Sometimes
it all seems so real
     Like this reality weighs heavily on my chest and I can’t breathe.
my stomach jumps and sends this cold fire throughout my body and I feel it.

I feel the world boiling in my consciousness and there’s no release that could possibly be worthy of this feeling.
Then I tell myself I'm just being dramatic and I tamp that feeling down with my fear and sadness and a yearning for eventualities.
Sometimes I’m not sure what I mean.
Sometimes I make stuff up.
But really I’m just an awkward almost-twenty year old who wants her life to be something.
Extraordinary
But.so.is.everyone.else.
And isn’t that right?
Isn’t that rich?
That we are all one.
A vast ocean of “ones”.
I’m really just a wave.
And it is alright to be a wave.
Because waves, they move.
It’s alright to be dramatic though. Why not?
I have this mind that wants out and I keep suppressing it. At least I’m pretty sure I do. Maybe I don’t. Maybe it is only on occasion that I tell it to shut up because it all is just too much.
That’s probably it.
Who am I really?
I guess I could list all of my traits and that could be who I am. Or what I have accomplished in life, and presto, you have…me.
Then there’s this consciousness that sits inside this flesh and controls it. That could be who I am. But that consciousness is just the acts it has achieved and the traits it has portrayed, is it not?
So I guess what I’m saying is.
The I that is me has not achieved satisfactory on my scale of living by which I measure my worth.

Not yet anyway

I sat in astonishment
as the delicacy
flew by our table,
its little legs outstretched,
teeth & nails intact,
it was cooked perfectly,
served in suspended-animation.

When the tourist-girl
puked at the next table,
I decided to order
the Chorizos & Rice instead.

I fell for her, without even realising it,
A broken ecstacy of forgotten dreams,
Her voice a synthetic melody to my ears,
Her smile a pure yet mellow happiness,

I long for just a glimpse of her,
But knowing that each second we are together,
I fall for her just a little bit more,
When she looks into my eyes the world seems empty.

A wasted obsession forms at my lips,
She knows my weaknesses and plays them,
The silence seams cold,
As she pushes me away,

But poetry cant be formed from a broken heart..

What we see and what we hear is never simple,
each syllable a figment of your own stark imagination,
the waves that lap against the shore,
are nothing but a fragmented section in the seeds of time,

Love whispers softly in your ear,
but don't listen to the sweet serenading voice,
this voice will lie to you,
Love doesn't even exist.

Pain will be inflicted upon those who listen,
their hearts will be turned to dust in a split second,
Angels will even turn against them,
there eyes scream a pain so livid.

The imagination is powerful,
each image fractured in the brackets of your brain,
images of him or her, are conceived here,
this is where you are tricked.

you think you will be happy with him,
You long to be confined in her presence,
lies are seeping past the lips of the wicked,
forgotten dreams are mesmerized here.

Do not let it trick you,
block out the enchanting voice,
live in the confines of a four corner room,
then the world can't hurt you.

I was raised
on the ways of
the Wolf.
I applied these ways
to the best of
my ability.
Only to be set
loose to live amongst
the sheep.
Where
my ways were
considered savage
and unreasonable.

I turned to
the Poppy
and the *****.
I was insearch
of a temporary
sanctuary from
the  past misdeeds
replaying
themselves
inside my head.

Only at a later
age did I come
to understand
these wounds
that still
bleed leave
trails full of
wasted years,
lost lovers and
forgotten
hopes
and dreams.

I counted the
Black and Whites
as they passed
me by.
I tried to
melt into the
crowd.
The vigilance
and anger in
my heart refused
to walk amongst
the live stock.
For I was raised
as one with
brother Wolf.
I needed to
run on the outside
of their
invisible bindings.

I died everyday
for 3 years .
I pulled
from the *****
then turned to
the poem and
discovered
a new way
to torture
my  mind while
healing the heart.

I dropped
the mask I
had wore
for so many
of these
theatrical
years.

I set about
revealing hearts
blood and fractured
bone.
I ripped the
inside of
me out and
presented it
as treasure.
Only to find
the masses
are indeed
too much
like sheep.
Never
understanding the
manners of
the wolf....

He stood at the
height of most men's
shoulders.
But grew into the
size of Goliath while
full of wheat barley and ****.

His pale blue eyes
sat peacefully in the center of the
angry blood shot pool
that had once been
as white as the
hair on his head.

He was handy with his
hands but his hands
usually held a bottle.
He drank only at certain
bars,only around those
who had come to
know his rage.

He wasn't allowed home
when ever he had become
one with the ranting
and raving lunatic
who lived deep down
in his soul.

His voice was raspy
from too many cigarettes
and too much
drunken screaming.

He had pains that called
for pills and names he
swore he would ****.

And he drank every time
like it was it his first time
or maybe the last.
Always enough to
awake that
giant within.

The nights have
always been the worst.
Sitting alone
with a drink
and some drugs.

Close to the
open window,
listening to
the sounds of
the night.

Passing cars and sirens,
a couple arguing
somewhere down the alley,
a whistle set loose
by one of the young
whose turn it
is now to
own the same
night that I
once did.

That slow and
lonely fog horn
sounding it's
warning every 45
seconds a quarter
mile out.

The mind filing through
the days events.
The failures
and the progressions
that weren't really
any type of
real progress at all.

Flipping through it all
in search of a reason.
Images flashing,
the infants smile
or that girls manicured
fingertips gently
along your face.
Magicly guiding
you into a kiss that you
knew meant nothing
to her at all.

Still drinking,
still using,
still counting the
seconds between the fog horns
sounds of the night.

Still trying to keep it all intact.
Mind,
Heart,
Body,
and Muse.

Waiting on a word,
a line.
Something to put
down and save
for the ages.

The nights are
the hardest,
that they've
always been.
But the night
is usually when
this magic
appears.