only in the thick heat of summer
do I start to miss
winter's frosty bite.

I say I am okay
I am peaceful
blue waves slipping on to gritty blankets

but I know, deep down inside,
that Hysteria is bubbling on the edges of Her cauldron
she crackles and tells me to think of Her

she is lava
scalding and burning your tongue
lapping at the edges of my heart

I try to shove her away
but she eats my fingertips
exposing white bone

"lovely," my voice seeps out
under 3 blankets and 4 layers of darkness
"don't leave. I'd be empty without you."

and her carefully planned words leak in to my ear,
"darling," comforting in the chasm
"I'd never leave you."

I checked my coat pockets
but I can't seem to find
my motivation.
where did it go?
nothing but scraps and an imagination filled my drawers
I call for it
or I try to
my voice is a faint mist across the mountain tops
"motivation," my sigh escapes
"come back
I can't seem to find you
anywhere
and I
want to
stop looking."

So delicate
Fragile
A glass figurine, standing on tiptoe
Frozen in a ballerina's dance
One gentle tap
And it shatters
Glass shards
Cover every surface
Digging in to the soles of the feet
Surrounding it.

is like
being born
with a new pair of shoes.

you have new eyes
new feelings
everything is new
just out of the box.

you live
and laugh,
cry tears of surprise.

an escape
from this dreadful reality
something refreshing and
different.

become lost in their thoughts,
breathe in unison,
become one.

but now it ends
and you are ****** back
in to the cold, unforgiving universe
but don't worry
you can always pick up
another novel
and begin
reading
again

darling
you're too young to hate the world

too young
to be broken down
those rocks slung over your shoulder

look awfully heavy
mind if i
carry
them for you?

they all tell me
that my dreams are
s t u p i d .
I can never be what makes my chest swell in pride
I can never be what makes my breath come easier
I can never be what makes my heart pulse faster under my skin
I can never be who I need to be
because of their
s t u p i d
comments
telling me that my dreams
are incredibly
s t u p i d .

he approached me as the sky streaked pink
limping with tears streaming down his gaunt cheeks
he whispered to me under heavy breaths and groans
"someone cracked my ribs while I was asleep.
I woke up this morning only to find them broken
and marked with a delicate design of pain.
I shriveled and gasped and could not breathe
and I finally understand what you mean
when you speak of your depression."

every night
I am scared to close my eyes

for the fear
that I may never wake up again
is so overwhelming.

while I was unconscious
on the operating table
dressed in white
stained in red
I had a vision
of a little girl
crying darkened tears
with an expression so pained
that I wanted to hold her hand
between my blue ones
and cry with her
mingling our tears
until we were one.

he is the reason for the blood in my veins
and he is the reason for my finger on the trigger.

I wore you like a bruise
                                                                                            proudly
                                                                            on my left cheek
                                                                  displayed for all to see
                                                                              you marked me
                                                                                 but I survived
                                                                                   on my cheek
                                                                            but you will fade
                                                                    and i will still be here

blue
green
brown
eyes
skittering
up and down
my back
tiny mice
without their
cheese

and it's moments like these
when I'm all alone
at 2:42 p.m.
with the fire stuck in the sky
illuminating my cluttered desk
when I realize
that no one
(truly)
knows who I am.
no one has ever
shaved away the many layers of skin
covering my
(real)
heart
because maybe no one
(truly)
cares.

It is the color of clasped hands,
of disease spreading through the town-
clogging the throats of young children,
making mothers scream and curse their God.

it is the color of dropping eyes,
of rubber bones and leaden limbs-
struggling to raise their arms for a chance of victory,
making bodies collapse and smack the concrete.

it is the color of tight lips,
of darting eyes flitting from face to face-
wondering who to trust with the heaviness,
making heads spin and sweat drip.

it is the color of the aftermath
of scars trailing up and down your once soft skin-
crossing up and down your limbs, carrying guilt,
making young boys and girls howl at the moon

right now
in a distant place and time and feeling
someone is writing a poem

this poem could be a storm
raging on and breaking the hulls of ships
swallowing people and blowing the crossbones flags

or

it could be a pink poem
streaked with bright yellows and dazzling greens
making people laugh and giggle with delight

i could stretch out my fingertips
and hear the bones crackle-
i could connect to a poet and... magic

1.
'poem'
swish the world around
notice how it rolls off your tongue
it leaves a faint mystery behind
urging you to follow the clues given
find the wonder and magic

2.
a 'poem'
is a heart
dissected and laid out on the cold, metal table
for all eyes to see
or for no one to see
it is there,
just to feel pretty...

3.
a 'poem'
is a newborn life
full of light
and dreaded
(yet welcomed)
darkness

4.
it is a beauty
like no other

i can feel the string threaded beneath
the thin skin on the inside of my wrist
it is my substitute veins
full of nothing but nothingness (so sim
ple) and I want to burst in to
a million trillion pieces of brightly colored
tissue paper that is not meant for noses
but the string becomes tighter
and tighter
and tighter still
until I feel the cotton ***** stuffed down my throat
and my lungs are constricted and set aflame
I can not find my sharpened scissors
let me check the other drawer

"welcome to Hell, darling."

he mumbled


and I nodded
taking the poison
from his lips


and sticking it between mine

I was a chimney

the smoke billowed up

clogging the room




"isn't it a lovely view?"

1.
Hope was a girl with soft brown tresses
that swung around her shoulders as she laughed.
Hope was a girl with light hazel eyes
that shone like stars when she smiled.
Hope was a girl who always told me she was my bestest friend.

2.
but lately Hope's hair has been heavy with grease
her eyes have been dull with purple bruises underneath
and her voice is barely heard unless she says three little words.

3.
last night I shot Hope in the face
17 times, to be precise
she would not be mad
if her face was intact
i just could not take her
saying those three stupid words.

4.
"I've given up."

anxiety is a rope
made of the strongest fibers
that takes joy in slithering down your throat
and wrapping around your intestines.
it coils so very tightly
twisting and turning and tying
until you are on your knees
gasping for breath
and wishing for invisibility

                                                (or­ death,
                                                          ­      whichever is easier)

And you are the fire in my veins
sizzling
and traveling up my neck
licking my collarbones
skimming the underside of my ribs
finally you reach my ears
tickle them
and slip in to my head
burning it in to
a s h e s.

There was once a man made of beer bottles.
they clanked together as he walked
and the sound echoed for miles.
his mind was hazy and full of slush.
the bottles' weight made it difficult to walk.
and he could not hear his wife's screaming

                   his daughter's sobbing

his son's pleading

over those **** clanking bottles.

and I absolutely
hate
the way my voice
shook
as if an earthquake suddenly
struck.
and I absolutely
hate
how I had to
pause
and swallow the
words
that wanted to
escape.
and I absolutely
hate
the way I looked
away
so you would not see the
pain
hidden in my
eyes.
and I absolutely
hate
how much I absolutely
hated
myself in that
moment.

i am nothing
but a poet.

like so many others,
i use words
as a disguise
for pain.

we are an army
of word-weilders

feel our pain

one day my teacher asked me
why I always wrote in lowercase letters
her glasses perched on the top of her beak
she squawked,
"you were not taught that in school, young lady.
it is not proper, young lady."

and I gripped my pen tighter
or maybe a little looser
it's hard to tell lately.

but I looked in to her black beady eyes
and disapproving frowny face
and whispered "see how I am whispering
do you see how you are leaning closer
like I have a secret
more intimate, correct?
that is my writing:
an intimate secret.
for you"

and if I told you
that I did not want to live anymore
automatically you would start talking
saying stupid things like
"it'll get better!"
"you have a future!!"
"maybe we should up your medication!!!"

but if I told you
that I did not want to live anymore
you would be all talk, no help
you would not wake me up at dawn
and take me to watch the sun rise
you would not let me throw red paint at a white wall
you would not bake me cookies with extra chocolate chips
you would not read me my favorite book
you would not write me a stupid poem
or crack a stupid knock knock joke
you would not cuddle with me under 3 blankets
or whisper to me at 3 am

only words
that had lost their meaning
once they were repeated
more than three times.

I knew a boy who liked to draw people
(with guns pressed to their temples and blades at their wrists)
he liked to tell stories
(about a girl with a chafed neck swinging from her closet)
sometimes he wrote these stories down and submitted then to the school newspaper
(but no one likes stories about sunset thighs)
they thought he was crazy
(did you hear- let us chat now now now)
but he was not crazy
(just suicidal)