All of you.
Where do you get off
making a name for yourself
out of the mockery
in fallen heroes’ hearts?
What’s in a name;
that which we call
"a genius"
by another label
would be found on the front page
of the obituaries.

And now,
what?
Where do you go from
the top,
looking down on those you
trampled on the way
with some false sense of humility?
How we perceive you now
is like that of a crime lord;
envious,
never aspirational.

Might as well
call it a day
and take note of the
fallacy
that is fame and fortune.

Leaving behind all the memories for the moonlight,
there is no more time for a dance under the stars.
It's hard enough to see, even when you're near me.
So I won't move, what else can I lose?

Just standing in the night, waiting for the daylight
when you will shine, and show me where your eyes are.
But do not look for me, for I have been sent to leave
and without you, it seems
that nothing else can be.

The way that you miss me cries into the skies
over the tide and out to sea
where no one sees
where you've left me.

Holding hands to cross the street
Feel the sand under my feet
The way you twirl me, like a cotton candy man
I feel so girly as you wind each curly strand

When I'm growing up too fast
And the world demands a lady
You remind me of my past,
Though it often might evade me

Summer days and autumn leaves
Wading through the endless trees
The way you hold me when I just can't sleep at night
I lay there coldly as you slowly soothe my mind


After all is said and done,
So thankful you're the one
To bring back the daughter in me

the hate
comes from every angle
but mostly from the heart
in spite of glaring
desperation
that leaves the
lawn uncut;
as if littered driveways
and starving dogs
justify another term
of stolen wealth

If you could see us now,
huddled up
on this bathroom floor
like the wet towel in the corner,
a most-likely-used toilet brush
covered in
ash & hair
is the next closest thing
in arm's reach
to a real statement.

You want to know what it's about?
You do not
want to know what it's about.

To dunk those
pearly whiteheads
in oil and expect
a brighter shine
would just be silly.

Take the bedazzlings from
their feet
and what is left to judge
that which they do not
want to know?

Most of it happens
under the hex of
the small hours
between these brittle walls
in the chaotic silence of
daybreak
while the neighbors rush off
to work

Not a sound
but the hum of
a ceiling fan
toiling the extent of
my thoughts
til it's actually time to
“wake up"

The gentle crunch of
Kitty's breakfast
rings with such soothing
abrasiveness
even the crickets can't compare
Nothing can match that
care-free lifestyle I so long for

Long for...
How long exactly?
Three hours past dawn ought to
do it
unless dreary rays of light
burn through my eyelids
and rekindle the cyclical
carnival
that cons the day's authority
over sleep