There is nothing wrong with being attracted to beauty
it is a beautiful thing
magnetics and irony
amethyst and memories
black fist of power
proud ovaries breathe melanin magic
hearts of silk spun
resilience is narcissistic too
you know
revolution can declare martial law too
maybe it already did
you would not know yet
the coal used to be us
now we are diamonds
stolen from the earth because of our sheen
our glimmer stuns the most magnificent darkness
a teal sunset sparks the imagination
hallucinating smoking quartz

I'm not so great under pressure
That isn't life threatening.
And I'm not overtly funny,
Or good at acting,
And I can't sing a **** thing.

But I have some music in my heart,
That can sometimes be expressed through words
And food that tastes pretty alright if you ask me.

And I know things most people don't,
Though I don't know things most people should,
And I'm not great at things like math
Or science,
But I like science,
And math proofs are pretty cool to read too.

My train of thought is run by color,
And the ever changing varieties that appear
And are caused my sound and noise.
Like plates shattering is a translucent blue,
And knives on ceramic are yellow.

The word liar is
Light brown, yellow, pink and orange,
And the word love
Is light brown, green, yellow, and red.
Like a sunset over a forest.
The word forest is brown and blue with a hint of white.

I see the world as ever changing,
Ever turning,
But one thing,
Color,
Will always remain the same.

Bright and vibrant,
And it touches my spirit and my circulation,
Driving me from fiery to ice cold.

I see the vibrant blue of the sky,
And the soft pastel of a budding leaf,
And laugh at the orange of a sunset,
And the red of the sun.

Because nothing compares to the beauty I find
In a Bluebird I call mine.

And to know that random facts
About things that aren't necessarily important
Don't seem to bother
Someone important,
Settles the storm within my soul
Like no other.

Foreign places
Familiar faces
I remember how it started,
But how did I get here?
Coming down
On the ground
I know what's right
Yet my decision remains unclear
I need not say,
I cannot stay,
Far much longer,
Stuck this way.
I'm wasting my youth
Running from this truth
I'm becoming numb
To what my life has become.
Or is it mine at all?
It used to be.
"There's always tomorrow"
I say in the present,
Until one day soon,
There isn't.

We always question, why
When a soul, says goodbye                            

Misunderstanding death, we fear it            
Its sole purpose, to free our spirit

Thus, unencumbered of flesh and bone
It returns to heaven, which is home
WIZDUMBs BY JA 708

Smoking, cutting, drinking ... Anything to take the pain away temporarily until.. Until its all over. You're stuck there.. With nothing but yourself and your thoughts to keep you company..

There's nothing in the world that's forever but the pain that continues to follow you no matter what you do..

The only happiness that you can manage to find is through the Marlboro pressed to your lips.. To the shot of liquor in the little glass cup in your fingertips.. Or to the blade that you put to your wrist waiting for that oh-so beautiful crimson to trickle down it like a dead tree.

It all takes a toll on you... Before you realize.. You're on your deathbed wheezing out your last words.. But at the time.. It was all worth it for those temporary moments of happiness..

I can't remember much. Just stray threads and patches of mismatched fabric that will never find its place within my cluster of thoughts.*
Now all that remains are echoes of ancient conversations and whispers of drowsy lullabies. Because memories dull, as memories do, when time goes on. I had once hated it, the way it continued on, as if she was still here and everything was still okay. As if nothing interesting enough or important enough happened for it to falter. She was the epitome of interesting, the definition of important. But now I am humbled and appreciative of its regularity, its security - time will go on no matter what happens. I suppose you can say I found equal parts torture and salvation in time itself.

I can't remember much. Just stray threads and patches of mismatched fabric that will never find its place within my cluster of thoughts.
But I remember she had flowers on her boots and lashes that curled upwards. Her eyes were dark brown, so dark that they looked almost black. She was afraid of thunder and isolation. Her hair smelled of peppermint and she always had some poem, some song lyric dancing on her lips, waiting for the right time to emerge, bursting with personal emotions and relief. Her sky-scraping beauty was the least of her. *She was the moon who loved the Sun instead of the night sky.

I cannot remember how we met or when we first held hands.
I cannot fathom the names of her parents or her best friend's hair color.

But I remember that she - she was the meaning of Love.

*I do not love her, for she was Love herself.

i turn the sound of the shattering into a punchline
and the laughter almost burns the room down.
and it feels almost like a promise.
(of what, i do not want to know.
i do not want to say.)

and the truth of it is
sometimes it truly is just a joke, a skin-deep wound, no one's loss;
other times
(most times)
the hurt scrapes against my bones,
and the promise echoes just as the laughter ends,
(sputters into a silence more deafening than the uproar)
as they leave the room,
as i am left alone.

i ride through the breakdown and become too lost to rebuild,

much less to rebuild alone.