I'm here up the tress
I build a ladder for you
Oh, climb here my prince
In awe, let's build fantasies.
Swiftly, you climbed up
and then you sat beside me.
Stars now fall on clouds
as the world shouts glee
Something wrong? you say
Oh, there is for my heart squeals
Dum ba dum ba dum
Oh please, let me just do this.
I look at your face
And you look into my eyes
The sun melts with us
And my heart is in a blast
Go on, take my hand
Your lips, let me seal it fast
Our souls intertwined.
Let's do it, let's fall in love.
My love is night
cradles thee tenderly
horror is what is unknown
Promise with each day
one thing in the world to be certain
comfort in the promise
forever comes to an end
build a fire to be ablaze
Love and hope
inquire if they are the same
make of it what you will
I deem beauty in the unilluminated
although in order for one to love
luster must show his face
Shadows differ from blackness
for one needs light to cast a shadow
I gave you my soul
Wasn't that a costly toll?
You trace my scars
or are you drawing prison bars?
I tell you what i hate
Your friends i try to tolerate
I dont like this new nitch
Your not usually a bitch
I love you
But it can be hard
You blame yourself for my crash
But then turn to conform with those I Bash
What does it take?
Just drive in the stake
Since Im such a life sucker
Atleast i could get away with my murder
Since im soulless
Since I hold you back
Since Im just a punk
Since I died to you
Rip my guts out and hang them like streamers
Run my skin in a grinder and have your confetti
Spike my blood with all your booze
Fry my fingers in the greaser
Throw my brain and heart in the trash
Burn my eyes and ears and lips and tongue
Use my bones to build a bed
Boil my nerves so i wont feel pain
But leave my feet
They are what i didnt use
I should walk, no run, away
But i already cut them off so it would be easier to end me
The perfect murder
My own death
Ill naught be caught
Ill finally get what i deserve
The ultimate gift of life?
Can i just skip it to hell?
I wish i had died that day
Why couldnt I have gone faster?
Let the white turn red
With what i have bled
Here is your christmas cheer
Feed my ashes to your goddamn reindeer
Let me do this perfect murder
Then you can say your happy and merry a little cheerier
melancholy souls encased
behind the glass of the faceless
they see in but not out
drowning in a introspective about-face
they never sit still
it gets so bright out here you can barely see
when the sunlight kisses the snow white
you haven't seen the last of me
wait until i creep into your dreams at night
and slowly make my way through your veins
meshing with your cells
i'll build a garden in your rib cage
and spend the night in your entrails
and in the end, if all else fails
i'll leave a lock of my hair safe in your heart
just know i've been digging holes in there from the start
when the city sleeps
and you're wide awake
the time grows deeper
when you've got no way to escape
the shadows all around you
dance and sing your name
in dysphoric shades of tones
he can't tell you what to do
with the feelings you've tried so hard to tame
forget that itch in your bones
it's time to go home.
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it and slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by day
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
Two dying leaves hanging by a thread of plant matter
spin around unwilling to fall to the ground just yet.
Deciduousness reaches its hand out unwelcome.
The birds are different now.
The world takes away in order to give back
the same things that were taken in the first place.
Yesterday was better and tomorrow doesn’t exist.
Might as well be thankful.
But why would God create more evil than
the amount necessary to build character?
Meaningless or not, I wish I didn’t care.
What do they see when they look at me?
This question rattles around inside my head,
As I stare at my reflection on silvered glass,
A perfectly reversed copy that I can only dread.
Is it the reversal that keeps me from seeing what they see?
The smile that angles too much, now angled the wrong way.
Does that small change hide the howls that scream when I look away?
Do the lenses in front of my tired eyes hide the tears that have fallen?
Do my crossed arms hide the heartache that has become too solemn?
What do they see when they look at me?
It can't be what I see, for they would not stay.
My eyes roam my body, picking out flaws with the ease of a plastic surgeon,
While my mind does the same to my psyche, more intense than a psychologist.
Self-hate session done for today, it only took an hour this time.
What do they see when they look at me?
Eyes closed, I try to build an image in my mind of what they've told me they see.
It looks so similar, same clothes, same hair, but it's not quite me.
Not-Me smiles, but it's not my broken smile.
This charms with sardonic sincerity, promises a wicked sense of humor and a clever wit.
Not-Me stretches, but it doesn't highlight his sharpness.
This highlights the hollow of his collarbone, light catching the curves and angles to perfection.
Not-Me laughs, but it's not loud and obnoxious.
This bursts out in sheer delight, eyes crinkling in joy, ringing with mirth.
Not-Me walks forward, but it's not my gangly lurch.
This flows with determination, long strides that speak of a hidden strength.
He is not broken by his past, he is stronger for it.
He is not haunted by old memories, he is wiser for them.
He is not burdened from loss, he is compassionate from it.
Is this what they see when they look at me?
Is this why they don't shy away?
The reflecting glass pierces my darkness,
My breath shuddering as Not-Me is cast back at me,
Strong and whole in his glass frame,
I reach out to him, wishing only to embrace him into me.
I am Me, and I am Not-Me.
I am broken, which makes me strong.
I am haunted, which makes me wise.
I am burdened, which makes me compassionate.
What do I see when I look at me?
Is it Me?
I am an artist.
I can make myself into something new
Imagine the possibilities you could
Just let me know what you want.
Here, flip through this magazine for some
And tell me what you like best!
It’s all about pleasing your audience
It doesn't matter what I want,
Nobody cares about that.
They just want to see something pretty.
I sculpt and paint imagery out of tools
To end up with a fake canvas.
Day to day I suppress myself with the lies.
I chip and chisel,
Dissect and carve,
Bits and pieces,
Until I’m left trembling,
Just to be tossed away in the end.
Splashes of red,
And strokes of black ignite your appeal,
And this is what you label as real?
Hunger strikes itself through the bones
Revealing its power through the limbs
Of the body, eye sockets, sinking down,
Death could possibly be the resemblance.
What a terrible piece, a shame it is.
Maybe just a few more tweaks,
And it will at least look halfway decent.
Trim down the sides,
Thin out any extras,
Fill in what is needed.
Even just a tad more color,
Then we have something.
Time strolls by,
A year soon passes,
And one day I just happen to actually
And look at my masterpiece,
But only for a moment.
In the mirror,
A reflection stares back at a wretched,
Beads of liquid build up into my pallid
Unable to contain the weight of their
reasons any longer,
Tears begin to burst,
They trickle down my rose stained
Fueled by the absence of perfection,
And I feel nothing.
Needs more work.
Some fools are born, conditioned by fate,
And they, like all, still procreate.
All useful knowledge flees their minds,
As selfish life fulfills these swines.
And while they swing and cheat for joys,
The watchful eyes of their little boys
Do take a look at what they see,
And what they see is “A bigger me.”
Their little girls, in company of dolls,
On occasion, foresee what befalls
Upon them, too, as they soon explore,
An impending battle of love and war.
But then, there exists that little kid,
Whose sex and gender shall remain amid
A cloud of irrelevance and mystery:
Their wisdom calls most urgently.
As this kid sees a life unravel
Along Lacanian stages of travel,
Concerned are they with the fuss and mess,
Which most adults do not confess
To what they cause and what they bring,
Most taken in by their offspring;
And as one parent lacks all the care,
The other lives a life unfair.
In times of chaos and audacious cuss,
Dear vengeful killer, Oedipus,
Consumes all facets of the mind
Of the little kid who must confine
All pain, and hatred, and all rage,
Enough to place one in a cage,
And leave one there to squirm and rot,
Like a lobster boiling in a pot,
And free the bird whose wings to fly
Have been broken off, now left to die,
In part, by diabolical norms
That invade a home in all shapes and forms.
But, the kid looks up at the two,
Then whispers quietly, “I’m neither of you;
Not the blinded one, who feels must reign;
Nor the obliged one, too tied to pain."
Nor does the kid ever dare to be
A product passed politically:
Ingrained in mind, in heart, and soul
A subordinate being in a bowl,
That turns, and turns, and turns, and turns
While greedy capitalists more they yearn.
Within this cycle is little choice,
Hetero-normatively sans a screaming voice,
For a true language for some not made;
Virile chest-pounds place a shade
Upon the stronger ones deprived
Appraisal for their stronger minds.
The kid, all this, can’t take to be,
As what they see they wish not to see.
In this unbalanced Yin and Yang,
The kid’s perception hits a bang:
“The power lies within the one
Who mostly governs with a gun;
And how can a human hurt their double,
When love and passion are lesser trouble?"
A fitting sex the kid can't choose,
As in every win, each sex does lose.
But slowly, as they come to be,
The kid, society directs to see,
That to just one sex they must belong,
As 'genitalia proves feelings wrong.'
This funny theory most credits Freud.
By collective viewpoints the kid’s annoyed:
'No good is said, no good is done',
For those who are all, but yet are none.
Great gender points makes Butler de Judith,
While her female likes are out to proveth
That she is wrong within her stance
‘Only female unity will give rise to chance'
To an inclusion of the female word,
And one that’s First, not Second or Third.
The opposite, still out to bend
The rules and laws, all to pretend
That the other sex does not exist
Because swollen egos must persist
In rule, in art, in build, and biz:
'Fields where opposites lack all wiz.'
The kid, in this silly world of theirs,
Looks at all the foolish heirs
Who bounce and shoot this gendered ball,
While the kid stands back and laughs at all.
The truth is
I've never been so terrified before
In this life,
We never know what's in store
I'm a terrible mess
Left scattered on the floor
Because everything I've ever loved
Has walked out the door
So there I was,
I finally got the strength to build
Up some walls
They're made out of
Bricks and cement
They will never fall
But you came in
And somehow knocked them over
You promised me you'd be mine
Even when we're older
I fell for you so fast I can't
How wondeful you are
To take away my pain
I love you
As the sun loves the moon
You promised me
You'd be back soon
But right now you're so far
But I will always keep my door ajar
Just incase you come back home
For I don't believe its safe for you to roam
But I've never been so scared before
All I want is forever to be yours
I hope nothing gets in the way
I hope your feelings never fade away
I know for a fact you are better than me
Its so very easy to see
I'd give you the stars
Because you healed my scars
Please never leave me
There's no way I could breathe
I could never love again
My love for you is until the very end
You are my soul mate
And my fate
This is why I'm mortified at the thought of losing you baby
So will you always stay, maybe, just maybe?