when you realize you don't care
that you're going to get wet,
you'll never need a jacket again.

facts don’t change
peoples minds.

stories do,

Roses are beautiful,
but even more so dead;
weak and wilted,
not sad but misread.
Peeling petals,
reflective red,
sanguine silk,
a bittersweet bed.

i love the blood
pounding in my head,
as you dangle me upside-down—
lips turning bright red.

and some day
the rain will pour,
all the way down
and hit the ocean floor—

countless names
wash up on shore,
with an empty face
and empty core

I don't know the whole story
But it's all gonna pass
You shouldn't feel sorry
For shattering like glass

with cash taped to
the underlining of her skirt,
she walks on home
silent on the dirt...
the way she moves,

with a little sharp stick
and a little wrist twitch—
connecting with fists,
she scratches that itch...
the way she moves,

when do you begin?
afraid of life,
afraid of sin

silently,
she shows us how to be
in the deep mental groves,
all presented by
the way she moves