I don't know what to write or say, my brain is losing its own mind, and my heart lost its way.
Summer started and I crashed into a whole new dimension of sweet intoxicating freedom. But the perfumes were overwhelming and I was scared with all this boundless time.
I searched for friends, but they were no where to be found. And because of this change, I took it out on the one person who never left. Badgering him to be something he wasn't. I was bored and done. Lost in love and wondering who I had become. He was gone to, for some of the time. I knew not what to do, or where to go, or who to even talk to. I felt like a caged animal who had finally be rereleased into the wild, forgetting how to behave its natural way. I withdrew into my security and fought the outside for it kept trying to kill me. I had let my hair run wild, and I didn't wake up till about noon. I was lost, and I felt like a bum off the street without a job. And I struggled to figure out who I was and what was my purpose in life, especially that right now. Right now when life seem to be drifting by and I had all the time in the world, but had nothing to fill it with.
I don't like being high because of the way it makes me feel
sobriety is alright with me
if you can show me that love is real
I don't need a wal-mart knock off
"Knock your socks off"
version of something I never really enjoyed
because if it breaks in three uses
then the effort was useless
and I'm left with bathroom and my left hand
But don't pretend you understand
the storm inside my head
Katrina couldn't hold a candle
and Sandy was taking notes instead
of practicing
like me in the seventh grade
when I had a guitar
but no time to say "Yeah, I play"
Studying a broad
doesn't make you cultured
it makes you lecherous
and I like that
why be perfect?
why be so Stepford?
when you can be yourself or anyone else?
because you could change your name
and move out of Nebraska
or New England, if you want
You could run away to Alaska
Your home would be ice
fishing off the coast
life would be so nice
and I'd visit you when the snow thawed out
and we'd never see each other again
two friends
playing pretend
like we were pre-preteens
and life was simple
like the silver screen projections
I have a confession
I made something up
so that you'd believe in love
and, in life, it'd be enough
but don't say that you're angry
don't tell me that you're sad
don't tell me anything
anything that'd make me feel bad.
The Minute passes me by
quite disgusted by my wailing.
Leaving as quickly as it came,
I hardly think it stays the full sixty seconds.
The Hour sinks its teeth deep into my skull
pushing shards of bone-like-regret into my ego's soft, gray matter.
There's no surgical thought to remove such an irritation.
The Days...
Oh those god-damned Days.
They see me confused and so seize their chance;
they pull out my feet
right from under my frame,
and helpless, hurt,
I collapse to the earth.
Now begins their fun!
The Months form gangs called 'The Years'
and The Years take their turn
breaking my joints, my fingers, my knees,
all my snappable, crackable points.
Curved, crippled, creaking,
I want to give up.
But,
it gets worse.
A dark shadow hovers over me.
I look up as far as I can lift my heavy head
and I see coming down on me,
like a fat man resting his rump on an ant's back,
The Decades with their massive, soul crushing weight
squatting their hindquarters;
oppressively,
upon my twig-like spine.
This is a merciless beating!
This is the beat of time.
And throughout the abuse,
I crawl, cringe, cower
as safe as can be in a low lying state on the ground,
(which is still six feet too high for all that time cares!)
I hear from somewhere afar
an unfaltering decree
from my maker to me
"Stand up straight! For Heaven's sake!"
Searching through his bloodied clothes.
Searching for what is left.
Nothing.
With the rage, I cut into his chest.
I want his heart, for safety and comfort.
I rip it out and cradle it
I want it for others but I shall never reveal them now.
I love very bit of this heart.
You say I am a beast?
Look at you, I know you have done sins.
I am a dark being.
I love the screams and
I just don't know what happened to that little girl you had once seen.
Laughing, playing...
Now crying and imbalanced.
I have made a doll.
It has the heart that I cradled.
It looks just like him.
He talks to me.
Calls me "Little Dove"
At night 'he' comes alive and kisses me with those sharp teeth.
Killing me with his poisoned kiss.
That wretched smile drives me insane.
His a demon, bursting out if my chest.
Putting his bloody doll like hand on my pale white cheek.
I am paralyzed in time.
I love him ever so.
He says to me that me can make me a world of blood.
He makes me dream of haunted things.
Wounds, stitches, knives and more lovely,
Blood...
I am happy that he can make my world come true.
I love that I am crazy, because he makes me feel better.
I love you, demon of my dreams.
...
He has left me.
Without no warning,
just left me in this tattered white dress stained with our blood.
He said he will come back.
He never returned.
I still hear he voice at night yearning for his kiss.
Wanting to feel his warm body against mine.
Feeling his doll-ish hand caressing my body.
I awoken to a ear wrenching noise.
I found his dying on the ground
He said he loved this dark and damned side of me,
and to let go of this love that we had.
I went to the window and started sobbing.
Harder and harder.
No tears slid down my face.
I saw what he was dying for.
He had made me my world of hurt.
I love you Abaddon.
Thank you for loving me.
While folded over me like an envelope
ready to mail, you sit there and think
and think and think while I try to cope
with lips so impossibly pink.
It takes two good hours before you tell me
that your body is a temple and love,
that infuriating thing, is not something we
should look into, except when it's from above.
I stare at you and try not to slur
when I say that that makes you your own god,
your own worshipper, your own designer,
and not exempt from being flawed.
Despite this you let me go, your hands thinner
than my ego; I decide then it's alright to be a sinner.
I miss you
Like a clock misses the time
Like a lion misses its voice
Like a heart misses a best friend...
I would have taken a bullet for you
Instead you are the one behind the trigger
A smile on your face when you pull your finger back
Shoving hatred into my heart.
All of a sudden you hate me
I will never understand why
I wish you would have told me
I am trying to forget you
I want all love I have for you to fade away
I miss missing you
Sometimes before it gets better the darkness gets bigger...
My whole life is darkness right now
When will it get better?
Sudden decent
dents paint scent
into my mind.
What is this "art"?
Something stupid and contrived
derived from work-for-free
always-be-the-victim me.
I sit here with you,
towering over me like a mammoth:
ancient and urgent
itchy and crawling.
You're all I have left
and I feel sorry
for making you into garbage.
I thought by now I'd make less trash
I thought by now I'd be less trash.
Somehow I always seem to forget that I am not your everything,
I am not your life's story
But a mere chapter.
Perhaps a only page or two.
And it's this that worries me, because what about all this time I'm invested in you?
The seeds I planted in your chest have bloomed,
But my fingers will not be the last to pick from them
And my hands will not be the last to graze across the meadows of your skin
Nor will my lips be the last to kiss away your imperfections.
I forget that eventually ,
you will find another girl.
One who's lovely and prettier than I,
One who can tell you how she feels
And who can make decisions.
Who doesn't hinder but help.
One who can give you everything you've ever wanted in the world,
Not just her heart.
And I can't help but feel that I'd be happy for her
Because if it wasn't me at least it would mean you were happy
And then maybe you'll feel at home in her embrace, more so than mine
Perhaps the words she'll speak to you will be beautiful flowers,
instead of the weeds that seem to fall from my mouth.
And I suppose that eventually you will invest your time in her, your future
And that's when I'll become your past,
The ink blots and coffee rings,
Along the old yellow papers,
Or maybe an old flower pressed between the pages,
I think I'd like that
Because maybe you'd remember me as something beautiful
And if not that at least you'd be happy
We are the cold and broken ones,
Snapped like twigs and tossed aside,
Protested ‘gainst the thousand wrongs,
Were shot, but noone cried.
Death has many hands to do his dirty work
But one is always occupied with me
His hand is around my throat
Suffocating me
I have a narrow ledge that I like to stand upon
This ledge is called suicide
If I should step off my ledge
Well you know
Death's bony fingers would win my battle
A victim of suicide in his noose
