It feels like i'm floating on thin air,
spinning,
drifting.
Wonder if i'm really here.
Shattered glass
makes stars that line the sky,
in every way,
and I don't even question why.
I'm a floater.
Floating on by.
I'm a drifter,
and I don't know why.
But I'm staring up
at this black glass sky,
that will welcome me at times.
Telling me it never really changes,
night is always night.
Cold yet warm,
and I don't know why.
Why I stare at this sky,
and call it a beauty.
Call it a saint.
Call it a home,
every now and then.
Why I float,
between it's stars,
that in my eyes,
don't seem that far.
Why I drift,
in it's cold warmth,
that hugs me,
embracing my inner all.
And I never ask why,
the cold warm sky,
is my stop sign,
while yet so vast.

She's a little bit of a dreamer,
with holes in her mind.
Her parents push her on the bike,
then she believes she's left behind.
Her poems plead forgiveness,
and unveil her sorrows deep.
Though she tries to change her image,
it's one which she knows she must keep.
But keep on peddling Kelsie.
If you feel like they're gone
you mustn't be brought down and sad.
Keep on peddling Kelsie.
Don't let fake sympathy
make you feel bad.
Peddle like the wind,
blowing dust into the air.
If some people choke,
brush it off like you don't care.
Being someone else,
is not what I ask you to do.
Stop asking for permission,
to finally be you.

I want to be a pixie
Not a fairy,
Pixies are sensual
Beautiful tricksters
They flit around
From tree to tree
Tempt and taunt
And tease
And have no queen

Fairies on the other hand
Are innocent
And cute
They flit around
And do good
And listen to their queen
How adorable,
But not for me
I want to be a pixie.

Smile when sad,
Cry when mad,
Hit when happy,
Laugh at what we cant have,
Destroy our homes,
Rebuild our enemies,
Hurt our friends,
And **** ourselves,
What a strange world we live in,
Leave the ones we love,
Praise the ones we hate,
**** the innocent,
Hurt the savable,
Save the pain,
**** the joy,
Free the killers,
What a strange world we live in

Some movie on Lifetime
ends itself.
I feel like i should
push these keys again
and try to make
some sense of self…
but overall i’m disappointed
because I know that it’s not self
that i’m trying to make sense of.
I’m trying to make sense of this computer,
and the sewing machine
on the table next to it,
and the air conditioning,
and whether or not it’s acceptable
to mention modern innovations
in poetry.

For example, if,
in a poem alone
(because i can talk to you through other mediums),
i tell you
(we’ll get to who you are in a bit)
that i
(don’t worry about who i am)
texted a girl,
(and she’s just as nameless as you are)
does the fact that i mentioned something modern
detract from the significance of the poem?

Of course,
poetry is all about the use of words as well
(sometimes we hang them from the walls
just to see how they make us look),
so i guess really the question is
whether or not
you managed to make it all work
in a way that makes sense to you.

Because honestly it’s worthless what I have to say;
you’re constructing these phrases
piecemeal
(in your head)
as we
(yes,
i’m there too)
push the buttons
(ahh, can you feel it?)
on this computer
to make us
spit out
images.

Haha,
psyche.
these are just black specks
on a white background;
our mind only attempts to give them significance
because we lack it as well.

My mind doesn't make sense.
It changes
Doubles
Destroys
Designs.
It cascades in on itself
Creating rubble,
Only to rebuild something
Twisted,
Unsettling,
Squirming,
Swelling,
Bursting.

My mind is a place that
I tend to fear.
It's a trap,
A net
Tangling me in
It's sick web
Of spun tales.

To it,
I'm a slave.
No escape
Nothing left
But shadows
And lost artifacts
Best left in the dark.