My mother keeps flowers in shot glasses,
feeding off the *****.

Drunkenly, they sway in the breeze that passes by.
Blushing petals encompass good times.

Yelling at the seed,
won't make it a flower.
Yelling at the stem,
won't make it grow faster.
Yelling at the thorns,
won't make it tower.

Therefore;

Praising the rose,
won't make it any prouder.

Change is a game,
and those afraid to play,
will never win.

I love like honey,
slow,
sweet,
and thick.

Beauty is pain,
and acceptance is the painkiller.

Sunlight streams from my dreams,
the forest of my imagination.
Near dawn, up all night long,
adventures, I have stories to tell.

Of danger, of fun, of tranquilitiy,
all because I live life on the run.
The trees arch over me,
protecting me.

God bless the streams of water, cold, refreshing.
I let the cold streams replace veins, giving my hot blood a rest.

The bushes are filled with metaphors!
The leaves, brush up against me.
The flowers sway like the faint,
and show their inner beauty.

The wind whispers song of old in my ears.
Forbidden tunes that words cannot describe.
The shade makes for a wonderful blanket, sheltering me from the heat.

Inner peace flowing and floating in the water next to me.
Seeming just out of reach,

until I get here.

The forest of my imagination.

I live in these moments,
in the space between the lines,
in the space between the picture frames,
in the walls between these lies.

Within the pause of a comma,







Within the hope we must oblige,
I live perfectly and in harmony,
in this space,
in this moment
between the lines.

She wore ****** like a look.

Intent engraved in future gravestones.

Dirt colored eyes of determination.

Future souls echoed cries of anguish
with the sound of gunshots.

Piercing bullets named words.

Money clips the angels wings,
dollar bills used as gags,
Her intelligence a winged creature,
that in this economy, was only meant to crash.

The coins rattle like the chains
she wore around her neck.
Education was a heaven she longed to gain,
But she was only met with hells debt.

The price of freedom all too high,
the money gets you respect.
Her intelligence wilts like a flower under the sky,
in her grave, wasted, now it sits.

Lessons learned from life alone,
for her,was never enough.
She yearned for something more, a skill or craft to hone,
But "Hey kid, life's tough."

So the money now in bags,
buried in places she would never see,
a secret and more hidden rich wrath
that was all just a product of greed.

You will never be able to buy satisfaction with words.

Do not mistake my kindness for my weakness,
for those who have only braved a stormy sea before,
can approach a second one with a smile.

She said "I'm so OCD."

And I searched her hands for the color of raw meat worn ****** pink,

and I searched her soul for the gripping anxiety,

and I searched her body for symmetrical bruises,

and I breathed a sigh of relief,

when I realize it was just a joke


for her.

It's all about putting food on the table when you're older.

But what about the food for my soul?

What will I do when my heart is hungry?

Money comes from jobs, where does soul food come from?

Momma's kitchen bakes no breaded lies, food on the table will always be more important than the food for my soul.

I knew a girl that bled bouquets,

her tears perfumated with the sweet scent of sorrow,

and I fell in love with the way she wore her pain.

All is fair in love and war,
so do not be surprised when the roses of my love wilt into stems,
sickled with thorns.

Some days there will be nobody.
Nobody to love,
nobody to care,
but it is in the black hole of nothingness,
in which we pull our strength from most.

Innocence is held most dearly, by those who no longer have it.