Everything's a
race,
isn't it?
A race to
grow up, a race to
be loved, a race to
fulfill yourself.
Nobody ever
slows down to wonder
why
we're racing.
Nobody ever
stops to look at the
big picture;
we're all going to
die, anyway.
Why should you try to
care?

Why should you
change when
all you'll be in the end is
dust;
exactly what you
started as?
Why should we try to
come together when
that which comes together
falls apart?
Everything falls apart.
We will all be
forgotten, our
actions, our
words, our
morals, our
wishes.
Why should anything we do
matter?

Sometimes I smile at you

even though

you are thousands of miles away.

forgive me mum but it’s begun;
frustration’s taken hold,
behold!

been sitting here
a day or year
just waiting to get old…

blood-shot eyes again,
you comprehend?
no **** she’s on the ***

and grasp that ballpoint pen,
again
I hope she’s got a plot

I'm quite sorry
no plot for me,
I’m simply not that able

I’ll spit some views,
I’ll sip some *****,
make poems out of fables

it’s really not that
interesting,
but something in me’s beckoning

to write write write!
so I’ll write write write
while you sleep and work and eat and live;

I won’t eat or sleep or work
I live
to write write write
and I write to live

He fishes-
with barbed question hooks.
Discarded conversation-thread
leaves me too tangled
to talk.
Too tired to care.
Exclamation marks hurt-
Long strokes do nothing to sooth.
Marble-dots scatter
to trip me up as I move.
******* the difference
between his round-mouthed-O
and mine-
A slow, steady discontent
slithers
down my spine.

The back up with
A crooked neck bent
   Towards Hell
While his lips tightened sternly
   as a Victorian urn.

His face barely recognizeable
   ever since the penny-doppler showered
A wandering click
   that skipped
      no birds on his fence.

In a glass paned massacre, forever fossilized
between childhood bullies and prom-night feel-ups,
there was a consciousness that feigned
once a week, cockled in creationism and the Eucharist.

His passions -- clam shells flanked by the ripping tide.
His intellect -- a solitary warble amid ***** blue notes.

he was two opposing elements,
the coldest warmth i’ve ever felt.
he was night mixed with light,
flight mixed with fight.
his shoulders full of freckles
were fields of tiny fires,
his hair a molten eruption
spilling down my hands.
he set off bombs inside me,
rendered my forest
a mound of smoky soot,
reached into me
to uproot the undergrowth.

he was loud.
i was listening.
he was bright.
i was willing.

i would have followed him
into the mouths of volcanoes,
built temples for him,
a hearth to rest his head in,
a small wallspace to flicker in,
let him **** up my oxygen.
I wanted to dig into him like a jack o’ lantern,
reach into his pulpy insides
and scoop out sadness with the seeds,
carve a smile into his flesh,
light a candle in his breast,
so he could shine,
but he was too cold.

i kept striking those matches
til my fingers burnt,
and every time the flame
touched his delicate wick,
we’d both go out.

When she entrusted in me her golden locks
the tips were dyed orange,
but now all is lost

The punk-*** grrrl liberationist made me a deal
and I could've sworn that she'd made sure
that she couldn't feel

She believed that only logic and reason could sway me
but I'm weak for my hatred that
burns inside me

The hatred for the person that would grow into me
I wanted to destroy her so that
I could look at me

and now when I look in the mirror
I really see a girl
ugly and fake

but at least I see a girl

she told me how but she didn't tell me what
she cried a lot but she didn't even cut
she thought I'd always be her, and she me, but
she wouldn't have given up this easily

she ****** her head up when she felt she should
she didn't **** herself when she didn't look good
she was a fighter, and a lone rebel like a wolf
she wasn't the make up and denial; she was tough

And I think I'll cry, but the anger's not raw
Now I fight against her cause,
It wasn't about punk,
It was about the struggle, the rage, and the beauty of flaws