the boys of the mid-west
are kind
easy to love
don't get me wrong
they will hurt you
but they will apologize
and mean it
they will hurt for you
the boys of the north east
are strong
easy to love
easy to look at
they will win your heart
like a trophy
then go after the next
prize
but atlest you were an award
the boys of the south
are cruel
easy to love
with their southern
charm
hospitality
they think that makes them special, ya know
they think that gives them the right
to think of themselves as a
prize
to hurt you
and feel nothing
but accomplishment
but thats what southern hospitality is all about

Dear Minimalist,
Dear Belittler,
Dear Soulless Ginger,
Dear Stupid,
        because I know you hate being called that.
Dear ****,
Dear Liar,
Dear Sexist,
Dear Racist,
        you typical stereotyper.
Dear *******,
Dear *******,
Dear *******,
Dear ******-****,
Dear *******,
Dear *******,
Dear *******,

*******.

you would think
maybe once
you would break your back
for me
because I
already
paralyzed myself for you

Sometimes I feel like one of the books that sit on my bookshelf
Having yet to be read
Obtained long ago only to be immediately put away again
Forgotten
Lost amongst the others
Acquiring more and more dust as more and more time passes
And I wonder
Will anyone ever pick me up?
And delve into the words and worlds I hold deep inside
Fall in love with my tattered pages
And feel sad once they have read me cover to cover
Only to end up re-reading me again and again
Trying desperately to discover something new
To come back to me and flip through my pages
Returning to the underlined phrases
And reflecting upon the notes in the margins
Falling in love all over again
Will I ever become someone's favorite book?
One that will no longer be lost amongst the others
No longer long to be held
To be known
Will anyone ever love me so much
They will tirelessly read me over and over again
And never grow bored
Never grow tired
Carry me with them everywhere they go
Love me so much they will
Never leave me alone to gather dust again

The more I talk to God,
The more I think he's not really listening
The more bad thoughts I have,
The more the ugly truth is leaving me wondering
The more I read the bible,
The more I realize I don't believe a word it says
The more I question,
The more secrets I can't confess
The more narrow minded my mother is,
The more she lets the light in so I can see
The more times I drink "the blood of Christ"
The more it feels like drinking the Kool Aid to me

I stood tall on the shoulders of a ladder
lost in the fibers of dust that sprinkled across my face as I shook a thick feathered brush against walls when a young man whom I had seen a few times before looked me up and down and hollered, "movin' on up in the world, are yah?"

chucking my head upwards and back, I had laughed at his joke, saying to him through short breaths, "you with the corny lines."

still shaking with laughter, I felt my legs give beneath me and the thus the shoulder of the ladder beneath it, began to quake, before I knew any better, I had fallen  down to him, my body splintered beneath my wooden pedestal.