She's a boss *** *****
with diamonds in her eyes
and mercury flowing over her skin.
When she walks the world
tumbles, crumbles, easily humbled.
She's got a devil's tongue
with a lick of fire in her veins
and she's all I've ever
dreamt of being.

I have this vague vision of tangerines bleeding
into blue green skies.
Or maybe cat puke melding with the emerald
carpet beneath my feet.
Some sort of merging, colors, textures, clear and
pristine but elusive.
I have no idea what I'm going on about but I
know it is important.

i see love and light and cringe
at its generic quality, all the same
all beautiful and endearing and encouraging
and i can't help but feel the cynic in me laughing
at the mawkish displays and efforts
and at my own generic skepticism

just one charming quality of my
self deprecating form of narcissism

With lofty airs and
folding chairs
we formed our grungy rule,
we grew from weeds and
broken swings
into a pungent cool,
Our reign is *****, decadent
more indulgent than your dreams
for we lost our morals
and our hope among
the broken things.

i dream of foggy bliss
a floating lagging sort of luxury
reminiscent of drug induced
bubbly bogus happiness

I grew up weird.
Both fast, and painfully slow.
I understood everything and nothing.
Socially, I started confident and grew awkwardly
first in the sun, then bending away from such bright attentions. Academically I started out running, always ahead,
always the best, the brightest. Straight As and
mismatched clothes, socially lost
yet somehow showing
'great potential'.

Now I've learned a lot.
All blacks and grays, I've finally
mastered at least a portion of my shortcomings
but its too late. Because I've grown up and its shifted again
analytically I see it, can emulate it, but it isn't
familiar or comfortable, it took me
years to catch up and I'm
still behind.

I've grown up weird.

The sharpest clarity graces my mind and sight
Accompanied by an increase
in gravity and thicker air.
Wading through something dense yet
less resistant than water
I feel hazy and intoxicated by
the prickling stars above
Falling to the bed of grass,
dew caress my weary bones.
I've found my home,
familiar and alien,
Its all my own.

For an excessively passive person
I'm easily annoyed, easily appalled.
People are so stupid, vapid, mediocre
and you know its true so you try to
be deep and meaningful, dramatic
to justify how absolutely and inevitably
pathetic you are.

Dragon flies and lanterns
cast shadows through my mind
causing jesters on the wall
to cautiously unwind,
with a heavy heart of liquor
I beg them to go on,
do try to heal my soul
its fallen, maybe gone.

do you remember
the dandy yellow of her hair
the gold that shone with the sun
as though they were born of the same ancient catastrophe
do you remember
the deep pools of green
the gem like eyes that always peered
through her tangled hair with curiosity and eager delight
do you remember
that balance before the evil
that brief period where knowledge and
happiness could coexist without one stifling the other

I don't remember.
I'm told she was real, but I never knew her.
Can you miss someone made of perception and memory?

Oh honey, you'll be fine
divine and holding out hope
an angel with no god, no home.
Oh babe your ignorance
looks so good on you
stay steeped in wholesome lies
safe from dreadful truth.
Oh sweetheart, your dumb
******* head is so perfect,
so rottenly pure, its mawkish
scent brings me to my knees.

I've become an alcoholic.
I drink until its socially acceptable
to lock myself in my room
to avoid the plague of humanity
dwelling in the revealing sunlight,
orange caked faces melting into the dirt.

Feeling the thrum of ignorance and bliss warm my veins
and the cadence of rebellious refrain guide my steps
I can't imagine feeling any worse or better than I do right now.

there's frost growing from my fingertips like prickling moss and i can feel it stinging on my lips, the heat of my body lacks aggression, as do I, and so the cold things grow, immortalizing me in their crystalline life.

There is a cold and constant rain that leaks through my bones
Holding me together, more life giving than my mediocre blood
And weakly beating heart.
My frame is creaking despite its young age, worn down and
Falling apart from the inside out.

May the ground hold my bones better than I ever did.

the coaxing leering laughter and the coke crusted smiles hold me together through my daily trials until the mountains fade and plains stretch far and my childhood chains resurface along with old scars.

Like the ichor of the gods dripping from your lips, these bottled, lonely, spirits course through my veins.

I am small, just a child with a soft voice, and brittle bones,
I keep to the darkness, only mysterious in my silence, stemming from the fear of my own voice.

You are the darkness in which I find comfort. You are fierce, steel, cold and cynical. Your voice is raspy and enticing, without a hint of remorse for the space it occupies.

I am neither good nor bad,
Happy nor sad,
Ethereal and wordless
I transcend to
Nothingness.

A carcass of saffron rotting daringly in the streets
as the masses slow and drag their feet
to see its splendor, its grossly awesome continuance
after a decidedly less so existence.

Hi, I'm just writing to say that I'm sorry I'm ****** up.
I'm sorry I can't do anything productive. I'm sorry I ******* up my siblings with my clothes and my music.
I'm sorry I'm a monster. I tried... I'm trying... But its hard....
I don't want to hate you but I do. I don't want to blame you but I do.
I blame you for teaching me that Jesus was the only life. I blame you for not even warning me of what this world can turn into.
I blame you for not being strong enough to get over my dad when he cheated on you.
I don't want to. But I do.
I blame you for marrying someone new when you weren't over Him yet.
I blame you for letting that imposter become the source of my brothers confidence issues.
I blame you for my 8 year old brother developing multiple social and mental problems simply because you couldn't control your husband.
Because he was righteous and a woman shouldn't stand up to her man.
I know its childish and I know I'm selfish.
And I claim that completely. I am who I am despite who you are.
I don't want you to take claim for what I've become.
I don't want you to tell your friends about the monster you made.
I want you to realize I am myself of my own accord.
I choose to be unhappy and I'm **** proud of that.
And I love you, though I wish I didn't.
I love you for finally leaving my brother's tormenter, even if it was later rather than sooner.
I love you for crying for my grandmother on her deathbed after you ignored for two years.
I love the fact that you cared enough, at one point in time, to try to keep me from becoming who I am today.
I don't know if these are good reasons and I don't know if you care.
But I blove you my mear dother, and I lame you.

Silver hair mimicking the
stars in your eyes
that incite the mercury
running through
my veins.

I want to tell you I'm okay
and that all is peachy keen.
I want to say I'm doing fine
and that my grades are pristine
but I alone am not enough
and despite my desperate need
for control I think I need help
of the medical persuasion,
and I'd like to think I'm strong
on my own,
but honey have you tried *******?

I'll rate you bubbly, you rate me bogus
and we'll be happily fraudulent in our demise.

everything is bathed in white
less pure than summer,
muddier, grey but piercing.
the drab and dragging cold
reaches through to touch bone
and turns everything to slush.
for once in a long while,
everyone is as muted as I.

Give me hope and home
a place to call my own
a cliche that is only mine
a brief escape from endless time

I can't stand your world nor
can I hold my clumsy limbs
upright on its surface.

Heavy, hazy dreams of shifting gravity and my missing people

You're a stumbling fumbling child
with pretty words lacking context
and an pretty face lacking depth.
You hold your head high as you
spout loudly with an air of intellect
that would only fool those without
such an inclination.

Its a good thing you're pretty.

you swallow glass to
cleanse your insides
and make room for
clear cut crystals.
holding hope out
in a dish for more
more high flying
death defying
pixie dust.

I open my eyes to glowing stars
I close them to racing cars
Lights, lights in the dark

The white outside is screaming in my skull
and I'm begging for the whispers of dark to regain their hold,
The blue on the mountain speaks to the gold of the
once living grass poking through snow
The red of my nose is burning like ice and its laugh is too jolly
to the green of my eyes, who beg only to be closed.

Fleeting moments sending people
running through the trees
as the embers of the fire scatter
with our own passions
The lights sweeping the way
in which we once belonged
and will return to in their
absence.
Through the river, light and drunk
thrilled with each and every
escape, new acquaintances are made
and old ones are brought to
the board for transition.
To a higher state of mind the
commission brings us
closer.

When Nevermore the world becomes, we're left behind, the Wild Ones.

I'll try to relate to you,
I'll try to share my perception.

The world is shiny, silver coated, raw metal just barely dusted in dirt.
Its all angles, sharp and fast, turning with the speed of a ******* fair ride.
One moment, I'm staring at the ***** of your skin as it flows from the cheek to jawline,
Smooth as a pebble worn down by years spent just near the shore.
The next, your veins and muscle pull taut through your frame, slinking into an elaborate system of liquid bronze.
Pulleys and machines, bringing your particles into such a beautiful motion.

with pride I watch as destruction falls
as if a small part of the darkness in me
may be related to the greater power,
I relish my pain and hope for more
while still hoping for normalcy.
A contradictory being is all I've ever been,
but I wouldn't have it any other way...

Can you see the decay
opening into a million
other worlds, creating
galaxies in its destruction,
the rust making way for the new,
its beautiful, better, than anything
we create.

I have a fleeting mind of a higher grade,
and no one to sharpen my wit on,
so I seek conversation in the saddest places
where depth is a trend and people wear melancholy as fashion.

stumble down the hall
in the rain of mercury
where the astronauts roam
and the apothecary dances
free

help me to my room
through the skulls
that have piled in the corner
with the cat and her
troupes, wait,
forget the
former

Im a little hazy
little dumb and can't
quite find the **** of
the drum or the key
and the bird over there
is looking at me

nevermind
you can leave
I'll make my home among
these things, its crazy and cold
and ****** and bold
but I think it could be
home.

I keep dreaming of a darkened room
cold as ice and filled with you
your essence, your smell, every inch
a remnant of a better time.

What are you going to do
when everything you thought you knew
turns away and leaves you to the wolves.
What are you going to do
when the plans you once drew
are no longer legible.
What are you supposed to do
when your psyche turns to something new
and the voices in your head are no longer familiar.
What are you supposed to do
when you find out red is really blue
and you're a muddled shade between.

I am an aging immortal,
exponentially expanding
knowledge through time
while my skin shrivels and
my senses dull. I surpass
the sad image of old age,
I veer into the morbid,
macabre.

I've met people like you.
Loud, boisterous, dangerous, charismatic, charming, perfect.
You, force of nature, unable to be forgotten.
steam rolling over the people like me.

All my best friends have forgotten me. But I remember them.
My friends were the loud and the powerful, protecting me, meek and sheltered. So years after I've left, their impression is seared into my brain while I'm just an insignificant whisper deep in the back of their memories.  
My friends are the **** and mysterious. The ones everyone wants to be. I'm only kept by their side because of my docile nature, every group needs a quiet one. Unfortunately the quiet ones are easy to forget...

I'm floating on a dandelion
over dead dinos and growing grass
the world is so lovely now
I hope I never come down
from hazy days and frosted leaves
winter is approaching and
I'm feeling warm and dizzy
and bright.

You are soft, fleshy between my fingers. Between my teeth.
Like biting into a peach, the pull of skin before the real fruit is bared.

You're out on the porch smoking again
and I'm in here alone hoping for the end
and slowly but surely we're both seeking death

I don't know who I am.
And I know I never have.
For some reason its hitting me harder than before,
or at least from what I remember.
I remember it being bad when my mom was a wreck
and I, a strictly A student, received my first F.
I remember it being bad when my first step dad left,
and the weird assurances he made that he wouldn't abandon me.
I never thought he would, until he tried to reassure me.
But the earliest memory I have of not knowing myself, of it being bad,
was when I was little, in court, because my dad wanted to adopt me,
and a man I'd never met wouldn't let him.
I was young, and I realized I didn't know who I was.
I was 12 and I didn't know who I was.
I was 16 and I didn't know who I was.
Now I'm 20 and I don't know who I am.
My mom was 36, and didn't know who she was.
I'm writing this as documentation.
A thought taken down, so as not to be forgotten.
All sorts of people talk about forgetting who they are,
and finding themselves again.
I want my future self to know, that as of yet,
I've never known who I was.

Lately, I spend my free time imagining how I'd look at a funeral.
I've been before, but all I felt was discomfort and splintering hatred.
What if you died. My darling, I'm afraid I wouldn't change.
I'd go and stare at the wall, the floor, the people who don't know you.
Dry eyes and a judgmental, lethargic gaze settled in.
I never cried in front of you, why would cry in front of them.

I'd watch as the flag was presented, uniforms marching by the coffin.
Perhaps this would be different. I think my hatred would burn a bit brighter.
Those who ordered your death, now dictating your burial. They don't love you. They don't care.
All you are is one more casualty. One more insignificant ant being squished underfoot and forgotten.

Disconnected syllables of broken names trying to be whole
fill my dreams and echo through my home
while the eyes of a billion childlike selves cast their judgement...
Who are you.
Dislocated limbs pile in corners of my room
and I've forgotten where each fits,
and to which long past figure they belong, but still their eyes question...
Who are you.
Disappearing thoughts leave mist in their wake
only remembered by their now empty space
and a distant weakening whisper...
Who are you.

You don't know the half of it
and I don't know the whole
so maybe in the middle we can meet
and compare notes.

I'm always down, the gutter's my home
and the streets are strewn with plastic
and old cigarettes and syringes as always
but today I felt that friendly old surge
of an abnormal normalcy, as though
my ragged surroundings had elevated
to the level of the common folk.

I live for my manic high points.