Tag Archives: inspiration

// misfit //

We live in a world that treats the quiet ones like misfits, mutants, outcasts, freaks. Most people talk because they don’t have any idea what to say. Don’t disgrace the words by spilling them before they’ve impregnated you, been a heavy ridiculous burden inside the pulsing womb that is the mad torture of your own mind, grown into monsters with seven heads and screaming, until you are disturbed enough to feel them like thick vines tracking around your spine.

So often the world mistakes silence for ignorance, weakness, powerlessness, thoughtlessness, carelessness. But silence is how I write, how I grow rich, how I build my own bones and breed my own skin. The magic of the artist lies in the soundless, in the molten fluid pools of her willing and complete submission to the fullness of her every delicate experience.

How often to speak is to destroy the stimulus, to ruin the provocative overwhelm. The only hope I have of continuing to work is to remain alert, open to all of it. That everyday I may push further upon the unfolding of my own expanse.

There are infinite glorious worlds of pleasure and agony in my cup of silence.

And as they all misunderstand, I stay still and wait patiently like the wild hidden in the blood of the animal. I am quiet like an elegant death even as I watch you with the electricity of my entire being. I listen with my whole body as you speak. Like a thousand knives gutting the heavens are the beautiful invisible tremors I channel through me.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love, gratitude, and mad affection. x

// tongues //

2 Replies

the sun hides itself behind the candles on the walls
as i wait within my ritual silence
and close my starlit alien
eyes.
i am electric with the systems you
spin within me like
webs of silken skin, glistening
wet with the thoughts that
work at my
twisted mind.
i am still
as you touch me
in places i was taught
were beautiful,
soft
and
forbidden.
out the window sliding with rain over my head,
chained to the monster
i might have been
i can taste the metal clouds
rushing in.
the air is amber honey in a primitive
version of heaven
pouring down everywhere
and yet
redemption escapes
me.
i know the heat in your eyes
i know the hollow in the words like black birds falling from the
crumbling skies
curtains torn up from the floor become
a circle of white dresses dancing headless
out on the lawn, laughing.
something in the way you move reminds me
that we can no longer afford to live
the way it was
before the storm.

~ Allison Marie Conway ~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// break //

5 Replies

Some days punish and stimulate like cascades of warm rain sliding in hot crystal streams over bare summer skin. Like a lover’s willing mouth open, plush and ready, locked in a room you can’t find, in a building with walls that mirror each other.

Some days you are the artist and her muse, in a strange and masterful chaos you become the one you seek to observe: an illicit object, a distorted galaxy, a rotating world of tempt and threat, undressing.

I have felt Love on me like hands so crushingly gentle they shatter and collect me with every handsome, brutal intrusion; so commanding that even as I am falling apart, I am falling back together.

I have seen myself as beautiful even as I am drowning in self-abuse and self-sabotage. Something bigger than suffering exists. It watches without exhaust, it waits for millennia without tire or question.

Something so infinitely vast that it can cradle any amount of suffering and love all of it, as if nothing exists that is not Its own.

// nude //

12 Replies

Take my nimble eager hands, lead me down the darkened halls of your mad and thickening fantasy. Show me on this body that I’m the crime of a past lover’s unrest and the keeper of codes long buried under shipwrecks at the soundless bottom of an ancient sea.

Tug at the edges and refuse to stop. Drape the concrete midnight sun and snake your expert hands around my wrists, offer me everything. Spread my imagination wide as starless navy skies, pierce my soul with the beautiful sting of a dying winter.

Creation is the way we close our eyes, new life is danger in my bones fully drawn. I have risen from the clutch of a thousand graves, I have been bled of my mistakes by the shadow of streetlamps on pavements in the splitting rain.

The sharp blades of light on your chest remind me how many times I’ve shattered to be rebuilt like this. Spill your mess onto me; I will cleanse you, feed you, wrap you in the searing fires you had been ashamed to touch.

Spin the moons in my mind with your gravity, rake your fingers steady across my desire as I drop my defenses down.

Make me surrender all the words I no longer need as you suspend my ragged breath between your teeth. Bring me to your secret, sacred room and turn the key.

// trouble //

12 Replies

I am, even to myself, a strange and beautiful trouble.

Even in stark stillness I am a relentless expansion, a curiosity, a sin.

I am an indulgence, a soft and ripening ache.

I am a mystery, a wild collection of deranged contradictions to the things you want to see in yourself as you look at me.

I like to stroke a thing until it derails.

Pummel it to the ground and search its insides for clues.

I am the heady aftertaste of the way you are afraid to feel, and I feel deeply, probe hungrily, into those shadowy places you neglect, dismiss, judge, ignore, reject.

Your disturbance electrifies something in my bones, the oddity of you, the unlikelihood of any of this, wets and fills even the driest rivers, sends them rushing back from the dead through me.

I am not a problem. I do not need to be fixed or corrected.

This life – my life – is an ecstatic, rugged, savage territory and I feast upon it all.

Heaven and hell tangle within me, both are teachers, both are guides, both are Love.

Trouble is evolution is freedom is treasure. The most tragic of all are not those who struggle but those who concede.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My book of poetry, Vein, is now available on Amazon here.

Signed copies are available in my Etsy shop AllisonMariePoetry here.

All my deepest love and mad affection. x

// phantom //

8 Replies

And some day, maybe today, someone will read your words and they will not click the like button, and they will not leave a comment. They will not follow you or praise you or reach out to you.

And you will not ever know that they were here.

But they will have been changed by you. They will have been deeply caressed and loved through your words, and they will nestle into them, collapse into them, fold into them, keep them tucked inside the beating of their fragile heart all day, all night.

They will not say a word or leave a mark, for in the reading of your words they will be left temporarily unable to find their own.

Some words are born so that others may feel safe to die.

And all of this you will not know, for there will be no outward sign of the crossing of your hairline paths.

But your soul bears eternal fruit by the nourishment of this brief, secret encounter, for it knows of your having touched this phantom figure in the shadows. Your soul can see what you cannot; it knows what you cannot. It has always known.

This is the knowing you sense in the pressing whisper of your inspiration, calling you to begin, again and again and again.

Asking you to write for the invisible ones, that they may see.

These are the wings of things we seek to create for and don’t know why. There is a reason, though it is cloaked and shrouded in mystery and legend.

There are souls who come just to take a peek. Let them come, let them, let them, let them.

And on days when you feel you have nothing to be grateful for, that you are failing in faith and footing and love, you may be grateful for the ones who came to pass without a trace.

And remember again the greatness and strangeness, the vastness and beauty, the certainty of God.