there she is
in the back of class
waiting for the sun to shine
writing in her little book
the faces she got this time

the teacher left the room for a minute
as it seemed
and he got up
and wrote on the bored
"cry if your a freak"
knowing he meant me
i did

they laughed
he erased it
and the teacher came back
and didn't even notice
"why didn't he notice?"

so she went home that day
believing the lie
because she can't control
the sounds that come out of her mind
who knows where she got the gun

but the real question is
why didn't they notice?

he missed one football practice
so that he could dance
he football friends would tease
and finally
they assumed there was a romance
he said his talented was true
but football family rules
they have to beat it out of you
because there worried about you

that day he went home
believeing the lies
trying to
cut out
the dance inside
and when i didn't work
he cut a little more
and it took 24 hours
for his father to walk through the door

every second
of everyday
people commit suicide
because
they all went home
bilieveing the lies

that just because they are different
because they are set aside
they need to be forgotten
**they need to die

I feel like a freak by choice
But in a good way lead with no voice
I'm different from everyone
I'm the short friend with a massive heart
My piercings make me unique
I'm random but like to laugh and smile
I rock chucks attitude of punk
Wear glasses to read stimulate my mind
Not like the rest I take pride on myself
Being me is my greatest protest
Writing is my way of expression
Not into drinking intoxicated by my music
Fight to be me fight not to lose
In my own freak world
It's the place that makes me happy

On the day
her body burned
she asked the
winds to be
her friends
and they
picked her
up and poured
her through
the fingers of
their hands
like a river
without ending
that won't
be tied or
bound, until
every trace of
dust embraced
the freedom it
had found.

It starts
in the quiet
itching in the fingers
like new skin knitting under blistered burns.

I have always written.
Before I had my letters
(before the lessons
with stubby pencils
curving sense out of the air)
I would scrawl nonsense waves
folding and boiling
in a crash of senseless surf
onto pages meant for pictures

I scribbled a whole Atlantic
before sense and sound
delivered the waves to reason.

I still find it hard,
when writing,
not to let the rolling sea
scatter into fragment waves
that whisper into the breeze of my fingers.

I have tried many addictions,
I have spent people like money.
I have tied my hands
to stop from fussing at the leaves.
If I ever loved I left it still spinning,
but I have never lost the itch

a pen to scratch its bleed of ink
into a sweet clean ****** page.
To scrawl my feint history
in every broken harbour
of her yielding skin.

We danced toward
each other's wounds

with gentle step
and touched inside

and now the bleeding
has resumed

and all this blood
is hard to hide.

There once was a *****,
Who had a cousin named Mitch,
And ate and ate and ate,
She ate so much,
She ate her clutch,
And pretty much everything else.
One day this girl,
Started to hurl,
And a problem did arise,
She puked and puked and soon she started to despise,
Herself and others, chickens and mothers,
Even her best friend Siena.
Years have past and turkeys don''t last long past Thanksgiving,
A ****, a *****, and quite a bore, how can she keep living?
Now you see, what a B---- she can really be,
This poems not about a lineman,
It's a about a horrible girl named Sam Steinman.

The mirror dent, my reflection cracked in several
ways, wallowing in wonder whether mortality is my faith.

My eyes
marry clocks
and drift away
with time, to lands of  broken  hour glasses.

Where eternity invites the reaper to shape short destinies.

Fears smear
amongst peers,
many phobias
being but one
clear path
death is near.
Life is dear