July 4th, 2018

Where the land of the free has become obscured by the shadow
of oppression,

Its' silhouettes are the monsters

children are afraid of under their beds.

How, fireworks remind so many gunshots

Self-proclaimed nationalists cannot stay loyal enough,
to know what would be good for this land.

This land of the free,
no longer belongs to the home of the brave,
but the cowardly.

Family & children born unto what we deem unattached,
from the roots of this soil,
they are not welcomed for lady liberty's "borrowed" arms to embrace them.

When each artifact
was sculpted from an immigrant's hands,
but we've warranted their tribulations
are greater than stars on our flag.

If those stars stand for detainment,
tragedy, and fascism.
I do not proudly pledge such ideals,
embracing my heritage of greats-
who journeyed over on ships across seas.



They are the stars of America's history.

—V.H.

We have souls that are plunging off this planet,
in hopes they will be swallowed by the cosmos-
fearing the hurt is never ending,
leads to renovations of existence.

To silence the beating
of a heart,
to end a life.

Morality is stuck behind
the gates of purgatory

& society is too scared of
what will happen
if we use our mouths for
meaningful conversation.

Indeed.
A tourniquet can stop the bleeding,
but can’t do justice for spread of infection,
or the scar serving as a reminder.

People are dying from depression-
faulty chemistry in the brain.
As well as suicide.

It is the crying of phantoms,
never to be heard-
wanting change,
a re-birth,
of the contorted humanity
we proudly call ”life”

Ache that’s carried lifelong,
but never resolved.
Truthfully,
those vague questions

don’t save lives.

Death knows this,
of course.
He is an omniscient force
lingering in the scenery.
Possessing the inability
to tolerate the teasing
and the wagers.
Coming to collect early
because, we’ve begun
to shatter
every fragment
of light
life reflected.

Now,
Darkness makes him feel welcome
and entitled.

KRM

I still dream you hold my hand
as we walk across the pond.
but its surface was clean and unharmed by filth.

Your lungs were never deflated
and you would breathe so graciously.
I waited so long, my hair has grown
& your emerald eyes
had a lust for life.

I wish I could conjure your spirit when
they say how much they see you
in me.
But I'm left empty in the midst of all
they could never see,
I've grown up, but I'm never free
of the child you held in your arms.

I don't want to spend my life being haunted by a woman
that never fought her own ghosts.
Cancer is not a demon, it is an illness
and the zodiac you were born as
should be the only thing to touch you.
But still those weakened cells
took your body as their host.

Now I mourn you in the reflection of ponds
and wait for waterlilies to bloom in the place
of your face.

now I wait for your soft hands to hold me in your lap
and place a soft kiss on my forehead.

And when I think of my mother;
her poise and grace,
dresses of lace.
My desire for our souls to meet once more,
or to see your face in front of pearly gates.

—V.H.

I envied the cadavers haunting my nightmares,
watching those before me
spread upon a metal slab
bodies are hand-me-downs of regurgitated poetry,
with wretched closets in which I take their place.

This ventilator called "loved ones"
forcing breath into anguished lungs-
tragedies belonging to these poets meant something,
a desire to save the words written,
but never the one who becomes a eulogy.

Agony burrows inside of me,
conversations with my mother's ghost
still,
the living are possessed by
the dead's shortened tomorrows.

To die by suicide wouldn't give,
authenticity to hurt.

I am learning the autopsy of a soul:
extracting a heart from the chest,
as it's sense of belonging was never there.
An inability to weigh the words bleeding from valves,
aside lungs I'm unable to breathe through.

How ungrateful is it of sorrow to ask for hope?
placed in a pill divider to swallow,
muscles within my throat so tight.
Wondering,
How many times did I diminish my voice?

Inside the brain,
schematics of labyrinths with no end to betterment.
Surgeons reach for a soul,
an iridescence small enough
held in a gloved palm,
watching it writhe.
Placed upon a slide,
but even a microscope
cannot perceive the pain a soul hides.

Once more,
stitched with needle and thread.

Wilting of my own garden,
comes one day-
an incision is made opening me up.
My heart showed the same
blood-red ink, writing apologies
on the marble floor.

They opened my arm,
displaying a noose of veins.
In this moment,
they removed my soul
only to gift it to another
birthed from torment
ripped out of the arm's of their mother
& into the embrace of woe.

—V.H.

When wisps of dandelions lay still in the blanket of your hair,
and your eyes can no longer say I love you,
without your lips moving.
I know my world has ended.
We stood on the porch
with the wind chimes blowing songs through my ears.

There's still something there through this Armageddon. I recollect the curve of your smile or the shape of your face
in every single pool of water I come across.
Your eyes had a haunting quality about them,
as they look through my hollowed out frame,
and see what wars I've fought.

It was your time darling,
your time I bought.

I know,
my world is ending.

The skin of strangers bone's looks dimmer,
and your heart looks darker.
When it's revealed in the quiet of our room.
That distorted haziness your voice gets when you're tired, is there all the time.
I can never help but wonder what I did wrong.

Asteroids come hurling towards me
at a thousand miles an hour,
The world is ending.
Just as predicted.

Where are you now?
Clairvoyant and always knew just what to do.
What happens now that I've been left behind.
What happens now that I can't pick up the pieces?

Your promises never looked more beautiful,
than when you couldn't keep them.
Lies never seemed more eloquent
than when you couldn't stop telling them.



Your face it haunts me.
Your words they weaken me.
Your hours we devoted to one another- cut through me.

I'm not afraid anymore,
to do this alone.
Let the flames engulf me,
let my skin hang loosely from the bone.
Let me drown.
Let me fade.
Let me waste away.
Let me be reborn.
Let me live again.
Let me find a way back to earth.
Let my soul go on.

There was a time I thought of adoration
when mention of you,
but it's now replaced with bitter resentment.

In the miscalculated performance,
you couldn't be faithful.

And now I see-
dandelions are just weeds.

And now I see-
I see everything.
The honesty your spirit lacked,
the lies you spoke from cracked lips.

And the venemous kisses you placed upon my skin,
I was poisoned- to think I saw everything from your perception
and ignored my own crumbling world.

Now, we are nothing.

I. Apply foundation in a tone more perfect than the one you're born with,
doubt that there's anything beautiful in the term "natural"
blot your lips with the cherries you deprive yourself of
and wonder, "What good is difference when it's not appreciated?"

stop reading this.

II. Forget how you were born;
every freckle,
every beauty mark,
every uneven line etched into your face are nothing to be celebrated.
Deprecate yourself, you are unwound and beg this world to shape you in its eyes.

skip this line.

Society speaks subjectively of happiness, but fill your head with lies
that we're all pretty if we can keep up our disguise.
The weight of this world upon your shoulders,
alludes to being big as too much to handle.
Curl into everyone's palm as if you're so fragile,
they have to pinch the skin on your bones with the thumb and index finger.

stop.

III. Draw on the perfectly plump pout, filled with nothing but
expectations of everyone else.
Your beauty is not a privilege for anyone,
but judgment that has defined your worth.

skip.
Emprises that market upon your insecurities,
admire that solemn face in the mirror
as the reflection discourages you
at the acknowledgement of any impurities

Start.

How To Be Beautiful Lifelong


Admire the history that lives within the heartlines of your palms,
how strong you've grown, once cradled in your mother's arms.
Disregard where it is you've come from, but how much further you've journeyed forward.
I. Apply the sincerity in your best friend's voice when
                        she calls the time you've spent together, beautiful.
Do not doubt the splendor that comes from wisdom.

II. Every wrinkle you've earned,
as time gives back to you from lessons learned.
Blot your lips during the release of laughter
as saliva mists through the air,
your joy so vigorous
the ghosts residing in the graves
regret no more.


You are as you should be,
a composite of everything that gives you life
and grants you purpose.
Begging for this world to love you,
there is no fault in this desire.

They speak of happiness as if
it's only a potential-oriented concept,
Do not let your heart surround the gossip
or it's golden armor become bronzed.

III. Draw on the canvas of existence
in the brightest of hues, in the purest of love.
Filled with nothing, but expecations for yourself
say farewell to the darkness
open the curtains to light.

Your beauty is magnificent
as your name will be transcendent.
In each day we decide to be ourselves,
the poise presents itself.


—V.H.

Dear Depression,
I see you. We all see you. You're not very avoidable. Those slivers of light you try to enamor us with. How death seems so delicate when we talk of flowers and restful slumber- for all eternity. What the lights do not show; a grotesque, scaled abomination with a gluttonous appetite for happiness and life. I can't let you gnaw on anymore souls to leave nothing, but sunken eyes and bones. They do not belong to you nor were they yours to take. You're not welcome in the mind's of my friend's and family. Life is welcome in their heart's where joy can still be found. Don't find yourself slithering down our throat's anymore, in the empty stomachs or scars we have. The thoughts we think when you entice us are dangerous. You stole her. You stole him. You stole me. I can't recognize the stoic, numbed faces I gaze upon. You undo any progress ever done.

It's been so long since, I've heard them laugh or flashed a smile I meant. Still, your might looms over as you admire the damage you've caused. Next, feeling the audacity to sneer when we weep. Depression, you're a monster who causes nothing, but suffering. Those tears are not your's to season hopelessness with. You make the covers seem like the most comfortable coffin, you make our skin look as if we've fought thousands of wars. The sun an inconvenience with the days in reverse. We've tried to compromise, you are no friend. Just a foe.
Depression, there are so many things I want to do to you. You break my heart when all your captors don't believe they are worthy of love, but they are the ones I love most. I will break you like, you've broken us. My bare hands would reach into your chest, ripping the lungs out; stomp on them to preventing future sufferers. I would crush your heart in the palms of my hand's- praying for the sickness and terror to end. These innocent people you've robbed of life, love, happiness, opportunity and a soul. Will have their revenge. Your blood covers our skin and we bathe in the warmth of redemption as our thought's belong to us once more. We let the pain held inside escape our sutured lips, begging your soul to ascend back into the abyss never to return. Your bones are mine to assemble a castle for the broken to heal. Your skull resembles a crown honoring those who had given into the temptations of surrendering. We honor them.

Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

—V.H.

I won't drink all of the lemonade: take down my artwork,
My shoes won't litter the welcome mat:
I promise not to haunt you.
I won't scare you when all the lights are off: I won't take up space or bother you.
I won't scare you by turning all the lights on: no more wrinkled sheets,

My voice won't be in your head: no more unmade beds.
I won't give you chills: the tv won't flicker.
My favorite songs won't burden you: you won't have to worry about me never leaving the house.

My journals won't appear to you randomly begging to be read:
that ink will follow me in my death

Broken-record words,
twirl in the lobes of a brain.
Don’t play again.

We listen to the same murmur of;
the chanting of an honest city skyline,
echoes of a symphony on balcony roofs.

Pearlescent eyes,
yearning for a ripened peck upon
the curving of plum lips
an infectious smile, light reflecting
off the lunar eclipse--
Curve of your back arched into
the half of you, that makes me whole.

Fiery embers,
muted colors,
that spark into pinks and red
in a moment of present energy.

Could the journey be embarked?
To search for the one that loves me,
what realm did you come from,
& how does one begin to find you?


An elixir made from lilac,
can be smelt upon her breath-
dandelion wisps of hair,
tucked behind her ear—
so honest, so fair.

Precious lotus petal,
that lives,
intoxicate me with your lips--
belonging to rose water,
I've heard your stories of selflessness,
with so much to give you-

& admire the heroic ways you've written yourself
out of every fable,
to become the moral.

Adoration has grasped the ability to carve these bones,
into a monument;

I've a ribcage with room for the both of us,
lay upon my chest,
sleep safely,
dream blissfully,
& love unapologetically

Yearning for the day
where a mother kissing
her child
does not break
the pieces of my heart;
I reclaim as my own.
Yearning for the hour we talk again
and you call me: ”your love"
Yearning to remember the feelings
of your hands lulling my weary mind
back into sanity.

Yearning for your lips to cover
what the past left on my arms
yearning for emerald eyes to feel like home again
Yearning for my father's heart to invite me
into his life,
yearning for "soul mates" to mean something,
the yearning that love won't always be absent

Life has the tendency to feel like a prozac commercial,
the reality that everything either pops or goes up in the air.
I see my little sister's gapped smile, in the soapy reflection-
her joy should be infectious, but it spreads guilt like a plague
to my already tortured mind.
I feel so guilty,
for wanting to take my life.

There's so much wisdom in an oak,
with its' dying breath,
of that tree-
I admired the courage it took to change.
Baring a naked soul after shedding layers,
Reds, golds, and oranges-
Cascading down the streets.
In my moments of mourning
I realized-
We don't hold funerals for trees.

—V.H.

If the stars are just a doorway to lifetimes that could've been,
I suppose I'm hoping a night like this never ends.
Where I've found myself in your embrace,
gazing lovingly into graceful eyes-- you and your
words, lips, & promises.

Time may sour hope,
but it proceeds to season love.

I suppose-
the sweetest would be this temptation.
If you ever dare say those five words
longingly I've yearned for--
to come out of the pome mouth of your's,
clothed in the darkness
but illuminated by the basking moonlit night.

Say them,
say them.

So resonant the sky is given light:

"I'll never let you go."
& infinities are far longer than promises,
your voice so vigorous, so dignified.

Garishly-

as I awake the next morning
the corrosion of my ear's occurs
while your proposal came across as thunderous roars
upon vast skies and growing grounds;
the salt of the earth is mixed with the rain.

Children can sing, can rejoice
in this reassurance--
today and tomorrow shall not be forecasted with any pain,
we're in the same hours.

Hold me closely,
that if the Rapture were to take us
mislead;
equating how pure our love had been.
we will only be garbed in what is our redemption
wholesome & good- willed
I would rip through the edges of every cosmos
to perceive where this would take us again- and again.

As fate would have it,
In every universal tear  
we are
together always

A backwards code
never to be deciphered
perhaps, not in words
but in tone and more importantly
in a ribbon wrapped song

A song of us—
crossing oceans and aging old,
but if not love and cherishing one another
was it not worth our weight in gold,
as we are richer than one man
together you & I.

held close,
hand in hand.

To love you,
meant seeing your reflection in pools.
Who does love have?
A sunset doesn't even remain,
and stars die nightly.
North of here,
love has nothing.
Autumn is on it's own,
winter sits upon a cold lonely throne.

Only love is left to plant seeds,
in the hearts of spring.
Metaphors burrowed in chest,
it's a relief to smell long- distance.

It's a similar burning sensation,
just like that familiar place hell-
that you put me through.
Prisoners with their chains are always breathing like
they're living
but they're only surviving;
inhaling smoke into their lungs.

We've all come to find,
peace on Earth,
is only in our mind's.
And I've come to realize-
I'm chained to you,
forever in binds.

Change
Frightened
Silenced

He broke his neck thirty years ago
I break mine more with each
promise of keeping you in my life
but Ian Curtis is on my mind a lot,
grieving for souls I will never know.

Some of his songs are so sad,
like hearing the premature
snap of his bones

Cannot help but resent
how clever society is
to glamorize the unglamorous,
even I am aware
the flowers upon graves are not just for
aesthetics, but we are still always trying
to cover terrible tragedies
with beautiful things.

Am I just as guilty?

I cheat on you with him.
His spirit through my headphones,
hoped if I listen intently
the narrative changes.

purple marks on your neck
just that weekend you
taught me what a hickey was
and how they felt good

yours’ declare ownership,
not declarations of love.

You walk into art class,
purple painted across your throat.

If love could save Ian,
had I lived in the mid-seventies
he may very well have lived forever
and his throat painted by love,
rather than the bruises of a noose.

The letters I wrote you were in vain,
my mistake quoting those Smiths’
songs:
Morrissey is an *******
and so are you.

I still
am too scared to
wonder how far I am willing
to go
to reap the benefits of sorrow.

"New Dawn Fades"
tears into my heartstrings
feeling responsible in
the prevention of another
suicide

I grapple onto
what a savior complex was,
your dead father
the tracks on your arms made me cry
but I thought it was stupid.
It made me hate myself more
why could I not learn to undo
my drive to save anyone,
but myself

The phone call
where I broke up with
you and you
pretend to
overdose on the speaker

One of us had to grow up,
had to make it out alive
And I love you again,
every time Ian's ghost
sings Isolation.

And I leave you there,
sure, to end the album
after the final song.

Misguided with glazed eyes,
they gleam in an effort to encourage impulsiveness.
I no longer have a desire to be the windows inside of you.

Admiring a lavender sky,
sunsets continue to die,
plagued by the thought of
night creeping in again.

I am vulnerable to the pale moonlight.

You once told me, 'There's a cracked home that you carry inside of you.'
No longer am I the thoughts filling your head,
that I'm the cure to your sickness.

Isolated myself in heavy sheets of sadness,
suffocating-
in an uninvited guest room,
just some extra space.
A breeze persistently tugging,
the tattered curtains.

Someday, you'll understand-
I was never your home.
Never becoming a garden,
never a lonesome white gate.

Paint chips from my decaying bones,
from years of damage.
Been here before
a ghost to these creaking stairs.
Fixing everyone else's homes,
a loose floorboard bares secrets,
but I continue to keep things just to have something to hold.

Stairs cave,
with each step I take.

I end
as it begins;
your body becomes an earthquake,
the house crumbles,
words evolve into raspy whispers

Damage has been done,
marks are on the wall,
as demons claw.
They're ripping through your veins
as I feel the foundation in my fingertips.

The walls won't be here tomorrow,
no longer holding everyone's hands,
or breathe through these polluted lungs.

I've begun to feel a need to repent
and with every move I make,
my happiness is spent.

You spoke to me in a dream,
voice like honey,
"The angels won't save someone with so much devil in them."

Nights of bumming cigarettes
off men too old, who should know better.
Welcoming the darkest of us with a thin smile,
all opalescent.

Lost yourself in poker chips,
another wager on the poker table.
Some middle aged man's fantasy-
legs spread like Russian roulette,
who would go with you?
Appealing the sin inside of your bones,
you locked your demons in a box.

It's not your fault,
you were murdered.
you were chosen-
this world tends to expire on
a girl with an imbalance of hedonism & an angelic temperament.

Beauty can lead us to truly dangerous places;
those veins belong to you,
but BOB wants to bury himself underneath your skin.

Seashells mixed with bits of sand
clung to your ocean blue skin,
your lips looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry I wasn't myself"
- the town's patron saint

Early morning,
clouds shine down
on your still frame,
like a movie scene-
it's cold,
but you've always been a fan of snow
snowflakes touch your nose
in a light dust of blow.

Did you ever really live?
Or had you already been a ghost?
Of who they all had come to love and adore.

Three long years have passed,
your name no longer inspires
the movement of scars growing
down my thighs. There is no more
wishing it were different.

How could I have known, the type
of person you would be? When you sold me
tragic stories and blown out veins.

Addicted to the addiction of saving
someone from themselves, but who
would dare rescue me? I buried
your memory and in its' place
a garden blooms, every scar fades.

Each day I work toward peace,
forgiving and forgetting your solemn face.

You were in need of a fix,
I had become of your drug of choice,
now-
in learning,
I am the heroine of my own story.

Live my life through photographs,  
see foreign faces of people as my eyes dialate while,
my brain has taken the picture no matter how many centuries.
Is that the meaning of an old soul? 

My paintings have improved,
mixing the colors has become easier,
irises are a video camera
while, the nerves can rewind the sequence of events
and how the portrait or picture had developed.

Who the people were
and what their lives meant.
I don't live a tragic life,
I'm not trapped in some cryptic looking tower,
Only trapped, by my own personal unhappiness.  

These pictures are a way for me to live vicariously through someone else,
Imagining myself there. 

These pictures are taken to capture a momentous
or joyful time in my life,

television and movies are like that in a way. 
They remind us of the miserable world,
but we have decided to allow our worth
to weigh our subconscience like gold, 
These pictures are memories that trigger another event,
in a vicious cycle. 

I promise,
You don't get pictures taken of the countless empty bottles,
the pills you've choked down,
the tube that's shoved down your throat
when they 'save' your life.

(That left me wondering why I had to stay alive and it's all about contributing-
keeping up with the rent you're due on existing.)


 The happier times are easy to forget,
we didn't run out of film.
Aren't those kinds of things in pictures we see?
The media tells you to cut the corners of your mouth so,
you can smile.. 

 
My mother died some time ago a year and some odd months,
my mind had accidentally snapped a picture of her,
still framed; her statue like chest, no veins flowing, and the urge to wait for her chest to rise again. 

I think,
waiting leaves lesions on the brain,
because, most see waiting as pain without any kind of gain. 
That's where trauma comes from-
waiting,
time changing, embedded in the bellies of women and dripping out of men's mouths.

Cicadas hum quietly,
amongst the summer choir.
Locked doors,
birds on their wire's.
Keep from harm's way,
but thorted by desire-
Blinds colored gray
block out humanity.

These dreams speak to me through insanity,
a tv plays white noise,
my mind is in calamity.
As nightmares creep in through my eyelids,
amid the darkness of this quiet house.

This is my Strauss-
wooden floors entirely silent,
the thoughts inside are violent.
Recalling Baptist Hospital.
No cart rhythmically on call,
a nurse alloting me two pearls to swallow.

Making the sea of seretonin flow,
making happiness through my body grow.
Tonight,
I take my trazadone
no longer resembling a pearl,
my toes curl.
At the bitter taste,
following the nightmares that make haste
to follow me to bed,
praying I don't wake up dead.

The child mournful,
A single salted tear slides down a cheek,
Holds the secrets of a woman,
Locked within a room,with a door that creaks.
She creates such sadness,
mother to the artwork,
Man who claims to be a father,
Overshadows the button of the girl’s dripping nose.

Etched within walls, a desire to say the truth:
“He’s not the artist”
Look within those big eyes,
the elegance of youth,
Deep inside her true love’s lies-
the choppy strands that show
the instability of growth
within the painter’s eyes.

I have been myself, from
the outside looking in. The soul
a darker shade, where no blossoms
dare to bloom.

An experience of postpartum with poetry.
I yearn for ink to snuggle close, staining my arms
from the elbow down to my calloused palms.

Cradle close, soft cries-
it feeds from the paper's ******,
tender flesh that leaks words.

This child hungrier than I.
But the spirit is famished for
more than my body and mind can give.
These blossoms, dreary in gray
monochrome. I pour my heart out
to this infant haiku, that must grow more.
Though, nothing worth
saying appears.

Totally peaceful beyond the hydrangeas,
Dusk is now swallowed by Earth’s mouth.
Spirit’s make their entrance, saying goodbye.
Birth of other souls, continuous.
There is strange luminous, breath in the wind.

We grasp at waves, catch the clouds passing by-
And we float, ethereal above its' parting lips.
Entrance returns, birth.

Opaque grieving, translucent during reprieve.
Tethered to this world, we think we can retrieve
its broken parts.
All our hearts out of control,
and our wounds in front.

Where dreams are chasing us.
Chasing before our lives can be more.
When does it end? When can we be anything
more than what has bent?

Beyond the hydrangeas, the moon is swollen and glowing,
soon-to-be mother to a whole new generation of lovers,
and hope is pregnant with the that thought that lessons can be learned,
and I am hopeful forgiveness can be earned.

I envisioned walking on water
outside my window, it twinkled
and sparkled- dancing by the aid of the sun.
The sun was something I could be
if I tried hard enough, I could kiss it
and feel holy.

But life cannot be enjoyed
when there is a screen keeping you
from the parting splash.
Of course, there is work to be done.

Sunlight is inside me,
and I am warm.
Though, it burns
I ache to exist purposefully.

The becoming of the reflection
whose face I’ve never taken the time to know.

It shows the repetition of a woman that I fear.
The shadow calls me, it lives here.

The white noise of my thoughts
ran out of ways to make suicide plausible.

Illness, like an imprint on the brain
where serotonin is slow to the nervous system.

I took the cocktail in the paper cup,
when my own maternal attitude
wiped away those tears.
I took the cocktail in the paper cup,
when poetry no longer screamed in my ears.

Starvation of love isn’t so unheard of-
you’re the same scrawny boy. A child who
yearns for acknowledgement. That you are more
than just the mistakes our parent’s made.
You find a way to reach your way
back into the crevice of their hearts.
But you’re just a phase,
some children who grew up too fast-
leave behind.

I have also dug into my flesh,
to make sure the veins worked- that I am alive.
But you are no needle, you are a user.

Dawn is a good friend of mine
While, day is just an acquaintance.
A respite from my mind seems ideal,
but that comes from setting my head ablaze.

I wore the brightest shade of Hell on my lips,
with a desire for Heaven under the eyes.

Had the desire to be a good person
so, from a young age-
I began to hurt myself instead of other's.

Mother once told me--
I'd put bandaids on the wounds of friends,
but I'd let scrapes bleed,
and drip down my ankle.

Father told me I was a hard worker,
I felt ten again.
Meeting his compliment with a blush;
he doesn't commend just anyone,
but my fingertips in that instant- burned.

Loved the sun as a girl,
spent hours under it-
now I can't stand the heat.
Even when I had to make appointments
for my father's love
those days seemed longer,
my skin younger.

Found a way to love the sky I'm underneath;
sky blue pill sertraline,
and white cloud- abilify
allow my brain to absorb sunlight once more.

& they tell me of a God who loves me so,
but my cheeks burn,
as skin melts off the bone.

And I was euphoric—
a star that burns incessantly,
taking up too much mass.

Red giant that encompasses all,
suffocating in the process,
exploding.

I want to be a good person,
but I don't feel human at all.
I'm rediscovering how to love living,
just the same.
Burning brightly,
unapologetically,
as a flawed being.
With passion that makes
smoke rise from my mind,
and flames in my hair.

You are a decrepit home
and I am a crowbar,
familiarizing myself with your insides.
I am not rusting from the waterbed,
my skin is not tarnished.

I am strong and bludgeoning the windows,
there's blood, beneath your gums
as I swing, knock out your teeth-
this time,
I am inside of you.

Your knuckles fail,
with the first blow;
broken, unable to push down
the folds of my underwear.
I plant a bruise like a kiss
on your right cheek, erupting
into a display of consequences
for your actions.

In my dreams, I scream
your name. Under the surface, I am your messiah
with the sunrise of bruises tracing my broken rib.
I am your adam, using my pain to create
strength.

Look me in the eye,
ask if I’m alright.
I might just tell you a lie.

Living near the ocean should inspire happiness,
remaining caged in my bedroom,
I hear the ocean call my name.

A siren draped in golden satin with red lips,
she combs my hair for awhile.
Moves her hips to an old crooner's song,
that plays in my mind-
the sun is so full of ****, so full of lies.

Telling me, "I'm gonna be fine."
Why's it always in my eyes?
Everything’s just "fine" for the sun,
loved by everyone.

She is mocked by its presence,
she does what you wanna do.
Sings a solid hymn with the understanding
in life,
nobody wins.

The siren kissed my hand while,
taking pins out of her hair.
She unfurls the waves of an ocean-
revealing a black case with red felt
in her arms.

And she sang,
"The sun will come,
I will melt."

Red felt held
two ethereal stones.

"Sweet sadness cannot be escaped,
you are not fine,
this was only ever fate"

I've tied the  stones around my ankles,
the brush is in my hand.
I feel the coolness of her hair in my palms,
my hands wince from the pressure upon
my face.


The sun is just a lesson never learned.
Feel the sadness lift,
before I can rush ashore,
it's too late.

"Come
sweet sadness cannot be helped,
you are not fine,
this was only ever fate."

A sense of fleeting,
feet planted firmly on the ground,
but my mind is abysmal.
Sometimes-
it's a whisper of my mother's voice,
or one of the five psychiatrists who seemed uninterested.
It was the comfort in darkness,
becoming the lore of my life.

There was comfort in wanting to die,
I tightly grasped onto the concept of survival.
How we became enemies;
never seeing eye to eye.

I love it,
my ability to control the pain I feel-
how little, how less
I can make myself hurt.
Although, I'd refrain from calling myself a *******.

I've gained no pleasure in harming myself,
undeserving, unworthy of all the blood I've lost.
There's no notable war,
when the cause is in my veins.

Gauze I've had around my wrists,
felt comforting,
keeping in the sickness,
I dreamed would drip down my wrist.

Doing this to myself,
I'm no *******.
Allowing myself to be chaotic in how my emotions were expressed.

I know,
it's a cry for help,
but I'm left wondering-
do I want to be helped?

I've become immune to the numbness,
a damaged girl as they all catch up,
comparing scars.

I can be who you want me to be,
carve a smile on my face,
I can be who you want me to be,
I can be happy.

How often I’ve heard,
there’s no wealth to be made from words.
Just ink that burns,
pages that rip.
But enrichment of lives takes place,
profiting from human experience, and
Allow abundance in emotion

The beehives of my mind rattle.
Creating words, slowly,
their honeycombs of poetry.
I am as genuine as these stanzas claim.
Trying authenticity, keeping the first jar beside all I’ve concealed.
Words re-colonize all the time,
shaping themselves to make a home,
in the heart & mind.

You don't come around anymore,
but I still remember making memories
that never had a place existing anyways—

the say heaven, hell, and purgatory
don't count as long- distance
still I punch in your number,
listening.
To the buzz on the other end,
muting the television,
turn down the lights,
and put candles in the room;

I keep your existence alive by fabrication,
sewing selective memories in the lobes of my brain,
but they manifest
& my dreams--
are the seams of my sanity
being pulled out.

You're always there with a glass of lemonade.
Yet, you never knew what an inside voice was,
as you scream about how wonderful the afterlife is.

Your proposal a tempting blade,
the encouraging way
you promise
I'll see you-
meeting the artery in my neck,
or a tendon in my wrist.
You know-
I've done it more than once-
mistake my sickness, for your ghost.
I swear,
I can hear your voice,
all the time now.

I haven't felt this sick in a long time,
can't even recall the last time sleep came to
me in a quiet hush, with a wash of calmness,
asleep with the sky resembling
a blanket of
stars casted
out into the atmosphere.

A constant migraine hammered into my skull,
everyday I burst out randomly and cry
so hard until my knees quake,
my sadness does not end,
it folds me, unfolds me;
creases me, & turns me into a paper airplane-
I float.


There's no tin can tied to string,
I can't set out lawnchairs,
and await
for the Thursday,
you were supposed
to live to see-
never comes,
there's an emptiness in shuffled feet,
and hatred for that surgical green color.

Or when people utter "home"
I think of your paralysis
and the way your word's
fought for meaning, in that slurred tone:

"I'm going home"
I've never been religious
nor do I judge those who are,
but I've been spiritual my whole life-
the spirit knows when it dies.

my skin shudders to think how they carted you off;
to discover the parts of your body
you had not known were betraying you,
your lung's gave up
and soon the breaths in your chest,
had no place left in this world.

Like anyone else;
trying to justify why time rots hope, as it loosens our grip on reality.

Awaiting your chatter as
I shave my legs while,
you do your make up
in the faintly lit bathroom;
I hated that guava pink lipstick
you wore like it was your job.
I loved that mauve colored one
that made cherubs beg for you to
hold them in your maternal arms,
always having open arms for all outcasted,
it was part of your charm.

They say you always know when you're dying:
does that make an illness,
the equivalent to the
heartbreak of your body knowing
it has no regard to live any longer,
and the crisis with mortality,
that if we fend off fears and try to be stronger,
then an unbeknownst curiosity for what happens.

You know, we all know.
We are all going to die someday.

But-
does your mind go
when you die too?
or do memories remain
as something complacent
that even death cannot
strip the soul of?

In the dusk of August we remained separated.
Different lives lived,
wondering has the "best day of our lives" already come.
Riding home in your car;
I remember how full of life you looked in my eyes.
We both laughed about inside jokes & stories from childhood,
I never figured out how to stifle my guffaw that spoke of how lonely I am.
I promised you my honesty, always.
Referred to it as a curse,
but a fate much worse is-
the one where we never belonged to one another.

Sometimes, my head gets so heavy:
I never belonged underneath the sun.
I had stopped writing poetry for weeks because, I didn't feel I had anything worth saying.
Until August 4th.
I cried to you, poured my heart out to the waves.
Where I dreamt they carried us away-
in the mundane life I lived,
my bones could never be content in finding happiness within myself.
Last August we spoke like two children in love.
Becoming the lights that illuminated Gulf Breeze where my residency was.
My heart erupted into
smoke signals across Pensacola
that reach your window.

We spoke effervescently of a future we'd
be a part of together.
We spoke of intimacy and how it'd feel to be enraptured by passion.
I'm a fleeting thing, my love.
Gone.
Like the rotting leaves through Autumn in another state,
I am the present time when-
destiny does not meet with fate.
I'm no longer here,
with a curtained heart outstretched,
loving me is dastardly,
and now it's too late.

—KRM

Man made dark;
Stars within my eyes have burned out.
You- wandering spirit,
I’ve high hopes your’s still shine brightly.
There’s no meteor shower looming over your skies.

I’ve always gravitated to the dark edges of the sky,
It’s friction with the refusal to wear away
Our memories paving the milky way,
That crescent moon reminds me of the crooked smile I’d wear,
And in powder blue day-
The sun is something I’m working towards.
How simple it is to admire the dark for being mysterious,
But day is a fear as i’m all too aware
of what I’ve put my soul through on the brightest of days.
One step behind,


Flowers upon this porch shake,
the cup in my hand shatters,
blood splatters.

The skin I’m in is weathered,
Scars in white lines across the horizon.
Lost my balance on a constellation-

Gathered shards from the night and bled on sheets of white.

See you in the twilight,
every night that my eyes are closed.
Your skin glows,
hands as soft as I recall.
Hair is still the same garnet shade-
you look beautiful.

Please, don't go.

I know, it's selfish-
you give life to greenery,
and flowers grow from the ashes.

Sickness no longer ravages your body,
I want you to come back to me-
the stars don't shine the same way,
every cloud remains looking gray-
they took my sunshine away.

Breaths shouldn't run out so young,
my soul wants to speak with your’s.
Where we divide the vicinities of  Heaven and Hell,
love of mother and child lasts an infinity.

Met with blue skies above our heads,
greenest grass under our feet.
there's no race in the sands of time,
your heart still beats
& you smile.

This moment ends
and the time spent together transcends
into the unknown,
when the sun glows through my blinds--
I'm left with just the ghost of you.

Mother, I want this sorrow to leave
if you can't come back, please stay in my dreams,
your spirit gleams among the horizon.

In sixth grade,
I wrote a letter to David Bowie
addressed to his New York home never knowing
a girl named Kamryn exists,
but I thought I was special enough
for a world-renowned rock star to reply
or care enough about some pre-teen angst

I shared with him how my grandma Pam
chose drugs over (I know now an addiction has many more complex layers)
getting to know her grandchildren or
to love her son, but then I remembered-
this is David ******* Bowie, he's lived life
with ******* in his bloodstream for thirty years prior

Maybe, I mentioned it all
because I wanted to feel special,
like the way, I think dying young
will create that for me. It's stupid
how I painfully so-identified as
"the girl with the mousy hair"
and the piano aiding an eloquent
discussion about the world's disarray
in which I selfishly identified as my own
"Life on Mars" always felt like a personal performance
just for me, but at twenty-one, it isn't just a song
and I still lay awake wondering if Mars and I
share a similarity, we want life to ebb
so distinctly within us both.

I was your little girl,
Who swells in hives at the thought of bees.
And I wonder-
If my skin grew blue upon entering the world,
with that umbilical cord noose
Around my throat.

Would you have differentiated
fear
from
love?

Each sting,
a red handprint
Serving as a childhood memory
on our grand search for the big dipper
not through imprints covering my skin
like speckled constellations.

Could your arms have choked love into me?
As a form of protection from the world,
Or the terrifying thoughts in my brain.

Should have been my mother bird.
A broken wing no cause for concern,
you take your feathers,
mending me.

I was your little girl,
Rolling in the grass,
barefoot and happy.
Dad talks about me like I’m a pastime-
He can’t escape.
How does a father speak about their child,
in the same way,
people express distaste for smoking?


Hope he doesn't
think of me,
Like a painful itch.
When he chain smokes
His time left in clouds.

But I feel the resentment
And his suggestion that I bring decay into his life.

My dreams are often hidden truths,
Nobody, in reality,
dares to speak.
Admitting what he’s too afraid to say.
Last night his words stinging like a bee,

Addictive Personalities Are Genetic.


There is never a plausible excuse to skin the knees of those you love,
by taking their training wheels off too soon as they collapse into thorny bushes,
nor allow them to burn from their once fiery child-like wonder
to picking up a cigarette,
old habits don’t die hard,
that’s why second, third, and fourth generation smokers still exist
Home is not where the heart is,
Home is the name given to places that keeps you warm without being burned;
making you feel whole again,
after years of being hollow

Do not mistake people as a shelter-
find comfort in your own soul
and these hands that open life's doors

You don’t have to be shadowed by your supposed love ones, 
you do not have to lose your voice,
or grasp upon the rotting wooden front porch door, 
leaving splinters in your fingertips

Your lungs, like deflated balloons 
exasperated to walk into the war, 
the foundation you dwell in

Clawing your way from the disapproval of cruel words, 
you don’t have to lose your heart in that messy place

Someone who claims to believe in you,

shreds you: to sculpt something better
is not worthy of being marveled-

There are some things even the devil knows he was never fit for, 
and some companions are demons in disguise

Let the tar scald those lungs,
forget the reasons you no longer wish to breathe
even after you die anguish rests in my marrow
--
and the guilt just sits between my teeth
 as she uses the flames from the hell she is in
to became a fifth generation smoker

I’m fine,
thank you.
So talk about your demons…
give my your share,
you asked if I loved anyone,
but you wouldn't understand-
trying to love yourself.

Instead you lied about studying psychology
and asked my bra size;
my eyes were as big as that full moon,
when I watched you and him
skinny dip in that pool.

I never would have been able to predict
what would happen next,
He was ******* and said-
“Don’t have ***”

Drove around in your car,
held hostage
the next day
I never had any idea
as to what I should say-

It was MY body,
but not your dichotomy to know
where those parts were
stripped of my soul,
to reveal what hurt-
& you impregnated me with an omen
that visits my sleep every night.

It has your ******* sapphire eyes
and licks its chops.

“You led me on” It says
(defending a child predator)

Next,
harassing me for gas money,
Didn't I give you enough?
your existence is a heavy
debt in my mind

I lost a friend,
my ****** addicted friend.
They detest me
but defended you-
can't help but wonder
if god's the *******
who makes me bleed.

Was the thievery of purity,
enough to succeed in creating imagery?
I speak of how I lost my dignity & sanity.
But-
your toxicity never strains itself from my veins.

Body, you had no suitor
When honesty is lost
courage could not have been misplaced worse
  by anyone else  
than my failures.

We never belonged-
A wallflower
to the dance of life.

Happiness, you are too big of a concept
For this head.
I dreamt of you in dances,
Being dipped into the sunlight.
Reborn by possibility
and bathing in the glow
that could handle the portrayal of a shadow
so dark

Shadow, you will soon feed
And I shall be consumed,
just  as you wanted.
Light, I wish I would have asked,
For your blessing.

The sun,
the moon
and wind
had been the only elements of nature on my side.

Faniliar smell of autumn that reminded me
just of who you were-
when you were by my side,
your face made the heartache better.

My secrets were once birds that hadn't taken flight,
you caged them.

Photos of you glisten,
Resting in an undiscovered refinery 
months worth of "I love you's"
wasted by lies

How nice,
I'm losing my mind.

I've called you "my love" everywhere in writing.
Nobody knows, nobody hears 
what I was witness to.

A bird had once spread its wings
from my heart to your's.

Nobody sees,
Nobody can stop.

I loved the words you'd sew together just for me,
Turing "hello" into a song 
embroidered by sharp wit and
cutting edge promises.

My friends heard me talk like,
some girl in love-
when we belonged to one another..

Hair fell down my shoulders in light brown streaks, eyes were too bulbuous,
and an obnoxious shade of blue.


I'm aware,
she had pewter locks and silky eyes.
told better jokes rather, she laughed at
all your fruitless attempts to tell punchlines.

For her,
I hope you don't hurt the one you love now,


A bird creates a nest for my heart,
inspires me to take better care of it the next time around.

Nobody sees,
how I try to avoid the heartbreak,
but misfortune snaps off in pieces
and lands in my arms
expecting someone to raise it.

The loneliness when you left
made me ill,
would have done better opening the blinds,
and slipping out of the covers.

But I laid there and wept
as if I was a spoiled child,
with a new toy that was taken away.

I suppose,
this is where I mention I was one of many dolls
upon your shelf,
you'd let gather dust.

Began to develop a sense of paralysis,
just from mention or sight of you.

You said to take care of myself,
but I don't think you meant it.
Because the ones such as;
my brain,
my heart

are always being neglected.

YOU
pronoun | \’yu, yę also yē   \

Believing in god is not enough,
when I can question the universe,
as to why someone so magnificent
is right in front of my eyes?

Grey wash of the sky, sleeping softly.
As I try to fall in love with the world in front of my eyes.
Drain plug of the Earth polluting bright hues,
That once lived;
There's a parasite underneath my skin, that floods me.
There's a marionette, bowing gracefully over my head,
In the cloudless space- it dawdles on empty intent,
My brain matter falls in puddle,
The acidic strain,
Reflecting a rainbow of thought
I can't obtain.

To wake up
against the rallying chains
of the unwilling,
who keep us captive and weak.
Lies become so cheap
you can buy a seat at parliament’s feet

But the price sleeps
In that house of white.

We as the people,
have a right-
to wake up
yet it is not enough,
awakening only works with
ten thousand fists in the air
in protest

Not to stand proud
but for firmness
denying weakness

We as the people,
are not a guest to democracy.

Democracy is a home for all

Those taller,
should use their fingertips
to reach toward the sun
rather than standing in the way  

Let that light no longer be difficult to obtain—
let it reign
over abuse of power
temperature rising on the corrupt

our brightness
   must be a force
to drive out darkness

Humanity standing tall for everyone
no worries of divinity
when the land we live on
wouldn’t be blessed by any god
soil planted by frauds
and the hate spread
grows nothing
from this earth

To rise-
Everyone can survive
Only with the courage
And ending of lost lives

Power depends on the downfall,
for someone to die

but revolution only requires
us
to rise,
to rise,
to rise.