She bruises easily,
she says “I don’t know why.”
“I’m like the monarchy,
they just won’t let me die.”
She pinches at her skin,
“do you see what I mean?”
It’s almost paper thin,
transparent and clean.

She comes up from the dirt,
born just ready to die.
Tugs and tears at her shirt,
fixes the cloth like a tie.
Changing each mask
within each new realm
and yet she still asks,
“Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”

Wishing for the end
since around ‘96,
calling the reaper a friend,
“there’s no problem he can’t fix.”
“I had it all but at what cost?
I see no familiar face.”
“Every person I know is lost,
in life’s dreadful marathon race.”

She comes up from the dirt,
born just ready to die.
Grits teeth against the hurt
and keeps her eyes on the sky.
Still she juggles her tasks
and she steers at the helm,
and yet she still asks
“Who put Bella in the Wych Elm?”

Not sure I want to know
Or even want to be
Privy to this party
That's churning underneath

Somethings bout to blow
I feel it coming on
No longer is a secret
For those in the know

Doesn't take a giant leap
These details in the deed
Stamped, for your eyes only
This conspiracy

What's the matter now
Is what's the matter then
And yet we still can't figure out
To take it on the chin

It's all a part of life
This harbinger of death
Would you like that extra dry
Or will you take it wet

All those in the know
And those that tend to be
Privy to this party
That's churning underneath

This title is for no one
No it's not meant to be about you
It could be for everyone
But that would never do

I'm wide awake as the witches are
Just a mere minute now past two
I'm always awake it seems
I've nothing better to do

I saw an overweight puff ball cat ,
a tabby orange and white
It was eyeballing me
up and down out by the glow of the light

I haven't seen the moon now in so many months of May
The trees are so thick around me it's hard to even see the day

There are no gorillaz near me
But there are orangutans driving their cars
They like to pull out in front of you
They look like they spent the night in a bar

The days are getting shorter
But it feels like summer time
I know that winter is coming
I saw them stringing up Christmas signs

Why do they call it Black Friday ?
I would think white would surely do
I'd say Tim Burton was responsible but if I did I'm afraid that he just might sue

I always want a drink by starlight
But the Liquor stores are closed
During the daytime I emphaticly refuse to buy
A split personality I suppose

Well the sun should be up by now
It's a quarter after ten
Yawn oh Yawn !
It's time to turn it in

each sundown i spent at the graveyard
i was just as dead afterwards as you
i was buying time to calculate
that i am sorry for something too

your music starts and eight counts leave my mind the magic of artistry blends together as twelve individuals move as one months of preparation for a taste of euphoria passion exudes from every pointed toe as their bodies tell the stories of their hearts an honor to behold the wonders of a dancer's soul you run to the wings, overflowing with joy wishing us luck as we admire your performance our team embraces before entering the stage hands outstretched as our music starts

My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough

I often wonder whether I am failing myself but then I remember the girl I once was the one who was always the third wheel who carefully planned out and calculated her words only to be talked over when she finally spoke the one who was bullied by her first grade teacher who hated her looks and despised her body
who stared blankly into space until her mind was elsewhere the one who was called useless after trying her best throwing kindness like confetti at people who couldn't care less what would be the look on her face if she found out that I am working at a summer camp as happy as could be holding out my hand rather than being walked over cracking jokes without fear choking me to death opening the lid to my box a little more each day if only I could have washed her tears away hugged her and told her it will be okay

my dad used to say all of the songs were about being seventeen young and sweet, wind in your hair, excitement in your veins and I thought wow, that means seventeen could be my year will my fairy godmother spare a wish? can my rags of hopelessness finally sparkle? maybe seventeen is the excuse I need to be brave to take the shot in the dark if it means finding light to cross the unbeaten path even though tree roots are out to get me to express the love flowing in the canyons of my heart to stop closing doors as quickly as I open them my age is young, but my dreams are old with this next chapter comes stories untold
I've had 536,457,600 seconds of air and don't want to waste one more