Her smile sits
on the curb of a road
between Summer
and Fall.

I feel flesh on fire
light my skin
and name me pleasure.

All hands
and waist
and thighs
and bare.

Lips not only inhaling
what the other exhales.

I still trace my hands on my collarbone
the way you did that night.

I named my pleasure after you.

A woman and a knife:
The blade glistens,
ever sharply
in the rain that is pouring from heaven.

Her black hair sticks smartly
to the sides of a sharp face.
I trace my gaze
over a smart mouth
with red lips.

But her dark eyes
never falter with such desire.
Her cold stare ever fixated
on the knife's destination:

My chest.

There is something
so wildly broken
about her.

I think divorce papers taste like the ash of a ciggratte falling from his lips when he told her the news.

Like whiskey burning firey hot as it slides down the back of your throat,

with bitter sweet tears pooling in with umami ink, the saltiness hitting the tongue like the papers to the floor, a weeping widow who does not suffer from a death but an absence.

I think divorce papers cut up throats like the edge of a chip, swallowing the news over and over again does not seem to make it go down any easier.

I think divorce papers digest like a cheap meal, the kind that you know will give you trouble, but also know is better for you in the end.

I have sat in this one spot
for so long
I have grown roots deep in the ground here.

"Tell me, is it better to rip myself out
yet leave a piece of me
buried

Or is it better to stay,
and grow leaves of old age
in the same dirt
I was born in?"

I pray at night to the God who planted me
and all I hear back
is the wind.

I break dawn
with a sledgehammer,
splintering the night
and scattering the stars,

and with hands made of stains,
I spend my days
piecing it back together.

The ground is
littered with orange peels
and the stain of citrus
is in the air.

Tender and juicy is the love,
I share my slices with you

And I'll break a glass
just to prove
you could've
slipped right through
my hands.

When I see God creating life,
I watch as his hands pause
over sculpting your body.

As he takes a moment
to smile slyly at himself
and take pride
in his most beautiful creation.

The shadows on my walls at night
with their inky flowy forms
create words from lack of light
and their presence, I do mourn.

For the sun is an ugly thing
when you are a shadow, to be scorned.
My window filled with magic
the shadows; nevermore

You never really know how bad it was















































until it's over.

The sky rips through itself with ease.
Self-destruction is an art form when
you are nothing but constellations and wonder.

Black holes tear
through the fabric of the universe
and celestial hands reach through them,
scratching at God's flesh.

Stellar voices echo
through these pits of imbibe
asking it's creator
one question:
"why?"

Fistfuls of stars thrown into
the jarring teeth of inferno;
a flame that feuls more fire.

Planets are crushed
under gravity's legs,
and, like a child unsatisfied with a drawing,
the space between galaxies
crumples like paper.

Tired of being a feast for human eyes,
and being

Poked, Proded, and Penetrated by People

God's first and best creation
consumes itself whole
to satisfy
the hunger.

She was born in the back alleys of bones
left as scrap thrown to the dogs
by men who chewed her raw
and picked their teeth
with the edge of her.

When sprouts formed,
and skin and flesh blanketed her existence,
and blood dripped into her veins
from body bags in dumpsters:
she began to grow anger,
and brain,
and heart,
and eyes,
and fists.

So she may see the men her tossed her,
and attain her vengeance.

I drip into the palm of your hands
and make my home in the lines,
filling every crevice with myself
so I may always be by your side.

I pray that the ghosts
that haunt my bones
and the demons
that line my skin
know what they are doing
because I don't.

I look at her
and see
the beginnings of
myself,
and is that not something
worth celebrating?

I am rotting
and poetry falls from my hands
like leaves
from a hollow tree.

Devil's roll the dice,
playing a card game meant for three
I sit a cross from them
playing cards, idly.

When asked why I lay in Hell,
I pause and stare at thee,
and ask you back
"Where else can I lie?
trying to imbibe,
the devil's game
is where I want to 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.

She was crisp in Autumn's wind.
Definite lines of beauty
set in stone,
on pavements filled
with leaves.

Her skin is cinnamon sprinkled,
and her oh just as punchy.

She was scented with spice,
her presence never a shadow
or mango-mangled mixture.
It was definite,
it was there.

She was there.

She stood at the edge of a deep rock
leashed to the side of the sea
with foam biting at her feet
and waves barking at her.

She breathes a salt stenched air
and watches its jaws open
only to see a sailor
rotting between its teeth.

She swallows air whole,
call it courage or stupidity
but she takes a step towards it.

Now the hound named
"Sea"
became full
once more.

By the window she wavers,
elegance and grace
unfolding from the movements of her gloved hands.

Animated red lips
move with skill
as she tells a tale
that would make sailors blush.

Eye's flashing and dashing
like the lighthouse
in the middle of a storm.

A whirlwind of blonde hair
who had fought with the wind
sits awry on her head.

I watch as her story unravels,
and the air around her buzzes
with her electric voice.

I make the mistake
of escaping with her wallet,
and am left to wonder,
how her story ends.

Often deserved,
yet seldomly effective.

Her beauty cascades like waterfalls,
in blooming waves of curls upon her back.
Hair, black as night, bouncing to the beat of her soul.
She was the kind of 'different' beauty,
they never taught us to love in school.
So we burned the textbooks,
and I watched her plaid skirts and hair,
surf the waves of the wind,
and neither of us looked back,
as we ran from it all.

My soul is tripping on aesthetical acid.

Star dust is my *******.

There's no way the moon
is not just a hallucination
wavering in the pond's ripples. 

I pop sunrays like pills.
Bathe in warm illicit senses.
Heat overtakes me,
on a high I refuse to come down from.

Beauty is a drug; it takes away the pain.

The ocean's foam
consumes me whole
as I am tossed
back into the rapids.

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

You are not
what has happened to you.
You are how you react
to it.

Some plants will drown
in rain
that nourishes others.

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.

She is soil,
earth and pure.
I run her through my hands
and she falls
through my fingers.

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.

When I met her I knew she was a sleepless night in the making.
She lays on a bed fit for mortals,
but the moon places a halo on her head as she sleeps.
I curse my eyes,
as acidic darkness clings to her skin
and eats at my ability to see her at peace.

Seventeen years of life
and I still have yet to realize:
that being a sucker for insomniacs is not good for me.

Veins crawled up her arms like vines,
leafy green eyes lit up the night.
Brown bark hair collided with nature.

Freckles danced like sparks from a fire across her face,
the warmth of the hearth kept nurtured in her soul.
The pale complexion was her own form of camouflage.

She was the beauty of the Earth intensified,
ten fold.
She was the sky, the heaven's birth,
and yet her beauty remained untold.

I sit at the edge of the world,
as water falls from the ocean
into the abyss that is the sky
and floats past the stars.

Where I cling to handfuls of dirt
and grass, and the rocks that cling too,
so I do not fly up
and drown in the universe above
and below me.

You baptized me
in the shadow of the sun,
the water made
from Angel's weeping.

The church bells ring
with the Devil's laughter
as they blind themselves
and call me
God.

20 years and a Bottle,
not much has changed
between the mother
rubbing whiskey on her
infant's gums
and the girl that stands tall now
drinking it from a cup.

I wipe my face
with grubby hands
and pretend it is you
who is caring for me.

You are an angel
yet mortal wounds stain your skin.
You reach out to me like
I am heaven,
when all I know is sin.

She's spilling
forbidden wine
on pieces of gauze
taped to a thigh.
Butcher herself,
like meat on a platter
for bite sized brains
to digest.

She is stainless steel teeth,
she is a strained voice,
she is a fighter,
tired,
but resilient
and giving it
her
all.

The cold air hits my lungs,
as the animal in my body
takes ragged breaths
exhaling
vapor and fear
inhaling
a familiar stench.

The night smells like metal,
with the sun now eroding
the starry sky.

There is no time to think of how I got here.
A corroding metal bar swinging in the air
just missing
my head.

I fully believe in the butterfly effect.
Because when I see you,
I know somewhere else in the world,
the universe must balance out
your lovliness.

When you laugh,
I feel the breeze blow on a spring feild
and see a child
seeing the sunset for the first time.

When you smile,
Orange trees bloom
with white colored flowers
and a scent so sweet
the bees cannot resist it.

And when you look at me
with the face of an angel
and the emotion of a God,
I cannot help but see
your beauty
in everything.

Bathe me in the sin
of communion wine on a Wednesday
and break the holy bread,
leave its crumbs on the floor.

The sky is drowning
in itself.

Ripping itself apart
through black holes
and hoping that eating itself

will keep it full.

Bold of you
to assume
I have the capacity
to miss
your
hatred.

Stormy sea thunder
boasts with glorious tales
of men who've drowned,
and the sirens
who drowned them.

Sometimes
it is hard
to spread your roots
in shaky grounds.

You are not obligated
to stay,
for you still are just a seed,
that the wind
can take
away.

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 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.

If you had blinked you would have missed her.
A figure made of mist,
drifting just above the water
dripping with light
and drooping with melancholy.

She had moonlit skin,
and I watched as beads of the heavens
slid down her body,
crystalized,
and dropped
into the pond below her.

I catch her eyes in surprise,
filled with wonder and stars
as she disperses across the water.

I pick up the stone left behind
and like a fool
I name it:
Moonstone.