I repeat it
like an incantation

"I hate myself I hate myself I hatemyselfIhatemyselfIhatemyself-"

until the words blur
and so does my vision
the world is a smeared pencil mark
covered in a veil of darkness
that matches my mood
and my terrible thoughts.

writing a poem
is like
setting yourself
on fire.

I want to dig my nails in to my skin,
and drag,
peeling and bleeding the tears I must not shed.
I will leave little crescent moons
that will glow
as pale
as a child's milk.

I want to pound my thighs,
and bruise,
breaking and destroying all frustrations.
Great booms will shake this earth
and stories will be told
about these booms
for generations.

I want to rip the hair from my scalp,
and shred,
tearing and pulling all smoke clouds away from my mind.
The ***** smoke puffs will dissipate
and I will be able to
finally
think clearly.

the knock was loud and booming
my bones vibrated under my skin
I twisted the **** under my palm
and let my monsters in.

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.

you are so very inconsiderate
you do not taste the sweetness of their
s o u l s  like I do
you do not savor the ice from a man's veins,
cooling your white bone snappers
like I do
you do not study a blue green brown black red purple yellow orange
i r i s
like I do.
you do not live
with other people's hearts
deeply set
in your marred palms
like I do.

sometimes I wonder
about him
and if he really gave up on me
or if I pushed him away myself.

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"

I whipped out my flashlight
and opened the closet door
the monsters turned out
to really be fallen coats

drowns everyone out
but I start breathing.

They think I am normal
if they even think of me at all.
But oh, if only they know
my mind is
black and frying
grey and booming
white and blinding
brown and dying
purple and bruising
blue and flashing
green and living
yellow and shining
orange and glowing
red and bleeding
pink and kissing
chaotic
amazing
too much
for me
to
handle

she whispered to me
while bodies lay asleep
under the cool crumbly dirt

"I sharpened my knife
especially for your back.
I hope you appreciate it,
my dear."

My whole world is crumbling
like a cookie
dipped in milk
pieces left drowning
because who cares
about just one cookie?

My whole world is burning
like white, crisp paper
that was lit
on fire
by a neon green lighter
the smell of smoke fills the air
ashes litter the floor
because who cares
about just one piece of paper?

My whole world is collapsing
like a happy yellow house
after a sad grey storm
chipped paint
fallen beams
wooden splinters
broken dreams
because who cares
about just one house?

My whole world is nothing
a beige wall
a blank canvas
a dropped call
a dead battery
a fizzled out light bulb
a misheard whispered word
because who cares
about just one girl?

my mind is a mess
of spilled ink and fluttering pages
of nameless faces and faceless names
of pink sunsets and choking waves
of dying grips with icy flesh
if spreading smiles with no conviction
of e v e r y t h i n g .
and it is too much to handle.

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."

life is an inevitable sadness ready to cascade around our shoulders and swallow us whole.

she was as pale as they come
smooth and silky skin
white as fresh dripping paint
all he wanted to do
was take a gliding pen
and draw his story on her body
in the darkest of ink.

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)

I think I finally found a person
worthy of my metaphors.

I will say he is sunshine after a long week of rain.

in the morning
ill be alright
but for now
I let the tears come freely.

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

"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?"

every night
I am scared to close my eyes

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

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

her lips were as red as the blood dripping from a fresh wound.
they were as dark as anger and as passionate as love.
they ignited fires, if only under his skin.
they glistened in the light, as she swept her tongue across.
they were all he wanted, all he aspired for.
he watched her painted lips form the soft p's and round o's
of their everyday language.
he watched her lips pull back with sheer happiness
and he found himself grinning along with her.
she took something so common, like pouting with distaste,
and made it so astonishingly glorious.

there is no feeling equivalent to that of scribbling your thoughts down in a crowded public train.

boy, do I miss
you
everything about
you
when you kissed
me
I felt supernovas
exploding and
you
left bruises staining
my
neck that
I
never want
to heal.

she would pull her hair
mouthing silent screams
of anger
pain
frustration
guilt.
the tears would be coming too fast
and she would be choking
on her own saliva.

the hollows under her eyes
got deeper
as invisible hands
scraped further.

my bones slowly rot
as if the second hand smoke
inhaled through my nostrils
stained my insides brown
and made them crumble.

the night sky looks sickeningly beautiful to an insomniac.

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

sometimes he'd sit in his room
feet on opposite thighs
holding a kitchen k n i f e
tightly in both palms
ready to a t t a c k
the m o n s t e r s
if they got too close
to his q u a k i n g
shoulders.

my lungs are whispering
softly, quietly
telling me secrets they heard
from my heart's beating
i cover my ears
trying to block out the murmurs
but the words slip past the gaps in my fingers
and slither in to my ears

he drew constellations on her skin in the finest, darkest wisps of his soul.

my eyebrows raise
at their
insurmountable
abundance of
ignorance.

he liked to count his ribs
( 1 2 3 4 ...)
and brush his nails against his collarbones
(so prominent...)
his palms cupped his knobby elbows
(years to perfect...)
and the sun shone between his thighs
(lighting up his world...)

his body was so very
     a l i v e
his heart beat in
   o v e r t i m e
meanwhile, his eyes were
     d e a d .

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

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

he found her with a bottle of pills clutched tightly in white knuckled fingers
her eyes were fallen shut and he was so tempted to leave her resting peacefully, she looked so beautiful
but after a moment
(m o m e n t .)
he realized that the girl who ran though his mind, chasing butterflies each day
h a d   c o m m i t t e d   s u i c i d e .
she always spoke about how she wanted to stroke an angel's wings
to see if they were truly as soft as they merely appeared.
her limp body lay, spread out, her hair spilling over her pillow,
anyone else might have believed she was just a sleeping beauty
but he knew.
a wretched, throat-bleeding scream filled his ears, one so full of agony and heartbreak that he fell to his knees
it took him a second of agony to realize the teeth grinding screech was coming from h i s lips.

They slither around cob webs
and hide in the crook of my elbow
attached to me
like a child clinging to his mother on the first day of Pre-K
hideous and scowling
but then beautiful and glowing
either way I keep it pressed to my chest
i breathe in the putrid smell
but I am now used to the scent
it purrs and snuggles closer
and I don't pull away

my breath fogs up the glass,
wet vapor forming puffs
on the surface.
I raise my hand
and pound,
the sound is deafening
but the boom is only in my ears.
for they are separated
they hear only
the warm flickering candles
that smell like apple cinnamon.
the glass is chilled
against my closed fist
it freezes my fingers
and glues them together
but I know
that it is warm
loke their heavy breaths
on the other side.
I scream
but at the same time
they joyously laugh
and their happiness
drowns out my pain

I drag my nails down my thighs
creating furious jagged lines
surrounded by cloudy milk white.

it stings less than the sadness I feel.

at night the insomniacs come out to play

they grab fistfulls of their hair and howl at the moon.

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

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

poetry is the only escape from the nightmare we call living.

our glass society is made of
broken girls
and
shattered boys.

buckets of water fell from the sky,
some would call it an angel's tears.
great booms struck the sky
vibrating in her toes
as if she were at a bowling alley.
the sky sometimes lit up
with crooked purple flashes.
the story weather
matched her stormy mood

you see the scars
but not the reasons.