Change your pants, change your shirt, look presentable! That's all I ****** ever hear from you! I'm not good enough and I will never be good enough for you. No I'm not your prissy princess, no I didn't graduate, no I don't have a job. I'm done saying sorry, because I'm not. This is me, so deal with it. You don't have a ***** ***** *** daughter that wears pink and curls her hair with fake fingernails and smile. You have me and if you don't like it, than i won't have to be your daughter, OK! I'm my moms daughter who excepts me for who I am and not what I wear. So you know what? *******! ******* to the way you want me to be! ******* to the way you never had me! And ******* for trying your hardest to change me, it's not going to happen!

It has become customary to press a blade to the inside of my left wrist when she tells me I am worthless.

I ache for the blood to seep from my damaged skin, pumped through my body from my damaged heart.

I sit in silence and wait; for him to come in and comfort me, to show me care and compassion, but he doesn’t.
Not anymore.

It’s hours.

I made a plan in seventh grade that the anklet would stop the burn of silver.

Anklets break.
Promises break.
It all becomes okay.

After the death of my grandmother, the last time I thought I would do it, I found a red string.

Tied it around my ankle.

Promised myself I would never do it whilst it was on.

But bad days exist.
And so do scissors.

And everlasting stress that never leaves and an easy way to feel without feeling.

Blood bubbles when it seeps through the gaps in your skin.

And it hurts but what hurts more is the ache in your chest when she tells you
you're stupid
             you don't respect me
                        you owe use
                                    we own you
                                                I want to hit you
                                                            c­hange your attitude, girl
                                                            ­            Watch out
                                                             ­                       Obey me
                                                              ­                                                             I AM YOUR MOTHER  

as if mother, was a synonym for god.

Guilt and hurt and god how did I end up here again?

It's knowing the answer.

Its knowing blame is bad and modesty is good and pain is for the ones who love but love is for the ones who are free from pain.

It's having to keep silent because asking for support is like giving her another bullet
            another thing to say
                        another reason to want to die

And when you pick your own crying body up off the floor, bruises from biting and pinching and hitting and clumps of hair and tissues of blood,

It's being alone.  

Its the eerie silence that follows.

It's concealer on wrists. It's looking down to avoid eye contact. Its wishing someone would ******* notice.

it's structured loneliness.

it's the skills you had to learn all alone.

It's fighting for breath, not knowing whether to stop or breathe.

It's about helping others

                                                               ­         before ever helping yourself

It's being called worthless at the bottom of bad days

It's your own problems magnified because you don't hide them well enough

                                    It's hurting
                                                                ­       and I want it to stop

I write as the blade is pressed to my wrist once again.

Like an old cushion
Whose stuffing you removed
Excepts its me
Just a few ***** of fluff
Clinging to the inside corners
Comprising my soul
Forced up against the stitching
Very Old Stitching
Ready to break and cast
The remainder of me out
But for the moment
For a long moment
The half empty pillow of me
Still offers a cozy worn velour exterior
To those who like that sort of thing.

My golden brass
Did you hear a silver tone.
One day I remembered the sound we made.
Oh boy with thirteen trys
I played the song of things.
The sound was a still like a drop of rain.
Great full Holst composed his eyes in vain.
And now im chopping my lips with my dreaded lay over.
Five years ago and now im searching the twenties
For old photographs  about the way I played.
My heart stops and excepts the choices I made.
Because the future now the preseant is grey like a grave.
I still dream of film and simpler days.
Like it was still ambitious
When I see trombones sliding and clarinets deciding
What reed made the sound of jazz.

There is a Seymour in all of us - not more a fragile name but perhaps not less. We are all equally cut, strings loosened past our own internal metronomes, flashing bits of poetry past those who will listen. Or rather, those who must listen - the longer no one does the faster these strings within us snap piece-by-piece. Soon we will become balloons that float away and pop. We, leaving Earth for space. Note that poetry is not just the meter that stirs heat and snaps foot-beats within our tongues - but the needles that ***** them too.

In these poems are buried stick figures and falsified diary entries - excepts of a language wrought from our own souls. Today I wore a baseball mitt scribbled with bright green verse as to not get lost running around the diamonds. We are all, in our own way, misunderstood and that’s where I feel Seymour’s got something over us. The innate, misread poetry of our collective consciousness is pervasive in his entire life. Maybe this is less of an introduction. Less of a poem even, than a eulogy for Seymour Glass - the most delicate man who ever lived.

He threw a stone at the one girl he truly loved, as we drew stick figures.

To me I could care less if I'm popular or not
But to more high school kids it means the the world

To me I could care less about what's the newest trend for clothes
But to high school kids it means life

To me being popular is nothing because I would rather know I fit in a group who excepts for me

To me the newest trend is nothing because I'm thank full for what I have

To me being myself  is the most important not something I'm not

As soon as I open my eyes in the morning,
I immediately worry about what others think.
They expect beauty.
They expect intelligence,
They expect success.

I will look at myself for hours at a time.
Just to figure out which ****** expression,
Which angle,
Which tilt of my head,
Is good enough.
I layer on makeup to be what society thinks Is flawless,
I will wear the clothes society excepts
I will do what society defines as "proper"
When will I be good enough

The perfect person is someone who excepts everyone for who they are.

I have this thing
This thing that I do
It's no big deal
It's just this thing that I do

I took three steps
That's one less than four
Even though four is not a bad number
It is too close to the ones that are
Three and eight are the best
Followed by twelve and twenty-four
And all the numbers of seven
Well not the numbers with five
Those send shivers down my spine

Even numbers are better than odds
Excepts two
Which combined with three is five
I said odds are worse
But thirteen is pretty great
As long as it doesn't mix
With the ones that I hate
And eight is Ok
But sometimes it makes me think
That eight is too close to nine
And to make nine you must have five
So sometimes I don't think
That eight is so Ok

This is the thing
This thing that I do
I know this behavior is strange
But this is just the thing that I do

It's fascinating isn't it?
How we can be on an eight hour trip
And we see nothing outside
Excepts the outside inside our phones

I paint flowers
So they do not die.
But die they do
As die all does.

In the heat of summer
Or heat of flame;
In leafy green
Or paper’s ash.

Nothing remains
Excepts remains
Of what was
Now something else.

Die they do
As die all does.
But nothing dies
Forever.

They came to your home to see you.
You worn a blue sari
Kept your eyes like a deer's eyes.
You did't comb your hair,
Though it was not need to be.
You were simply gorgeous.
So, comb was vain to your beauty.
You used props, lipstick, and so many things on thy face.
They surprised,especially your fiance.
He was not accustomed with your such appearance.
He knew you are pretty than queen Sheba
More destructive than Helen
More Affectionate than Mighty Aphrodite
And more prosperous than Athena.
In spite of all, you took props excepts comb of your hair.
Everyone praised you a lot.
No one could understand your claptrap but he
He smiled at you
And you returned it with a wink.

I keep looking at the words
On my walls
But I can't read them
Not in the sentences they are formed
I can't come to terms with my history
I keep thinking about
What they all meant at one time
My journal from the ceiling
To the floor from the window to door
Wall to wall
Why did I write this all
Names of people I hope to never forget
Lyrics from songs I felt could tell you
Who I am
Poems and things
Well they can't tell you who you are
That can't be described
Because who you are changes
Like a shore line after every high tide
Some people will like your shore
No matter what your low tide
Reveals
Some times it takes more time to
Find person who
Excepts the outcome of your storms
Because they will be able to collect the
Pretty things
Like your shells, sea glass, and rocks
And will hold on to them and show you
All the beautifull things you uncover
Just wait you will know when they come
When the do
They'll see your earth as an adventure
The X on the map that lead them to
You and alternate map they get to explore

Dresden

As the war was winding down
it was decided to bomb Dresden
It had no industry and had no military target.
the bombing was vengeance
Ten thousand people were killed that night
mostly burnt to death as the attack created a firestorm.
This was ******.
The killers got medals.
With the war on the thought was a dead German
is a good German.
I think this outrage prolonged the war.
It took years before the atrocities saw the light of day,
excepts India and Kenya, few knew Britain
could be party off mass ******.
The Albinos has been revelry to many carnages and
gotten away with it.
It is time for an apology to Dresden and her people.

It's not everyday you meet someone, who sees you beyond your flaws, and still stay with you-- open their wings to you. Who, Excepts you as you are and strengthen  you when--- you are weak!

The light was fading and so was hope
Encased and locked up
It was now or it was never
And I didn’t agree with the latter

So hurl and gauntlets and off I set
Across field and hedge to them I must get
Encased and locked up
Feel of exitment,trill of right doing

Wrapped with wire , they could not ever leave
Set back , gather clippers to hide up my sleeve
Snap ! And he’s free , sky high magpie
But she ? Still , Encased and locked up

Clatter and pull and struggle
Ferocious fluttering of feathers
He watches from a solemn shed
Like a mourning widow

Time passes like the night breeze
He excepts ones faith so to does she
A sudden rise and dissapereance
Yet she stands still and stays

Encased and locked up.

Haunt of a fire
Set to charisma
Silence excepts indigency, an ire
Somewhere, forte is a class above

Destined meanings
So around, for a very
Intoned stoic, a heart of gleaning's
Has voiced our feeling, to carry

On...
The price of compare
Sense in a taste, so long
Shown become, become share

Since we are...
Chosen to cope, lest of bother
More of a vanity, than war
We are the hope we utter

Life to a limit
With a callous guard, selection
Of a warmth and poise, ours to whit?
Can the eyes of did, have our soul, to the ends of an intuition?