Whenever I see a sunflower I think of you. No matter where we lived, in the summers you’d bend your back to the earth beside our porch step and you’d raise magnificent flower beasts with their rough stalks, edible seeds, and gentle yellow petals, sometimes it seemed you cared more for them than you did for me.
Whenever I smell peaches I think of you. Not real peaches, but that dollar store lotion you would buy. You stopped wearing it after your sixth child, after your light grew dim, and we thought it died. I found an empty bottle of this lotion in the heaps of our rubble on yet another evicted moving day, its plastic insides held the smell of you before you started to hide. And in my garbage bag suitcase I hid your memory away so that I could find you again at the next place.
Whenever I cross a mosaic path it stirs an image of you breaking glass, pressing transparent cuts of colors to wet cement slabs, I would revel in awe of your art, your makeshift thrown-together crafts, and now I can not sit in a church beneath stained glass without your face replacing mother Mary, but I am no Christ figure, and you are not so Holy.
Whenever I see a drawing of the sun I think of your tattoo. A black flaming sun, eclipsing the spider beneath its place, chiseled into the bark on your back. Is this the same spider you saw above my cradle as I slept? You say it was a massive thing, crawling toward me, stopping you dead in your tracks. You say this spider popped into a puff of crystal spects, that you ran to me and saw nothing but a resting baby. It took you years to finally cover the spider on your back, but when you finally set the sun in its place you forgot color from your blaze and cut in the black. Maybe this is why I was born with embers in my hair, my locs are the ancient flame you lost from your belly. My sheath, my skin, pale porcelain, can only thrive when kept out of the sun’s sight. Did you tattoo yourself with this in mind?
This whole world reminds me of you. This is both good and bad. I could have never avoided your poison, less I were never born. You gave me nightmares and lost my heart in boxes every time we moved. You showed me bright colorful beautiful things, like the mosaic glass, I first saw you lay it out in patterns catholic saints would admire, and with the very same shattered frame you cut your face in front of me. That was a horrible scene, but it taught me something. That suffering and beauty can have a thin line between, that tragedy can become the art only I can bring. I know from you, my only true mother, that people are both good and bad, that the world is forever holy and evil all at once, and that there is nothing one can do to prevent casting great pain onto those we love the most, but of all these extremes and places in between the only thing that exists on every plane is the love we have for each other.

She had me in her palm, that sway of her laughing heart.
The sunflower of earth, giver of my life,
A peach scented woman, thick skin she’d cut open,
Hoping that the next passerbyer would heal her
Fill her with hope then,
She might know how to love me instead of shove me
Like a curtain,
But we didn’t have any of those,
Instead sheets hung loose over windows
And the world didn’t have to see in the home to know
That sheets are not curtains.
That a woman with six children hides in her room and
I’d never realized how broken she was
While I was too caught up in the whispers from the other mothers
They’d say “how unfortunate”
Then move on to the topic of sunday brunchin
I grew to hate them, and myself,
Was I trash? Can I be helped?
It’s all up in the air.
The air that never flowed through our sheet covered windows
And oh, my soul, I was there to see
The kind of woman they all thought I’d be,
I was there to see the real woman
Laying in bed at 5PM, hasn’t moved an inch
But her eyes stayed wide open.
There were times I thought she died
And I would cry
Because the relief sometimes outweighed the grief
And that’s no way for a heart to be broken.
I was a child then, my mother was too.
She is a child still and I’m now 22
I still fear who I could be, who I might be
If that grief should cease, let the light return to me.

At four years old I became a pyromaniac,
Set fire to the living-room lamp,
It was an experiment.
I wanted to see how difficult it would be for a flame to defeat me.
I touched lit candle to the dangly fabric bulbs hanging from the lamp shade
It bursted up, caught all the dust and the handmade paisley curtains
They too met the touch of physical heat,
And before I knew it, the corner of the living-room was a roaring devil.
I do not remember the heat on my face, or the melting paint on the walls
I recall a reflection of the monster I had made, glittering in my eyes.
I ran to my mother, she was shut in the bathroom
I called out to her
“This is the only time I get to myself” she shouted
With more apprehension than what I showed the fire
I told her the living room was ablaze.
The door busted open, and there was a woman, my mother
Pants around her ankles and a bucket full of water.
One douse was all it would take to ease the disaster I created.
Only charred walls and a destroyed lamp remained.

A few weeks later I dreamt of a fire, only it was the whole world on fire.
House half burned to the ground, I went to find my mother.
Opening the bathroom door I said softly “I’m sorry”
When to my terror there was a woman, pants around her ankles
But her body caught the fire, a skeleton mother
She spun her head and looked me dead in the eye
I shrieked and ran away and then awoke realizing it was a dream
Mother was okay, the world was not on fire, and I need not be afraid.
The memory of this dream stayed with me as I aged.
It is only now that I realize I could never set the world ablaze
It has always been this way
It is only now that I realize some people catch the fire
Turn to skeleton and ash.
Nothing remains, but
it is my choice if the flames should defeat me.
And I would be wise to not tempt the fire.

Anyone who tells you that everything will be okay is a liar.
Some things do turn out okay, but your life will be a series of good times, bad times, and hours where you work or go to school, fulfilling your obligations, and those times are dull gray, the get you through to the next stage.
Anyone who tells you that people are inherantly good thinks too highly of themselves, or else they hold tightly to optimism in order to avoid being a defeatest. This is a survival mechanism, and for them it is necessary. People are not good or bad, nothing is inherent. We are a mixed bag, skittles, M&Ms, and those puke flavored jelly beans. You can eat up or opt-out, but that is all we have on the table.
Anyone who is certain of themselves is a wolf, a self-proclaimed oracle of mankind, really they no nothing, and neither do I. We are better off being adaptive, and being comfortable with change and the unpradicatable nature of life. Live chaotically and nothing will surprise you but yourself.
Anyone who preaches God and salvation to you is a fool. But they are worth listening to. Fools love honestly; they only want you to have a life in the heaven they believe in. They mean well, they love you, and they are trying to do something good. Let them try.
Anyone who tells you they love you probably doesn't know you well enough to be lying about it. When you tell others you love them, try to mean it. If you hesitate or have to think about it before the words come out, then don't say it. Let love build and if it's too difficult to love anyone at any point, let it fade, you'll be better off this way.

There is a quiet anger festering inside of me,
a rage grown from trauma and pain,
Nightmares disguised as flashbacks
that torment me in the day.
Restless nights when I wish there were a God
who could hear what I have to say?
"You're kidding me, right? If you have the power to move mountains,
then why can't you lift away this weight. You made me in your image. Then why does my reflection tear at my ounce of strength? I guess that's it. Amen".
   And then I remember, you are the source of so much pain.
Tell a child they are the embodiment of sin.
Then suddenly, you morph to my mother's face,
calling me a creature, a rat, a good-for-nothing brat,
but I suppose I should forgive all of that.
It's done and over, but the words stayed in my head.
They replaced the space where love should be instead.
I do not trust the myth of holy wisdom.
I do not chase the love I was never given.
I haven't figured it all out,
and my anger remains burdensome,
but I do try to subdue the fire in me.
I try, to fight through my rage,
to remind myself, at 21, it's now up to me
I must discover my own way.
I try to remember the difficult days when I swore to the sky,
I can be better than how I was raised.
I can be better than a floating king that watched me wilt away.
My anger is an acid, and I would never wish
to pass on this grief to any other person.
The cycle can be broken.

Anger is an acid,
which does more damage
on the vessel where it is stored
than on anyone
which it is poured.

The forbidden fruit.
Grandmother Eve,
who shared her *****
with brother Adam,
and cultivated humanity
in incestiual Holy conception
We are a species cursed
by the bitten apple,
the result of their
Divine inbreeding!

It's gettin' good ol' girl,
the same ****-storm as always,
check out the new store on the main strip
could it be one way to get our kicks,
I highly doubt it.
It's all
the
same
old
*******
Ohwell,
Might as well take a look at it!

In my younger years I followed the word of God,
Blindly, because my mother said he was truth. The only truth.
I knew the non-believers go to hell,
and the good church goers to Heaven.
Obviously, I wanted to go to heaven,
hell sounded rather unpleasant.
But as I grew older I started to question the existence of God, Hell, and Heaven.
I'm now at a crossroads, where I simply don't know.
And when I question the reality of a God in our midst my gut starts to churn and my brains in a twist,
how could logic and Heaven co-exist?

I write for the child in mine,
the girl whose thoughts were unkind,
who sat wild in wind and grew older again
with more questions than answers each time.
Sought out the advice from great writers of strife
hoping they'd help unwind,
that they'd answer the questions in her hopeless young mind,
but now she's concluded
each man is deluded and believes he is God of our time,
the only king master, the main story line.
As for I, the servant of delusion of the man thought as wise.

Crab mentality, sometimes referred to as ***** in a barrel, is a way of thinking best described by the phrase, "if I can't have it, neither can you."[1] The metaphor refers to a bucket or barrel of *****. Individually, the ***** could easily escape from the bucket, but instead they grab at each other in a useless "king of the hill" competition which prevents any from escaping and ensures their collective demise.The analogy in human behavior is claimed to be that members of a group will attempt to negate or diminish the importance of any member who achieves success beyond the others, out of envy, spite, conspiracy, or competitive feelings, to halt their progress.

It's a wild white nest
in the true North.
All life's memory
of all existence.
It is the night that is
their natural habitat.
Blind birds singing
in glass fields,
among hallucinatory
moons, moons, moons.
They bare fish and
every paper letter.
In white electric vision
refined itself, still mad
and unfed.
One of those paintings
that would not hide.
Wherein each bed a grave,
for lovers and sleepers,
and those who forget.
Where they would be naked
as they always are,
because it is suppose to be
a painting of their souls.

You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attacks
drowning in your own period blood,
or some intense ****** action
in a local library lesbian bathroom stall,
or maybe months go by
with no action at all
and your mechanic sober S.O. buys coasters
and you stop getting parking tickets
and you envision him suddenly leaving you
out of realization
that he
and we
are becoming exactly
what we
set out to destroy, in a
heteronormative scandalized relationship built by
secret shredded library books,
scraps of meaningless
faintly relevant
love poems and sarcastic deceit.
Or he cooks an egg for you
after borrowing the only sinless skin you have,
but you don’t eat single celled foods.
Or he picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park,
or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street
that faintly smelled like you after you got home
from whatever ***** bus stop entertainment you thrived off of.
                    
And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend
in lost Chicago, or Seattle.
Mile high clubs,
train stops,
never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison,
at least that is what he would always tell you.
Then soon after his fourth weekend away
he painted his nails black  
and listened to reggae
and wore sandals that exposed his feet
and pasty soul to the planet,
****** skin,
vain,
pale,
untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals
a strict converse only policy
he made up for himself
in fifth grade after joining his first band named,
The Roadies,
The Pits,
The Sirs,
And finally he leaves you
the same week
you two were suppose to
fly back to your hometown
to visit your family and your teenage year friends,
half of which are married
or engaged
or pregnant,
or something of the sort,
and the other half are still puking up yesterday's
gas station sushi
lunch break,
9-5,
because all they do is go home and drink
or go out and smoke
or if they're trying to be super ******
they might hunt for a ****** needle,
a freshly ****** needle,
but really  
any old ***** would do.

You will likely explode in the midst of anxiety attack or vigorous **** to **** action, or maybe no action at all, but still fearing he will suddenly leave you out of realization that he and we are becoming exactly what we set out to destroy in a heteronormative scandalized relationship through secrets and shredded library books, scraps of meaningful meaningless poems of love or sarcastic deceit, or for no reason he packs a lunch for you, or picks up twigs he thought looked like you when he was at the park, or finds a bar of soap at the ****** store down the street that faintly smelled like you after you got home from whatever train stop entertainment you often researched. And eventually he comes back from a very homosexual weekend in lost Chicago, or Seattle. Mile high clubs, train stops, never truck stops because that was only one step up from prison, at least that is what he would always tell you. Then soon after the fourth weekend away and he painted his nails black and started listening to reggae while wearing sandals that exposed his feet and souls to the world, ****** skin, pale and vain, untouched by the sun after years of swim refusals and strict converse only policy he made up for himself in fifth grade after joining his first band named, 'the roadies', 'the pits', 'the sirs', or some other preteen boy band name like that. And finally he leaves you the same week you two were suppose to fly back to your hometown to visit your family and your teenage year friends, half of which are married or engaged or pregnant, or something of the sort, and the other half are still puking up yesterday's gas station sushi lunch break, 9-5, because all they do is go home and drink or go out and smoke or if they're trying to be super ****** they might hunt for a ****** needle, a freshly ****** needle, but really any old ***** would do.

sometimes when i get sad, i think of how nice it would be to sit down with some tea. so i boil some water and i make some. when it is done , i take my tea and sit in my room. the tea is on my DESK, but it is too hot. so i sit and eventually forget about it until i found it next week and the tea bag is moldy and then i am sad from that and i think about how nice it would be to have some tea

remember when you were young and in school you'd only have one class and the globe sat on the teachers desk
when you finished your work, teacher would let you drag your finger across the painted surface and spin it until you found your future
Most of the time your finger would land on the oceanand you would spin again until your finger landed on a funny name ; like turkey, which was a food not a place at the time, or niger, which was a bad word that you weren't allowed to pronounce, even if it was where you were suppose to spend the rest of your days

Sometimes I get in this state of thinking where I'm not really thinking. I'll do everything in a flash and my brain will get warm and I won't remember anything I did that day. Everything just goes by really quickly. I'll stop and look in the mirror once in awhile and I will just see a person who does the same thing everyday. Someone who does everything like everyone else. Whats the point in that? Why can't I do things different and still be okay? Why cant I end each sentence with a 4 instead of a period? Why can't I eat the banana peel and throw out the banana without people thinking I'm crazy? I keep trying to think of reasons to continue living and I draw a blank, but then I try to think of reasons to die and I can't think of anything there either. It's endlessly pointless both ways.

Her name was Sandra Rosie,
And she had quite the mind.
in youth she'd dance for ages,
Infatuated with nameless
words saw on paper.
Of the world, and of non-worlds,
Delivered in printed parallel lines.
Then entranced by dead bugs.
Or dreading getting hair cuts.
Or in rain running barefoot
in yards with scattered dog ****.
And Spring cloudy evenings,
She'd sing to the trees outside,
And the leaves would wave and clap,
And she'd be alive before age five.
Near open windows,
she painted with her hands
A picture of her family holding hands,
Cause all her crayons were broken.
Oh curly blonde she sang again,
When she heard
Mom and Dad making a commotion.

Sandra Rosie thought differently
than most Sandra's her age.
Always clear wide-eyed
in those cataract days.
Depressed mother or father,
Priceless dreamer they raised.
In this dimly lit world,
she shined on the stage.
She ran aimless and free.
She played her recorder
on every night of the week,
She danced her fingers
in piano key melodies.
And sang soft to herself,
before she fell asleep.

Sweet salvaged Sandra Rosie,
Every night said a prayer,
That she learned from her father
or mother somewhere.

"Dear Lord, keep me healthy,
      And Lord keep me kind,
    Dear Lord I will keep you
      This night on my mind.
    And please watch my family,
      And rescue the blind,
    And let my rest be peaceful,
      And peace for mankind"

Then each night she would dream,
A special kind of dream,
Where she'd live in quiet forests,
And her family would raise bees.
Or she'd wake up in a phone booth
At age twenty-three,
Questioning her diet, her lover, her sanity.

The outstanding Sandra Rosie,
A dreamer in day,
Curious in ways too beautiful to say.
A guiding child innocence leading the way.
She stands in confidence day by day.
When she watches from a distance,
The bluebirds hatched eggs,
Or starts sitting on her hair,
Cause it's grown to her legs.
Then asks her weary mother
To teach her ballet.
But mama responds,
   "Perhaps another day"

Oh, Sandra Rosie,
Make sure you take your time,
Otherwise it will fly,
and you might lose your mind.
And the older you get
The more questions you'll ask,
And the older you get
The more'll get left in your past.
And you'll learn things you don't want to.
You might hug your mom less.
You'll find out that your happiness
is not part of success.
You'll start caring about numbers,
on a scale or your chest.
You might be easily tricked
into having ***.
you'll enjoy getting cross faded,
and you'll pretend to like kale,
or get high to bad music.

Kid, it's more than reasonable,
to hop a train headed west,
Than to say that someday I'll finally
hop a train headed west.

But for now Sandra Rosie,
Please wish on the stars.
Be alive at age five,
Ride on dogs back

In some years Sandra Rosie,
She will grow like every other.
She will have read all the classics,

on floors with cardboard cover.
Or paint on a canvas every wrinkle in time,
In room lit with strings of Christmas lights.
Oh, the more you grow dear Sandra Rosie,
The more I know

The truth is I'm not very good at anything I do. I'm not trying to throw a pity party but honestly, I have never done or thought anything worth while. My hands are really ***** right now and sometimes when I'm on my period I wont wear underwear and I'll were a dress. I haven't washed my sheets in months and I've been wearing the same pair of underwear for five days. I stopped doing my laundry, so when I finally do change my underwear I wont even put on a clean pair, I will just put on a less ***** pair. I keep forgetting to eat and so far I've lost nine pounds! Nine! Which puts me at 132lbs. I haven't been that small since my freshman year. I can't focus on school. I can't focus on anything except writing sometimes. I like to paint on my arms and then go in the shower and watch the paint pool at my feet. I lay in snow banks because I like how the cold snow hurts my skin and I often look in the mirror and slap myself in the face really hard because it makes me feel better for a second. I'm sick. My brain is wrong. Reading makes me want to puke. Literally puke! I just looked up how many miles it takes to get to Chicago from here. I don't have enough money to get all the way there. I'm going ******* nuts! Locomotive. Locomotive. Maybe I should smoke a bunch of ****, or get super drunk, or go streaking, or run away, or fake my own death, or swallow a bunch of pills and either enjoy the high or die. Is it sad that I call myself a writer but if I was someone else I wouldn't read my own poetry. It tries too hard. Honestly, I use rhyming words. Not even cool ones. I rhyme words like five and alive. ******* every poet ever has done the exact same thing. It's not good. It's really not good. I use to be able to just sleep my worries off! I can't even do that anymore. I can't sleep for more than two hours at a time. I never never sleep and time keeps going and I look at the clock and it reads 11 PM and then I look at the clock again and it says 5:40 AM. **** me! For real! **** me! Manic depressive ginger faced ****! If I had a spoon in my hands I would drag the cold metal over the blue veins on my wrists. Why am I writing this here? Because none of you can find me! ******* Flee! Here are some words you probably hate now... ****, *****, Niger, ****-****! **** face! Racist! ****! Shut up! There are a lot worse things that could happen to your day! Go buy some ******* macaroons and watch the ******* desperate housewives and daydream about your ******* sugar-daddy future! I don't care who you are! I don't know any of you! I just want my head! Did you know I'm asexual! What the **** am I suppose to do with that! I'm a ******* plant! A Plant! I'm no better than a ******* Fern! At least a Fern is good at what it does. God was suppose to make me a ******* Fern but somehow I am a ******* Human! What the ****! **** me! For real! ***** ****** ****! Eat It!!!

He would come home from work with Shel Silverstein poems and candy cigarettes.
My brother always took the fake cancer sticks and left Shel for me.
I would make origami swans out of MASKS,
and paper hats out of The Giving Tree.
All the windows were always open in the house,
and the breeze would stir up the wind chimes hung both indoors and out.
Mom was always painting in the dining room or on the porch,
and dad would bring a new canvas home for her every week.
At night we would all eat dinner in the living room and watch Jeopardy,
and mom and dad would sit really close to each other and try to answer the questions on the TV.

Sometimes he came home from work with roses for mom because she was pregnant,
and we got our first family photo taken,
and we hung it above our fireplace like rich people did.
One day dad didn’t bring a new canvas for mom so, she painted the couch,
and they argued,
and my brother and I began to build blanket forts in our bedroom,
and we drew signs that said no moms or dads allowed,
Mom started getting too tired to cook dinner, so
dad would make everyone quick meals,
and he would sit on the lazy-boy instead of on the sofa next to mom.

Sometimes he would come home from work with bags.
Not shopping bags, but bags under his eyes from working two shifts.
At home he would fall onto the painted couch and sleep most of the day.
Mom began visiting my grandma by herself,
and while dad was asleep my brother and I would chase geese in the yard,
And sometimes we would catch one and we put it in dads room.
It started getting colder outside so we closed all the windows in the house,
but the outdoor wind chimes kept dancing in their music through the fall.
Mom and dad started yelling at each other more and more,
and mom was getting really big.

Sometimes dad would never leave for work.
He stayed inside all day and played video games on the TV,
and mom was still sour about dad not buying her new canvas boards,
and she painted the TV screen when dad was in the shower.
They yelled for a long time,
and my brother and I stayed a few nights at my grandmas with mom.
Mom went into early labor,
and my brother and I sat in a hospital waiting room for eight hours.
Dad showed up to see my new sister be born,
and things were okay again for a little bit.

Sometimes he would come home with big hugs and a last minute fishing trip,
and mom asked him to stay, but he wouldn’t.
Grandma came over to babysit my brother and I so mom could go to a party,
and we built another blanket fort, only this time it was in the livingroom,
and we rented The Passion of The Christ,
and I dreamt that dad was going to sell me for thirty silver pieces.
Mom came home really late and wobbled in a pair of black stilettos towards her bedroom,
and dad came home two weeks later,
and mom and dad screamed at each other,
and mom flushed her wedding ring down the toilet.

Sometimes he hated coming home,
and the neighbor with eight fingers started flirting with mom,
and  he would pretend that he was gonna cut my fingers like his,
and for some reason mom laughed at that violent gag.
My brother and I sat by the door at night in case dad came home,
and the new baby liked to cry a lot.
And one day I snuck up on mom to scare her, and
she was holding broken glass from the family photo to her face.
I told my brother and he thought that maybe she was just trying to shave,
like dad use to.

Sometimes he stopped coming home,
and mom lost the house and moved us into the car.
The eight fingered man got into a fight with mom,
and he syphoned our gas twice.
One day I saw dad in the Meijer parking lot,
and he was with a blonde woman,
whose **** were literally bigger than her head.
I woke mom up and told her,
and she drove to a different lot.

Sometimes he never called me or my brother,
and mom met someone new,
and the new guy had baggy pants and an obsession with football.
And mom got pregnant again,
and the new blonde hair blue eyed baby looked nothing like his dark skinned father,
and we moved into a house again.
My brother and I stopped mentioning our dad to each other,
and the windows in the new house were nailed shut.
Mom was always tired, falling asleep on the toilet or while cooking dinner.
I noticed that gradually we began living with more and more painted furniture.

Sometimes he would write a letter to us,
and mom said if it were a letter then it’s probably from the jail,
and no one ever told me why he went to jail.
My brother and I never wrote back to him,
and I caught my new step-dad burning the old family photo.
One day dad called the house,
and he said he wanted to see us,
and talking to him felt like talking to a stranger.
Mom and the step-dad began collecting small orange bottles,
and at night they locked themselves in their room.
My brother and I would make beds in the livingroom,
and all my siblings would sleep on the floor together.

Sometimes I think about my childhood,
and I’m okay with how things turned out.
I know to fully appreciate the calm of an open window,
and I often write people letters now.
I don’t have the time to see mom and dad much anymore,
but I often feel sorry for them and their aimlessness.
I visit my siblings on weeks when I can,
and I try hard to love them the best that I can.
I’ve forgiven the things that might seem unfair,
I’ve moved on to a new life,
It’s better, I swear


*
My brother and I found a box of candy cigarettes at the supermarket last week,
and before bed last night I read aloud Shel Silverstein's,  A Boy Named Sue,
and everything was good again.

In the times of my fragile heart, I imagine myself at a train-stop, a faraway train-stop at 2 AM, or in a country not mine, listening to the streets and Nico, wondering when it will rain next, or one block away from here at the bar with wood panels, drinking blues on a Tuesday afternoon.
In the days after I left home, where my brothers sleep on torn couches, in paintless rooms or ripped wallpaper. The dishes there were always *****. The curtains were always closed and the living-room would be coated in darkness of day. The poor kids are fine, but so far from okay.

In a green beret lives her grandfather's ghost,
engrained in the wool his blood is soaked,
she wears it as a fashion hoax,
to tell her friends and blow cigarette smoke.
Still, over the years the hat grows smaller,
but the beret reminds her poor grandfather,
of the overcast days when bombs hit the shore,
the days he forgot what he was fighting for.
The day he left his wife and kids,
to fight and **** innocent pigs.
And this green beret, which he laid down his life,
for the freedom of his granddaughter, his sons, and his wife.

We watch the tsunami of lust,
fill up up the lungs of the young.
Careless marked as hipster queen,
too blind to see the dirt
underneath their high heeled feet.

Follow me, dust to dust.
Our aching feet will rejoice once again,
Where the leaves fall
and the stars explode into the glittery cosmos.
Speckled with atheism and creationism at once.
Where no man falls under rule
and no crates of bone return home.
Where empty minds don't exists,
and knowledge is sought through recreation.
And dogs don't wear the suit and tie,
and women are men too,
where kids imagine,
where parents say yes.
Where our reach is endless.
Where the metal bullet collects layers of dust.
When what needs to be said will be said,
and the new is no longer our worst fear.
When I no longer sit and wait,
and instead I hear and now.
With my scattered and erased etcha-sketch mind,
I follow the noise and not the cattle.
When everything I say will be true.
Oh lead me to the sight of those years.

The difference between a writer and everyone else,
A writer needs no recognition for their work,
They do not lust for what wealth they might gain,
A good writer does not need applause,
Does not need praise,
Does not need rewards,
Does not even need to be published.
A good writer is partial talent,
A good writer writes often.
A good writer see's the world,
      and its finest details.
They stay behind for the ending,
         the rolling credits.
They make tea and drink coffee.
They fall in love too quickly,
and fall out of love just as fast.
A good writer translates feelings into words,
they form it to flow like a soft stream.
A good writer is quiet.
A good writer is loud.
They carry their tools everywhere they go.
They enjoy the tangible.
The soft paper on their hands,
the way the ink bleed from the pen.
A good writer writes in all ways,
about all things,
and all emotions.
A good writer is a historian,
an endless burning torch,
their words will forever inspire the world,
As a single soul.

The beast follows her, day in and day out.
The shadow casts on her bones,
her skull comes dry.
The idea of running is too costly.
Her halted heart and plastic thoughts
no longer reflect her eyes,
now a misty glass.
My pen draws her on the paper,
words,
knowing I will never be the only mind to ***** through these words,
My innermost thoughts,
but still there are things my audience will never know.
As beautifully magical as words may be,
what could ever describe the feeling of a certain place,
on a certain day?
Thoughts too beautiful no words could give them justice.
So instead, we die with those memories.
Our minds immersed in the ground,
the sea,
the sky,
the stars.
So we sit,we wait,
in a white, blank, canvas.
Only painting in our heads.

At the end of my sentence he laughs,
I see his appealing crooked smile,
his dark brown eyes covered by the Buddy Holly glasses he got in 8th grade.
He will look down and then back up,
our eyes meet for a few moments,
we both want to say much more than we already are,
I hope he doesn't get bored with me.
Does he hope the same?
Forget that.
For now, just for now, you have his attention,
and you have full permission to get completely lost in that.

You find yourself in Pittsburgh
In the shackles of Sinead,
You hear your name in circles,
and you play it on repeat,
When all the drums start playing,
The marching carries you out,
You can’t hear what their saying,
The music’s just too loud,

I’ll carry on the night,
Brown stars and the moon fight,
Run around my kids,
And watch all the pigs,
Wearing suits and ties,
Lash out at all the agitators,
Procreators, Legislative, creatures of the night. Debators, and anti-human manipulators

Let them guess all your secrets,
Let them hear your soothing voice,
no matter who the leader,
their job is to devoice,
and once let your mind float away,
into the plastic techno joy,
it may only be an illusion,
but to be illuded is your choice

And everything they’re saying,
about all our future plans,
oh how I wish they’d realize,
the future is in our hands,
and this division in the world,
leaves and endless race,
where we separate our families,
based off race, or place, or gays.

For one second not to notice,
For one moment not to care,
and everyday we want to give up,
or wallow in despair,
youth only driven by parent goals,
Money leave the dreamers trapped in a hole,
And at some point we all must choice to lose or let go.

Walking slightly hunched, and so very beautiful.
I can't say much about him,
What if he reads this one day?
But I will say what I see.

I see him and I can feel my heart beat fast and slow at the same time,
In my mind words fly all around,
hitting the walls and crashing to my tongue,
He makes me stumble in the best of ways.
I see him in the future,
and I hope so much that he still has wonder,
I see it in his eyes,
he questions everything and I admire that.
I see that he is sure of himself,
and unsure of himself at the same time.
I see his words and how they become softer when we speak.
I think I see his want for his father.
His desire for a family,
His need for knowledge.
I see the possible sadness that follows him,
I see that maybe he really is always happy.
I see how calm he is while listening to music,
how his actions are always slow and thought out.
I see his lust for adventure and something different,
I love that about him.
I see ow willing he is to try new things,
and the willingness to share those experiences.
I see you always craving something new,
so beautiful.
I see so much, so much more.
I hope you see me too.

I just want to remind you about life,
I want you to remember me after I have long been gone,
I want you to remember laying outside by yourself
contemplating the universe and your mind,
focusing on the moon even when you don't have your glasses on,
remember how you loved your grandmas house,
and the wind on your face during summer.
Remember the crowded home on Thanksgiving,
and going back to school and talking to people you love like family.
Remember the excitement of seeing that one boy,
You know who I'm referring to.
The freshman year crush that is forever on going,
remember his eyes even when they were hard to see.
Remember the first time you touched his hands,
how surprisingly soft they were.
Remember how everything was always possible to you,
and how you detested those who said otherwise.
How every day was potential for adventure,
and how you tried so so hard to not be a sheep,

What a runner,
all the life in his eyes everyday,
Not one could keep up,
could catch up,
bolts of lightning would challenge you and lose.
His face would sparkle with amusement.
It still does.
Will that go away with age?
It has with so many others,
but no, not you sweet boy,
Little boy,
stay little

Everyone wants to be a little more odd,
put your soul to the moon and treat it like God,
Well I never had young love,
but old love is enough for me,

I'm too scared of too many thing,
Especially when it come to singing in front of you,
And there's also lots of places I still want to go,
It’s always been my dream to be able to roam,
but don't fret my lovely,
cause someday I’ll make a new discovery

My sister,
You are a hero of youth,
of girls,
you are awful sometimes,
but I never blame you for it,
I have seen you from your young age,
how beautiful you are becoming,
and how good you are at avoiding your problems,
I can see them always hovering at your head,
and you use your stethoscope eyes to see past them,
what a talent few posses,
but don't be afraid to talk to them,
to look them in the eyes and tell them
I am more than what you tried to make me,
Don't allow them to haunt you,
don't let them use you for their wicked ways,
your light is too bright to allow that,
you think you are no good sometimes,
that you aren't good,
but everybody can be good,
even people who have been in pain for a long time,
use that pain as motivation,
it is special,
it makes you have a connection with things and people,
I don't have that ability,
and I can't imagine how hard the sacrifice would be,
you are more than just a twerp,
you are a sister and a friend,
and when you laugh,
and you say we are not friends,
I know you feel the same

I miss them,
I miss them in all sorts of ways,
we would argue,
laugh at the argument,
I could have been kinder,
Now,
now it's almost as if they died,
as if I never knew them,
Now we call,
we call to hear that echoey tune,
the hum and life we lived with once,
where everyday we were mad but happy,
we hated each other,
but we didn't need love from anywhere else,
and that hum stays with us when the phone goes out,
it sinks in deep to our soul and sleeps,
and we sleep,
knowing that we have been robbed,
robbed of 18 years or more,
robbed of something so many take for granted,
and so many others have been robbed as well,
we did not get our 18,
but instead 4, 5, 7, 10, 13,15,
and what a beautifully horrid 15 years it was for me,
still I miss them,
God I miss them

It frustrates me and fascinates me that we'll never know for sure, that despite the best efforts of historians and scientists and poets, there are some things we'll just never know.
What the first song sounded like.
How it felt to see the first photograph.
who kissed the first kiss, and if it was any good. -Isacc Marion

The truth is something no one wants to hear you say,
just go on your way and have a nice day.  -Unknown

I don't have the answers to my questions,
but I feel their existence. -Isacc Marion

Money is a hell of a drug,
I need a little more,
enough is never quite enough.

When we are young fairy tales and mysteries of the world engulf us.
We are fascinated by everything, and only believe in truth.
Our minds wonder and wander. We are free in every sense of the word. I want to stay a child forever.
I never want to get old and bitter.
Adults hearts too often turn to ice. I want to stay a child.
God keep me a child!

I'll let the ink sink in,
I don't need that house on Lake Michigan,
simple life,
simple living,
I wish it were that easy.

Tight black dress,
she grew up too fast,
repeated history,
it barley missed me,
little kettle keep boiling,
hold the steam in stream,
you break in the wrong place,
but its okay,
broken and used,
belittled and abused,
the one you don't expect will always love you.

Do you think of me?
I know times are tough,
and the truth can be a noose.
man tie the knot,
just avoid life till it's through,
isn't that the way it goes.
Please still think of me.

Hands in love with handlebars, pencils, dirt, food, ash,
Leave me deprived,
Don't be sore,
Things will be good once again.

It was different then,
It was pure then,
It was kind, sweet, new, romantic,
It was good,
Peach lotion,
Distant trees,
Close enough to catch,
Cats, dogs, rats, snakes,
We were part of the world then,
A small part,
But we were in it.
What do we have now?
Nothing but plastic in hand,
Put your shoes on,
Put your virtual toy away,
And,
Enjoy the air,
While there is air to enjoy.

Have no fear,
When we get where we are going,
The tide will let us know,
Smell of the air,
Reminds me of younger years,
Turned so stale as I grew,
It may not seem so,
There is little here for me so I must go,
Don't expect to see flashbacks,
I'm falling.

I love those who are not above me
nor below me.