A head lain upon a pillow
A heart spilled upon the sheets
A dream made on soft cotton
A nightmare born on ripped satin
A child conceived beneath the quilt
A purity stolen in the dark
A life made under watchful stars
A death brought by the morning sun

ghosts of slumber parties past.
just a haunted betamax & a stack of oreo sandwiches.
sisters braiding eachother’s hair far past the witching hour,
contemplating life without supervision.

blue house. yellow lawn.
silverback gorilla in one garage.
two garage: empty.
three garage: a woman entombed in exhaust.

          [her bloated tongue]

a gang of bmx boys pizza-fed and friday-high,
hopped up on mountain dew and trading card collectible rituals ‘n rhythmics.
they conjure a demon just to **** and dismember it.
     for funsies.
     for keepsies.

a fang for the shrine at the foot of the old oak tree.
history on the skin, long history, long thoughts, long in the nod like a calm dead frog.
bubbled, boiled, toiled, and troubled.

the woods aren’t haunted.
you   are haunted.
you   are the conduit through which the darkness displays its vivid colors.

          [treefort aflame]

the seasons furrow/
                               / the leaves fall.
little plots of land etched out – subdivision and sprawl.
on the avenue, heaven
& hell made tame and tangible.
built, re-built, and refurbished – a lawn and a lantern.
a mortgaged glory of sparkle and decay.

          [dead cat is a new cat is the old cat ran away]

pictograms of morning light display on mom’s face
as she instructs us on the gusts of love       [scrambed eggs]
& teaches us the truth of nettles sprung
from violent pine.
                                      [toast with raspberry jam]
the television.
the microwave.
the blender beverages.
hymnals of an electric kingdom.
one mom dances, the other expires.

          [restless armless girls in orange sunsets]

girl with a gun at the edge of her lawn and selling lemonade.
girl in an old wicker chair.
save her horror story for another day.

boy with a bent frame bicycle limps his way home
from one end of the avenue to the other.
his pockets full of sparkly rocks found in the lime quarry pit.
one boy in a long line of lost planets.
the driveway.
the refrigerator.
the hum of a saturday night commercial-free cassette.
where’s dad?

                         the glow of an eerie crystal
                                                                     (continued…)

I'm alive as much as the next person,
although talk is cheap to explain this.

thick & thin, my caramel skin is the same,
cold easily, sometimes warm,
lately it's been a mix of both.

I beg of you, shallow man, vain girl,
since when is attraction only seen?

can't you see the passion of someone's heart,
or the lack of selfishness in his gentle eyes?

a beautiful face, in time it will fade,
but a heart of gold, will stand the test of life,
more than cashmere words & silky lies.

I beg of you, love of mine, oh sweet divine,
since when do I not shine like stars in your eyes?

can't you see the kindness within my heart,
or the willingness to love you unconditionally,
whether in sight or blind?

a beautiful appearance can soon be faded,
but a love deep like the ocean cannot be seen,
yet it can be felt in the depths of your heart.

think of this before you break my heart,
and before you think of loving someone else.

lies are so pretty, I fall each time as hard,
your words are cheap but I appreciate each one,
simply because I adore your wicked smile.

either you're Satan in disguise or the mighty God of love,
because I'm falling under way too fast.

I always found it to be true what my professor once told me. "You write better when you just let the feelings pour out." This beautiful blank page. We are too familiar with each-other. It knows all my secrets and all my feelings.... It keeps it to its self and and doesn't offer any opinion. The page stares back at me and just listens as i decorate it with my ink. In this ink, in these lines that i create on the page are my true emotions. The emotions that I'm too afraid to show, the emotions that run deep through my mind body and soul. The blank page tells the story of my soul. As long as i have a pencil and a scrap of paper I've no need for anything else, because all I've ever wanted from the beginning was to empty these thoughts that flood my brain.