ENCORE ENCORE
to these songs in my head
a symphony of harmonicas
dissipating throughout each hemisphere of my brain
i am now dancing around my success
and no longer my addictions or my demons
the melody that crescendos from my frontal lobe sticks with me and resonates
with every note that i hum
i am happy now
and no
my cerebrum is not malfunctioning
even living with mistakes is more simple
i am having less trouble admitting that i was never right back then
but today i am right here
right now
wildly fortunate with this glistening euphoric sense of entitlement
singing along with the songs pulsing through my veins
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 10:04 AM UTC
Jesus Christ I was made with a monster inside of me.
It’s an enemy.
An uninvited guest, closer than my shadow; a “scientist gone mad” concoction settling and putting roots into every inch of me.
It’s a home wrecking unkempt roommate who defaces your property, ***** your man, then shows up to fist fight at four in the morning.
It’s something that's created a bed in my chest and a toilet in my brain.
Lounged back in its moth-eaten recliner, flipping eagerly through all of my channels while sipping its drink; it is something that is always with me.
It shares what I touch and what I eat; speaking literally, it goes fifty-fifty on every diminutive measly thing.
Cheek by jowl in front of the mirror and dressed in the same outfit, my villainous lowdown twin sister, right there next to me.
It has earmarks of a mother who I am to take orders from or else I can't laugh with my friends or play Nintendo for six weeks, where she tells me to change my clothes three times before breakfast, where I am unable to act appropriately.
Awaken daily by that specific detrimental type of early morning sickness, where the cold-hearted ***** is always with me.
Able to hold a candle to a man that makes you cry and gazes at your best friends, where he makes you feel dejected and ever short.
Where he purloins your spirit and hawks on the fire in your belly; forcing you to allow him to make you feel that way and it's that specific muddy stain on a white T-shirt.
Wash after wash, he is always ******* with me.
It’s the fog that glazes over the roads and hides the trees at four o’clock in the morning during your drive through Pennsylvania.
Whenever the birds sleep until the woods are illuminated by sunlight.
It’s the reason for the high beams that are always on and always bright.
And they are always with me.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 12:02 PM UTC
No, never any clutter.
Disarray somehow never an option and everything in it's place.
Each object assigned to a specific spot on your shelves,
furniture rarely catty-cornered and
blinds always straight.
I watched you dust twice a week with dejection and revulsion because
clean bedrooms just have no remembrance.
If I can't smell what you've had for dinner
two nights ago
ascending up from underneath your bed
then where do you truly live?
I want to see nicotine stains and cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.
I want to wonder about how long they had settled to get to that gradation of yellow.
How long have they been hanging on by just one string?
Tell me,
how do you scour away at that intricate wondrous web;
another creatures art,
all for your woebegone off-white walls?
Abandoning the remains from your dust pan into the garbage without feeling resentful.
A clean bedroom has no trace of life.
How do you sleep at night
aware that there are no *** spots on your freshly washed sheets,
not being able to think
"This is where she showed me she loved me."
I want hidden messages behind picture frames throughout the hallway.
Give me mud on the carpet and fingernails in the bed.
A clean bedroom...
How could you be so muted,
so unvarnished,
to keep a clean bedroom?
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:52 PM UTC
I am so sorry
that I've neglected my friends
the fire in my soul
my talent
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
To hell with those captivating,
winsome,
yellow eyes.
While you're shadowing
inadequate rabbits
claiming vegan-ism,
I refuse to be the one
to believe that you filed
down your teeth.
That you no longer manipulate
and sink your claws
into the weak and naive.
Displaying their charming severed heads
on your mantel as trophies,
lipstick dripping,
that will never be me.
Because I am the alpha.
I finally found closure
and brilliance
at the end of your
dark aura
and unscrupulous persona.
So to hell with your sad songs to the moon,
Wolf,
that I hear so frequently.
Always blaming it on
being the only one
around
when your instincts
took control
and your sanity
took a vacation.
Crying to the moon
but never
the sun.
**STOP ******* SINGING!**
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 12:31 PM UTC
I have good news!
I held down some food,
made amends with two wise books,
I fell asleep ****
Today was filled with good news!
Tomorrow
I will fix my glasses,
wash the dishes;
cleaned my carpet.
Today was filled with "middle-of-the-road" news.
Staring contests with my ceiling,
I am ******* dejected from feeling
nightmares as my reality.
Where is the good news that ghosts
do not exist
but in the corners of the mind?
How I dread these long nights
of impersonating one who is healthy
because I showered
standing up
when I want to sit down.
Tonight was filled with questions without
answer.
By morning
it's good news that I pulled myself together.
I ate breakfast and I'm feeling
much better.
Now I can spend all day in the rain.
Today was filled with bright blues.
But wait!
Because I have more good news!
I am learning how to see clearly in the dark!
(I think.)
Oh it's just wonderful news
to know The Moon
and how to keep your wolves
at bay.
Today was just like every other day.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
An indistinct smell of wood primer
fills my bedroom as
glitzy images hover
above my head
of you,
wearing over-all's and painting
our picket fence
white.
It turns me on
and I start removing
my clothes,
alone,
though I want you
to be doing this
for me.
Increasing the pace
within minutes,
I touch myself
to the thought
of our first Christmas and
getting used to your shampoo.
Massaging every settled-in scar,
consenting to the electricity
passing through,
that make all of the
unresponsive parts of me,
finally,
effervescent and vigorous.
Envisioning us
making love at that waterfall and
now my fingers are soaked
but it should be yours
and I really want you
to be doing this for me.
Quivering and tearing up,
I have never felt so
satisfied and unruffled
having an ******
to the thought of a future
with you.
But Oh,
to lie down in bed at night,
alone,
without your hand in mine,
it forces me to love myself.
Even though,
I really, really
want you to be doing that for me.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Wisdom teeth and worms are reminders that growing older is terrorizing; Watching our gums deteriorate like bloated roadkill that's been disregarded for some time, I take a magnifying glass to my tongue.
Feeling our flesh begin to groove like sun dried tomatoes as we instinctively prepare ourselves to decompose.
We keep ourselves up passed dawn wondering if whenever our time comes we will be aware of the mucus-green maggots making their way through our eye sockets; invading the only real thing we can deem our own and if they would really bother us all that much.
And if life goes on after life goes on,
will I be in good spirits to have my friends back in my head?
Will I accept being lowered back into the ground the next time around?
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
Celebrating the heart-rending realization that my habitat is a hole in the ground like I am celebrating my birthday.
Accusing this sink-hole as the real devil's advocate the same way that I blame everyone else for the holes throughout my head and in my walls.
Celebrating the pitiful realization that instead of patching them, I fill them with stuffed animals and cover them with hand-me-down paintings that clash with the colored pages from my little sister.
I start celebrating every black and blue mark.
I made a new rule to never spend my money on white blinds or patterned curtains.
Not on a place so ******* dark.
It's defeating trying to move on and out in a realm where there just isn't enough light.
And I'm ashamed to admit that I've found comfort in it.
I'll make another toast to that and stop celebrating for tonight.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
Note to Self-
Feed the possums in the yard
apart from the ghosts
in your mind.
Purge it back up
and flush it.
Descry it as
nothing more
than your *****
and spit.
Do not forget
to forget.
Note to Self-
You matter.
You matter.
You ******* matter to someone.
Quit feeling like ****
you ******* matter to someone.
Note to Self-
Might as well give it up
or start over.
You've been starving
the possums in the yard
and your ghosts are polluted
with gluttony
as well as every other sin.
Knocking on the window to your mouth,
you continue to relapse
and welcome them back in again.
Note to Self.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 3:00 AM UTC