Music that makes you cry
And a love that makes you want to die
A beat that makes you scream
And someone with whom to scheme

A world that never ends
The impossibility of making amends
A colonization you can not escape
The place that will never take shape

Taking over my mind...

Sometimes I feel like a walking calamity.

sort of unfinished-
like a painting missing just that last daub.
Like a sketch instead of a snapshot.

I'm clothes that don't totally fit.

I feel ungrateful- often.
Smarmy and altruistic.
A vain liar.

the princess ideal is not for me
nor is the martyr

but lately I feel I wear both the dress, the cross and the crown.

Invisible stigmatas staining my palms.

Bearing everyone's burdens but my own.
When did I decide that was my job?

Who chose to put me in this role?

If I am in charge of my own destiny, why did I choose such a lousy one?


in the final fight,
I won't walk to the light. I'll brandish my umbrella for the storm cloud.

I've painted on the silver lining for others. They've eaten my words.
But this is something I cannot swallow.

Oh life- you bitter pill.

There is a tide
Roaring up to my toes
As I am glued
To this crummy sand
This sand was God's plan
To bread the ashes
So we can store it in Poseidon's belly
I was the leftovers
From the City Hopkins Dance
Be kind
The sob stories
Are locked up
With the " how do you do's"
And the "I'm feeling fine"

There is a tide
Roaring up to my knees
People need to stop pleading
If they noticed me
Lurking in the shadows
Tied down behind them
They were too busy
With the racket ***** on recess
Maybe I could believe in it
Every white lie
Wiped across their unconcerned faces.

There is a tide
Roaring up to my wounded heart
Yes the heart
The heart that lays in my chest
The same chest that you laid on
Strawberries
That was the last thing I remember
About you

A scar on my wrist,
To you it's just a mark.
I know how it was placed there,
Alone in the darkness.
Odd how esoteric,
A single slice may be.
To me a cry for help.
For you slipped sheath.
Only the ones who done it,
Are the ones who can see.
The marks on your wrist,
Was from a mental disease.