Your lips
are not the cure
to this doubt,
though I am assured by your
vehemence
and the way
you look at me
when I ask
what this all
means to you.
Your lips
are not the cure
to this doubt,
yet I’ve begun
to believe you;
Tomorrow
you may burn
your roots
and bridges,
but the time
we have spent
will mean
“something”.
This I know,
though your lips are
no cure
for this doubt.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 3:54 PM UTC
tranquil pain holds this
facade
pinioned to a past that never was.
when i awoke this morning
were you there?
or were you gone
living your life without me
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 1:00 AM UTC
Later, I'd swear that the empty bottles
and the smell of smoke had
rotted my clothing away
I think I may have tried scrubbing myself
with dirt; i found blood on my hands and my feet
the next
morning
sweat was everywhere in my eyes
the only thing that made the stench
go away was soaking myself in perfume until
my skin pruned
and i couldent breathe
no sleep, no heatbeat here in this body
who needs breath
who needs love, after all
break the mirror, replace your artificial beauty
scream "wantmeneedme saveme"
watch them want you.throw out your artificial hope.
replace your broken records
now start to play them all again
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
I know enough to know
I could never hold on to you,
so pull me close, let me
live in this moment; let me
pretend that tomorrow
you'll love me
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:49 PM UTC
"Kiss me." you said, even though
you don't love me,
and I?
I loved you but then again,
that's over now.
Now the only thing left of the past
seems to be you here in front of me.
"Kiss you?" You nod,
and grin.
But I know
you're afraid of love.
So don't hurt me,
you fool.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 3:33 AM UTC
the drinking, the fighting,
all the subtle ways i
try to **** myself,
a little at a time;
i'd give them all up
if you loved me.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 3:14 AM UTC
Darling, you were nothing
but the drug
that I’d been looking for.
I shot
your poison
through my bloodstream
and bled my love out through
my wrists.
when i looked up at you
and smiled
I didnt "Want a one nighter
(?)"
When you
woke up the next morning,
what made you stay?
What
made you think
that you could fix
a broken
thing like
me?
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 2:03 AM UTC
Some days I can’t decide whether to be a modern day poet or not. Sometimes I wake up thinking “butterflies.”, And I decide that maybe I’d like to be an accountant instead, forcing number after number into some poor overstuffed calculator all day. I’d be the talk of the office, “Have you seen that ****** over in cell #2?”, “The one who just sits there looking at her calculator all day?”, “Yes! She just sits around muttering ‘When’s it going to explode? When’s it going to explode’?”
Then some other poor sucker’s calculator would explode and he’d be horribly scarred, and they’d all realize that I was sane after all. But of course by then I’d be off in some horrible asylum by then, having my frontal lobe chopped off. So maybe I wouldn’t make a good accountant. There’s no money in poetry though, that’s my problem, you see? If I could sit around typing lyrical nonsense all day and actually be paid for it, well that’d be cool. However if that ever did happen, chances are I’d be off in some distance land universe writing the holy bible for a bunch of seven fingered goats or something. I don’t like goats. Back to butterflies? No… I have nothing to say about those either. The truth is, although I’d love to be one of the inspiring people who goes around raving about the evils of money, im more liky to be the one chasing after the guy giving that lecture yelling, “WELL IF YOU DON’T WANT IT, THEN GIVE IT TO ME!”
And then I’d store it in some dark corner in my bedroom as I lay on my bed and wrote until I passed out from some disease called life that you can’t put off living just to write in that little hidey-hole in your mind.
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 5:06 PM UTC
Chocolate rabbits from hell
My feet hurt from stepping
On chocolate eggs
And I have to look at my mom
As she watches me
Push the basket of chocolate aside
as i sit down for breakfast
and I have to ignore
the two brats
beside me
gorging themselves
on
little
round
pieces of
fat.
I remember last year
Jelly beans, crème eggs,
All that **** that I now
refuse to cram in my mouth;
Im not adding to
the reserves of pudge on my
hips/thighs/arms/stomache
inside and outside
everyday i
bloat
mirrors
****
I can hear sloshing in their stomaches
As they stand
Hockey practice, hockey practice
They’re carried off by chauffers,
My parents
For the rest of the day
Ill be alone
Last year that would have meant
A choco-fest, and I miss it a bit
As the hunger that no one will notice
begins to set in
Aug 28, 2011
Aug 28, 2011 at 4:58 PM UTC
Ha! You
*******
I deleted my Facebook because
I never gave a ****
and neither do you.
Aug 27, 2011
Aug 27, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC