The HyperTexts

P. Bloodsworth

P. Bloodsworth was born in Columbus, Ohio in November of 1974, upon which she was immediately adopted and taken to be raised on the outskirts of Dayton, Ohio, whereafter, other than a rumoured kinship to an Apache shaman known as Goyathlay, information on her background remains as elusive as her somewhat scattered writings.

Having been tutored on piano at age four, and then cello at age nine, her youth and early adulthood showed a marked focus on the fine arts and music. She was a member of the Dayton Philharmonic Youth Orchestra for three years before attempting a double major in Music Therapy and English at Baldwin-Wallace Music Conservatory in Berea, Ohio, which lasted all of her freshman year until she realized her music repertoire had taken a backward direction and decided running a coffee house in Amsterdam would be a more fulfilling career choice.

She somehow ended up south of the Mason-Dixon line where she met the man of some of her lesser known dreams and sacrificed her dream of a hashish wonderland to remain by his side and bear him two perfect offspring with a bloodline predestined for greatness.

Self Portrait painted at age 17 acrylic on canvas 16x20

Baptism By Fire

last night i smelled gas
but instead of concern
i thought of a match
and of how i could burn

Day 2: The Moth Saga


I'm off to the garage.
The moth is there.
It's really quite depressing.

I thought it was a stone
(until a kick from Xavier sent its wings rustling)
and I made a vain attempt at a rescue
only to have it sitting on my shelf
where I must watch its slow demise.

I've been watching it die for a couple of days now.


I've tried to coax it to move with puffs of smoke but...

it has broken legs...
and tattered wings...
and I'm using the wrong kind of motivation apparently

because its latest response has been only
slight seizures
and nervous twitches

It's really quite disturbing.


I thought it had laid an egg
on the cellophane of my pack of cigarettes
but it was only a drop of blood
from where its leg had been.

Did you know moths bleed in green?
They do.
A limy sorbet of a green that collects itself in pearls.


I found it this morning.

Its normally inquisitive antennae were still
Twisted and bent into an outreach of demonic horns

as if the very experience of death
had stolen away its innocence

and made of it a jaded beast.


i feel your suffering
and all my pain
takes on different meaning

i sense your thirst
and all my needs
take a stained backseat
to dreaming

and you may have tried
but my heart hasn't died

you left
but i'm not leaving

and i live for the time
that in spite of the lies
you leave me lifeless
and breathing


"There's no way to stop it - it's already begun."

"She's writing again."
"Oh great."
"Oh no - Run!"

"Did you take all her quills?"
"Yes, and all the ink too."

"You don't think she used..."
"Yes, I'm afraid I do."

"We really must stop her."
"We've already tried."

"Did you lock up her paints?"
"They've already been dried."

"And the brushes and canvas are..."
"Under lock and key."
"Oh, well good then, at least for tonight we can breathe."

"Well, get rested, for we must be up at first light
Tomorrow shall bring us more muses to smite."

Your Day

I see you walking down that aisle
a white train following behind
white-knuckled grip on your bouquet
tears of sweat belie your smile

and even as the organ plays
oblivious to your distress
something borrowed, something blue
the finest lace adorns your dress

just think, the candles all are lit
dripping wax their revelry
imagine, as your veil lifts
your eyes adjust to look on me

Divine Intervention

And was it never meant to be
in spite of what she knew,
when then it seemed the hand of God
reached out to give her you?
The crones and Fates pass judgement
in hushed whispers and half-truths
Their tired eyes reflect the lies
which formed their misspent youth
And soulless in their narrowed gaze
cast down to condescend
bitter and resentful that, they too,
will not ascend
And though the Sirens beckon you
to beach on rocky shelf
She still proclaims, "I asked no god—
to save me from myself."

Wenatchee Valley

Surreal, the beauty all around
but if you look beyond the view
your scars are your enlightenment
that show this landscape masks the truth

and this, your past left far behind
you struggle to keep within your reach
it must be carried on, you know
so that its lessons you may teach

give up your soul in sacrifice
for they know not of compromise
the mirror reflects the bitter face
of someone you cannot recognize.

The HyperTexts