly played me. My foundation has suffered and you refuse to acknowledge the cracks.
Where we have been and what you have become fails to hold me fast. I held out, clenching to memories and loyalties that evaporated long ago. All it would take is one smile, one honest laugh, but you have none left in you. I look into lifeless eyes and have prayed for a resurrection but that was always the child in me. Clasping hands with lowered head searching for blind salvation I knew would never come. My sacred breath in whispered pleas float, washing away any sign that you had ever been. Nimble fingers picking at asphodels avoiding images that were all fancy to begin with. This is where I remain, sniffing at death, breathing in wisps of life, fortifying my road with words slipping from my veins like trails of inky epiphanies.
We are past our prime and I can not allow you to lead me out to die. I have struggled to be what I am just as I struggle to figure out what that is, but I am grateful it is not you.

                                        Cos trains don't stop your soul, they break your heart...
                                                 and I have not the smallest thing to give them

The words are things that come to me. Fill me up, weigh me down, destroy my mind, seduce me, and reduce me to a mere shadow. They stroll through my thoughts, ravage my dreams, and deter my sleep to no end. They are concrete dragging me down, buried. They are sounds, delicately shaped on lying lips. Whole verses of flighty heroic poetry. They are my salvation and my sacrifice. I give them out, give them away until I fear they will one day leave me altogether. I bear them, beguiled and bewildered. Always awed by their fragile consistency, their staggering duplicity. They taunt me, call me out in my failure to mount them properly on the blank page. Still for all the fault I could so easily saddle them with, they are all that I am. Wit without words, songs without syllables are not splendid things. All that is left to me is to take them in, roll them about my soul and be grateful. Grateful as I purge them from my being, cleansing my meandering mind, making me whiter than snow. I can only hold onto the whimsical fancy that they will never forsake me. That my fingers will cease to move before they simple regurgitate inelegant babble.

All the time and inbetween,
the stolen glances,
things unseen.

The time it ticks on forgotten clocks,
stealing moments,
broken thoughts.

Transient,
devout,
clinging,
wrapped in in yards of doubt.

Dry wondering countance,
words ringing out.

Falling now from nimble limbs,
down on paper,
the things I've been.

Ever swerving,
changing shape,
lacking form,
and soulful gait.

My darling, dearest, charming one,
with trembling fingers,
weakened knees,
thoughtful presence,
and desperate needs.

Open arms,
tolerant embrace,
tumbling down with lofty Grace.

Fragile,
sanguine,
woeful eyes,
behind which my shattered spirit hides.

Longing,
hopeful,
for some reprise,
daft and wistful,
eager sighs.


Oh the things a kiss provides...

The State of Me

The state of me...

Washed,
 lost in transit.
Clinging to the thing that stabilizes me,
the thing I can no longer identify in the dark.
It ebbs and flows just out of reach,
but then again how far am I truly extending my grasp?
This I can not say.
I have been transposed so many times I feel transparent.

The inky shadows call to me,
as they always have.
Shout out my name in the dreams I wish I were having,
but alas I have nothing.

The air it fills me by words that fall from my fingers.
How else do I truly know of my own existence?
The words make me real,
make me feel,
and without them I am nothing.
Shapeless,
baseless,
crude and abandoned.

Do not misconstrue my thoughts as bland mocking misery.
I pray you don't read to deeply into me,
too deeply into a thing that the surface would easily tell all.
Give you the just of me,
the state of all I ever long to be.

I don't dabble in sadness,
nor taunt the roads of woe,
I see the world through sanguine eyes,
bleary red,
pragmatically innocent,
and devoid of staple perversions.