Fire ran wild in her blood,
licking the walls of arteries
begging for sweet escape,
in the sound of an alarm
pounding in her chest.

Awoken by the screams
of her own ****** soul,
hell runs through her veins,
and her mind...

the throne to it.

The best kind of cold,
overtakes the forest tonight.
Chilling to the bone,
dripping wet leaves surround me in perfection.

Trees stand high,
but hoodies pulled almost closed keep me warm.

I am alone,
but the ghost of company remains...

Bathe in the stars,
ineffable beauty,
and cry like the cosmos.
Constellations of your beauty
gather crowds by the thousands
every year,
just so they can get a glimpse of you.

Milky way smiles,
align the planets
just for you.

Bathe and bask
in moonlit glory,
as you are one with the universe,

and the universe's beauty
is one
in
you.

There will be those who scorn the sun
for how bright it shines,
do not allow fools
who still admire sunsets
after berating you
to dim you down.

Your ever flowing grace
I have met
only in stranger's faces
in pure joy
as they enjoy
a meteor shower.

Whoever reads this,
remember...

you are one with the universe,

and the universe's beauty
is one
in
you.

Paint me blue with energy,
Gatorade bottles spilled on me,
take away the sadness of today.

Broken is broken,

whether it is a crack,

or shards on the glass floor.

I sail on a boat
in the middle of sea,
sand and waves
calling to me,

skin unburnt
fights washed away,
as I say evening prayers,
to live another day.

I am back to my middle school self

I can feel my bones decaying back to
that little 5'1 girl,
hiding in the back of class,

shoulders hunched with pressure
for perfection,
worry etched in lines
on her thighs.

The child no more but not quite the adult yet,
sitting down to eat alone.

Alone, I enjoy it.

No one to worry about, no one to care,

Alone,

I can die, Alone, without a soul left to haunt me.

Alone,
Waiting for freedom,

was death what I was waiting for?

Alone.

And here I am yet again,
Waiting at the door,
melancholy no more,
begging for freedom,
picking the scenery apart,
down to the bone.

Cool purples and blues,
play in the night,
I know now what's
behind me,
I know not what's in my sight.

I wear grief like a look,
on the edge of freedom
begging to be let loose,

but

staying in the house,
imagining freedom,
rather than face
the disappointment
that it truly is.

Think between drags of a cigarette,
do I dare excite myself?
Or drown the hope
before it drowns me?

No time for deep breaths here,
just existence
on a celestial plane.

.
.
.

And here I am yet again,
Waiting at the door,
melancholy no more...

If I hold my mind
above my GPA
would the numbers spin the same?

4.5 my ***,
I hate the way prideful disgust
enters me at teachers praise.

Parents proud at the cost of their child.
A "Your best is not good enough"
for every B received.

4 Cambridge classes, 2 college classes, a sports medicine class, four club-

"Your best is not good enough."

4.5 GPA, A in advanced classes, 11 exams this ye-

"Your best is not good enough."

Echo your complaints in the sound of the bottomless pit that is my word count.

I do not recall signing my sleep away,
when signing up for classes.

Some will understand,
some will say "That's life"
and disregard everything written above,
as a child's last attempt
to be saved
from a system
she is a slave
to.

How many intelligent friends do I have,
that refuse to take up their time with busy work,
that teachers scoff at?

Too many.

I spend this weekend doing a 1,200 to 1,500 word essay, a power point counted as an exam, writing over 70 slides of notes, rescheduling finals, then volunteering from 11 to 1, and do not forget to go to church.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

take a week and spend it in your child's shoes,
and find that
back talk is nothing but stress
built up.

I used my break today to write this,
Because God forbid,
I take 5 minutes to myself.

in conclusion,
mock me,
or relate,
The truth of the matter lies
bare in the numbers.

I care not how long this is or how many will save it or relate,

this poem is for myself,
I can only hope to have reached another soul.

At the bottom of the ocean,
fearing not being
deep enough,
and grabbing a shovel,
in hopes that drowning
will bring someone beauty.

And I wear her aura
like a bracelet
on my wrist,

the same way
I wear my boots
in the fabric
of my own skin.

I pick at the scabs,
left in my mind
from falling off
my destined path.

Blood breaks the barrier,
and tears spill anew
with it.

Healed wounds do not make for good poetry.

Guns drip in your metallic coolness,
character breaks as often
as a bullet.

But who am I,
to judge a man
by his stoic presence,
than by his
gentle nature.

Gray soaked in silver linings,
I await for you here,
for that cool touch,
once more.

I'm finding guilt
underneath the carpet's
edges
as I dust them there.

Deal with it later,

pushing away emotions like meals,
promising myself to finish them off
but ending up throwing the scraps
of whats left of me
to the dogs.

And that's all I am aren't I?

Pieces of meat to be flung at the hungry
take parts of my soul like parting gifts
thoughts like unwelcomed house guests.

But who am I to stand on this ground
and claim it to be my own?

I belong to those who control me,
making statements
"Skirt too short"
"Hair unkempt"
"Too big"

With every bitter bite
in their sentences
a chain is added
to my collar.

Make me obey,
simply because if I was too free,
what fear would it cause you?

Passion or anger I know not the difference anymore.
I pick up pieces of shattered glass
And set them aside
like a puzzle
not worth putting together.

I don't know who I'm angry at anymore.
Myself for not dealing with these feelings earlier,
or the bitter call to obedience I answer?

Tame me once more,
and my bite will not go away,
but simply be domesticated.

And with those thoughts I leave you,
dare to cross me again,
and I will not wear your collar,
with prideful ambition
as I once did.

Her corpse careens
through the night.

Pacing up and down
till morning light.

Her soul returns with sunrise
and her body now not a fight.

Take away her pain,
strip her of the sight.

A need for the darkness,
to numb the pain onsite.

She lives another day,
breaths another night.

Take away her sunburns
for moonlight.




She is alive and alright.

Between the lines of boredom
lie something so much deeper

skin cut
eyes shut

what is there to be interested in anymore?

He
is a story
I do not mind
reading over
and over
and over
and over
and over
again.

Emotions wash over me like waves,
sandy imprints
left in my memory,

Of that one summer day
where we broke the rules
like seashells snapping
underneath our feet.

We blind ourselves
from the blazing sunny truth
just for a while with sunglasses.

We can take them off anytime,
but prefer to keep them on.

Sipping on sadness soda,
but enjoying every bit of it.

Darling, leave your shoes at the door,















there's no room for that sand in future's home.

I fear not the hands that hit me,
but the eyes that judge me so.

I fear not the tongues affliction,
as those come and go.

I fear not the stranger's glance,
but the words in their vision.

I fear not that which will **** me,
I fear survival of the fittest.

Set me free and wild
and leave me be
maybe I wanna
be alone
but not in a sad way
for a while.

I adore empty roads and the
promises they bring me.

I adore changing sky's
with evening delicacies.

I just wanna be alone
and enjoy it all.

I find no comfort in the touches of strange,
the lies I read,
in their future
etched into their palm.

The eyes I can not decipher,
I find nothing beautiful
about that shade of green,
it sickens me
that her eyes,
I've found in another's.

Pour out to me a milky soul,
I cannot see its depth,
Some may find this uncertainty
exciting,
but to dive wholeheartedly
into the abyss...




Tell me, where you shocked when it hurt you?

I do not blame you,
for every person I meet
has a mist hiding their
intentions.

Everyone is a stranger.

The question now is

Are you afraid to live life alone?

I am the moon monster.
I hide under the bags in your eyes,
Holding them at gunpoint,
Threatening them
To close.

The pillow and bed like food and water,
I deny and deprive
You of your daily intake.

A paper on the film industry under communism
Steals an hour
For every
Word
Counted.

Crave sleep with your soul,
Smell the decadent cool
Crisp
Comforting
Cocky in their perfect folding,
Sheets.

I watch them mock you,
And in their creases,
I hide a smile.

Drooping faces
Wishing you were sinking into
A bed
Rather than
Into a frown.

The clock ticks like the cogs
Working in your cranium
Late night carnivores
Mouth watering
Like melting Neptune’s blue hue.
Stripping your need
Bone-licking naked.

I hear an audio recording of my mother,
“What are you doing up so late?”
Her response echoing
In the craters of the moon.

How many late-night papers
Will I feed the beast?
One for every late night
Rogue,
Feasting on the starlight,
Making wings from the feathers
Of their pillows.

Dip your cookies into the milky way,
Sweet temptation,
You cannot get enough.

For every stressor,
We find a rebel.

Who finds a friend
In the void,
Calling
Every night
To make sure
He is ok.

Gluing their wings together with
The power of supernovas
And plasma,
“Icarus, the stars cannot hurt you here.”

I am not the moon monster to them,
I am the feathered friend.
That turns into an alarm clock
The next day.

Because for every pleasure there is pain.
And for the night there is a price.

You must make strangers with the day,
Suffering through sleepy temptations
That Mr. Smith refuses to acknowledge.

You can hear drunk wavelengths
Calling on you to answer
What the ***** of x=3 is,
Your answer
Remains undefined.

Slip stuttering conversations
To friends at lunch
Under the door
And you will be allowed to sleep
No longer.

Your grades will suffer,
Your parents,
As scornful as the sun.

But Icarus,
Do not fly near it.

Wait till I come.
Your moon monster
Will feather you, friend.
And you will be free,
Once again.

I have traded my youth,
for 'education'.

Joints lecture bursts
of pain to show me
that running from class to class
with heavy backpacks,
I still have not learned my lesson.

Mindless memorizing mimics
magical and mysterious minds,
manipulating math,
a subject destroyed,
by it's very creators.

I take notes on how to
spend late nights
crying over spilled ink,
papers all ruined,
hours of work...
I sigh and start from the top.

Eleven exams, then 7 finals, then FSA's,

No, these numbers are all real.
To the adults who took their turn
in cheer leading outfits of the 1990's
I beg for you to count
with the same system I learned,
how many more hours I need to study,
how many exams I have left to go.


I almost forgot my birthday this year,
because midterm season,
was the only 'surprise!'
I expected.

I ache as I write,
Say I exaggerate all you wish,
But my poems are begging to be structured like essays,
as this stanza turns into a counterpoint.

My freedom of thought
I eat at lunch,
seated between friends,
eating their childhoods all the same.


To conclude:
School *****,
I am grateful it builds character(s),
but how many more
mindless
slaves
does this world still need?


Count with them with the same system I learned...
Your coworkers,
your wife,
your husband,
the mirror.

How many more,
tell me,



how many more?

I'm digging into skin
I forgot I had,
reminding myself I am still alive,
with deathly tones of

"But you don't deserve it.".

Hidden in red.

Oh wretched, filthy, witches of thee,
tell me,
am I the sinner you want me to be?

I have longed for the moment,
where kindness turns against me,
and karma
overtakes me.

Years of forgiveness show no purpose,
vengeance is now the only truth I hold,
knife in one hand,
mercy in my imagination.

Drive me to the point beyond repair,
your magicks were illusive,
when I was fighting the spell,
it was draining me of 'nice' energy.

Your goal was never to **** me all in oneself.
Oh no,
A goal I could not see,
It was to drive me to broken glass
shards of pain
against melancholy skin,

oh,

it was... it was to make sure my anger was not relieved after it was gone,

b
u
t

to make me regret it for the rest of my days.

My blood still boils like your cauldron,
I still regret,
that I let
thee witches
push me
over
the
edge.

I sit here,
delusional, calm,
awaiting slumber,
between textbook pages.

Eyes hold me at gunpoint,
threatening to close,
now widen
with the promise of a new poem.

I slip on icy words,
water rising through the cracks of consciousness,
I know not how I drowned,
but I do know
why
I'm
cold.

Purity is an obsession
until we remember
mixed drinks
exist.

Humans are not the black and white
concoctions we want them to be,
they are solid marble statues,
set in liquid stone,
always changing
but always remaining whole.

Depth requires straightforwardness.
Do not go looking in the sea,
putting meaning to every grain of salt
and sand you lay your hands on,
as you will focus so much on detail,
you will forget,
that oxygen is running low,
and you are still
near
the
surface.

Holy pure angels,
tell me,
is Hell where you seek refuge,
once you've slipped out of Heaven?
Or is that the name of Earth,
after you took a visit?

Monsters do exist,
simply in the stories we create.
They are indeed real,
but within pages and programs,
not
behind
you.

Ignore your state,
and the doctors will only treat
the symptoms
and let the disease
fester.

You will die of consequences
placed in hand by yourself.

But then again,
you'll take every opportunity
to claw at relief,
now will you?

I did not spend eternity,
cowering in the masses,
hiding in books,
and disguising in
danger,

only to have you,

strip me bone-licking naked

in front of an audience
of
your
choice.

I am the wild beast they fear,
however,
impeccable control keeps inner linings
intact.

I await for the day,
that I am allowed to unleash
the *****
you called by name,
but
never
got
to
see.

Even the illusions,
disguising reality,
are in part reality themselves,
simply because,
they
exist.

Sometimes I find comfort
in the thought
that
no one cares
or loves me,

simply because,

it is easier to want to die
without the guilt
that I leave behind
a soul
to
ache
for
me.

I found you in the lines between my palms,
in the way you sing that song,
in stranger's smiles,
in coffee stains.

I found you through my window blinds,
the moon shining down on us,
I found you chewing gum,
just like you always do.

I found you in jolly rancher wrappers,
in smiling seeds of watermelons.
I found you in my desire
for listening ears,
and a chest that cared.

I found you in my soul again,
picking flowers to bring back to me,
in your melodious melody,
I found you daydreaming,
I found you...
daydreaming.

I found you on the run,
from who or what I'm still unsure,
but dear,
in your run,
I will join you.

And I will find you one thousand times moreover,
just to see you
one
last
time.

Nostalgia is written in
the paragraphs of a sunset.
Between lemonade colored memories
is the red hot sand of the beach.
Clouds float by,
just like good old times.

I see her when I walk across the street,
staring at her
in stranger's faces,
never quiet ever
having her same
honey colored eyes.

I watch him as I digress,
a new memory being formed in the moment,
laughter between food,
a lifetime of memories
is eaten in one
bite.

His lips don't taste the same as before,
no,
this time around,
it's sweeter.

This time around I do not need to savor every morsel
this time around,
I get to eat him whole.

I treasure those eyes,
like marbles in my pocket,
I hold them deep in the crevice
of my mind's hand.

Night slips on the shadow's horizon,
light no longer a blanket,
and for a moment,
the cold feels inviting.
loneliness a sin or the sinner?

God knows.

All I know,
is that nostalgia
is written
in the
paragraphs
of
a
sunset,




or if you're a poet, the stanza's of night.

There is no love written in the stars,
simply in his eyes,
do not mistake celestial kindness,
for his loving glance,
for his,
is
far
better.

Tell me,

do I look like the fool you speak to me as?

Clarity does not equal depth,

But depth often requires clarity.

The fruit of the womb
produces the
finest
flowers.

I reminisce in your memory,
and I bathe in your melancholy,
fireworks battle above
with destructive love and beauty,
but I do not watch them...











because I like watching you instead.

Who am I
to ask you to stay?

Does the moon beg
for the stars to shine forever?

I think not.

Do I love or do I wait?
The response is a series of silent senses,
no thoughts.

Disobedience is the only form of love I inject into my veins directly.


And maybe it forever will be.

Homework is inspiration,
written in secretly,
between the lines of due dates,
and boredom.

Listening to music,
whilst studying a sad song,
is my favorite pastime.

Melodies written in poetic prose,
I find them stashed between notecards
of memories I haven't organized.

A folder filled with expressive mathematics,
hides the secret of
a hidden prompt.


And somewhere along those empty desks,
and tattered mess,




I find myself, haunting the hallways of the hollows in my mind...

































once more.



Truly, boredom is the true inspiration, for without it, we would not be motivated to find one.

And the galaxies collided,
As a punch landed,
The supernova of emotions
An incredible tribute to the destruction.

A bruise of a galaxy forms on her hip,
Starry night encompasses sweet lullabies
Only she can hear
The comforting sound of the void
Calling her name.

Her soul dripping in moonlight,
The craters of her skin,
From meteorites that landed there.
She does not adore the crevices
Her rock body provides her.

The planets align
For the perfect time
To run away again.

A situation she wants but no longer controls,
There is fleeting and there is feeling
And whichever one she is,
She assures herself its normal.

Her black hole
Has become her universe
Her normal.
A comforting cloud of dust whirls so fast
Her head spins with its ideas.

She is the universe,
The one with the stardust soul
Longing for its supernova
Once more.

Stardust and luster puff
bloom in full petalled glory,
dancing decadently and delicately
in waves of motion
to the sound of the moon hitting skin.

Hues of lazy colors,
colors of royalty,
of lemonade,
of orange juice
of grape soda,
all sweetly mix together
in a concoction for auction
the eyes take it in,
every last sip of it is sold,
to the highest bidder.

The ocean the space of the earth,
a vast void that stretches like
an eternal blue blanket,
comforting in its view,
cold in its nature.

The aesthetical soul awaits, taking everything in through all senses...






































which drown her in their beauty.