The face of a sorrowful man
can't compare to the
tear bottles of whiskey
spent on stale bread.

i built barricades to block my desire for your lips
because i thought it would be easier
to not be around you
than to be around you and face the truth that you are not
and never will be
with me
but the nights are cold
and your arms are warm
and i am not sure how much longer i can go
without seeing your smile

I hate how I can remember every little detail. That makes me obsessive…doesn’t it? That’s one thing I don’t understand about our society; we’re always trying to be normal. We want…confidence for example. We want confidence and if we don’t have any we automatically have selfhate problems, but if we have it we become obsessed. Does anyone here really know the true definition of obsessed? Because I would really like to know, really. Alright, then answer me this, why is it always negatively understood? Is it all that bad that I know the exact moment when she is going to fix the undone bow on her left shoe because I can see how it has been eating her up inside for the last five minutes? But, she would never in a million years stop her speech to us to fix the undone bow on her left shoe. Is it all that bad that I know that she has been wearing those shoes for the past thirteen days and the bow came undone on the third? I know that she has a freckle right on her right jawline even though it’s small and not that noticeable at all. But, I noticed it. That makes me a freak, doesn’t it? And in addition to that, I am completely aware of her breath and the amount of time it takes for her to breathe in from her great, pretty nose and breathe out once again. I am completely aware of the way she always picks at her medium-length oval squared nails when she talks. I am aware that she wears two rings on her right hand, one on her *******, one on her ring. I know that she swears quite frequent actually, but catches herself every now and then replacing the cuss with a letter. You know something, I may be obsessed. I may be a freak and I may be crazy. But, no one else in this world has the privilege of knowing this woman or appreciating her as I do. Because no one ever took the time to notice the undone bow on her left shoe.

I hate the way they hold the steering wheel.
As if it was the most casual gesture in the world.
As if they could do it with their eyes closed.
As if they were the ones driving the cab.
I'm sick of being passenger
and being naked under these safety belt restraints.
I'm ******* and no one seems to care
because we could never know the rules of the road like they do.

I have always thought that if
you can touch someone's hand
without them
cringing
and
if they can drink
out of the same bottle as you,
then,
you are close.

Age is an illusion (to me),
and time is made up.
I love to indulge in philosophical conversations
and decadent flavors of people.

When I was six I spilled
a gallon of milk
down the stairs
and I cried and cried for days.

I still don't know my lefts from my rights
but
I sure as hell know my wrongs.

I have always tried my best to
sweep myself under the rug
out of fear
of running into
that Fiery Unearthly Woman
and the green-eyed man.
Who doesn’t know art
without a fist.

I am often told I have an old soul,
but my conjoined twin
lingers
in the aroma of incense and
tequila sunrises.

I grew up in slummy pubs
with scruffy men
chomping on tomato guts
who reflect on their
******* visits and complain
about their payroll.
To this day,
people watching
will always be my favorite sport.

Bludgeons to the head are not
self-inflicted,
Everything's a choice.
Only,
I have been influenced by
crooked bodies who don't
know the meaning of
a little something I call
Peace
and
Love
are all you need in a world
where the people
are too busy tying their shoes.

Reincarnation is one of my many beliefs,
however,
I Refuse
to tie myself down,
I like to say I'm a
“free spirit”,
whatever that is.

And
if I were a cat
with nine lives,
I'd be pushing number seven
by now.

But I still stick by the fact that
I was born to the wrong place
at the wrong time.

I know that if I were a speck of cosmic dust
I would be content,
but until then
I fill the void with
unrequited love and chocolate milkshakes.

I have an obsession with dying my hair,
but I'm too chicken to do anything drastic.

I am a
non-meat-eating-
soul-searching-
animal-rights-digging-
bit-of-­a-hippie-
pacifist -
with a coexist bumper sticker tattooed on my forehead.
Yes, I am that girl
who writes letters to Congress
regarding the cruel treatment of chimpanzees in circuses
and the brutality of foie gras.

If I could
I would save all the polar bears
and clean up all the
littered gum wrappers,
but I am fatigued by the
immorality
of it all.

I hate horror,
thriller,
and gore,
but,
that doesn't stop me from
watching documentaries on Anne Frank
and mental asylums in the 1950s.

According to white lab coats and
shattered spectacles-
My capacity for durability is dwindling
and it's only a matter of time before
I collapse like an abandoned building.
I suppose it's much too difficult
for a “disturbed” “young” “lady”
“like” “myself”.

When I was 7 I drew a picture of a family
and a white picket fence
for my mother,
who never truly understood
how hard it was for me
to color in the lines,
and,
who didn't think twice
as she shredded it
into fourths
in front of my face.

I still remember that day
when she locked the door and
tried to close her eyes,
and I still remember the day
I tried to do the same.
There's this prepreprenatal desire
for little beings
I can sing “Danny's Song” to
in a rocking chair.  

Despite all my goals in this life,
they will always come first.

I chew on my nails when I'm nervous
and I pace when I'm scared.
Fear will always be my strong.point.

I'm an artist
in that
I'm an actor
in that
I'm a person.
Even though,
I'm not
exactly sure
what any of those are
yet.

I have a horrible habit of biting my lip
and re-washing every piece of silverware
before I use it.

I'm all about the classics.
There is beauty
in the
skipped
heartbeats of vinyl
and I don't mind the
crackling sound
one bit.

When I was 8 I would give
the night sky
“moon cookies”.
I thought that She must get hungry,
having to fold in and out
by dusk.  

I love the smell of garages and old books,
but I wouldn't want to make a habit
of living in either.
Being stuck in the residue of past instances
is not my cup of tea,
I prefer chamomile,
and I prefer to keep moving.

I drink my coffee black with extra ice
while my therapist drinks it
light and sweet.
I think that says a lot about our personalities.

In the rare times when
my neutered temper gets the best of me,
my eyes turn a disgusting
shade of green.

The movie “Grease” gives me
melancholia. And I often feel
like I'm wasting my
“youth”
on perpetual thinking patterns
and preparing for christmas in mid-July.

I really wish I could be a
“beauty school drop-out”,
but it's much too unstable.....
which is why I'm going to be an actor.

Selective memory causes me strife;
I don't recall
the distributive property of division,
but I sure as hell can tell you every
word you've ever said to me.

Bittersweet nostalgia
makes me gag now-a-days
because I can't relive
those tender moments
quite as often
as I need to.

I am terribly
afraid
that I cling
too much
to the saviors
I deem dear
to my existence.

I get attached
way
too easily,
and I fear
I stifle wings.

It has taken me an insane amount of time
to value the breath
that flows in and out of my
stale lungs.

Luckily,  
angelic spirits
got my back.

Tape doesn't hold everything together,
but band-aids do help.
And
It bothers me that in ten years
I probably won't speak
to any of the people
who have ever meant
something

and
eventually
everything will
drift away
into unattainable
oblivion.

If I could I would live on a bus
and drive around the country
like a silly gypsy child,
but I don't have the energy
or desire
to
leave it all behind.

In the end,
I am completely aware
that I'll always be
a decomposing mess,
but,


I don't mind existence.

She kept up with her housekeeping.
Typically. Very Neat. Shelves everywhere.

Today, the melon baller was out of place
and she was busy batting flies.

Actually, there was only one fly.
Senses deceived.

The humming was too loud to go undisturbed.
Attention becomes focused digitally

on enhanced minute wrecks.
Hours spent trying to get the flies.

Illusion.
One fly.

She didn't know. Suspected worst.
Kept at it.

The sexless man walked in with a tophat. Brimmed.
Asks why the dishes weren't done.

Too Busy.

Why the floor not swept.

Too Busy.

Vacuum.

There's flies to get. I'm busy.


The house is a mess. The house is a wreck.

Scatter like roaches
and feel the sun beat down on you like moldy
sidewalk chalk
and cheap plaster.
Seep into the ground as if it were swallowing
time and eating the sea.
Don't look back into the eye of the storm until
it blinks 57 times and winks twice
It is an important concept that would behoove the
stale aura of your nature
And if you die during this so called adventure,
Smirk
And heave whole-heartedly with the last breath
allotted that you just tasted what it was like to
fall in love
and you proudly let it **** you all at once

The three little pigs had it easy
they were destined to be blown away
into oblivion
But,
expectations weigh me down in my sleep
and I have to greet the sun and the moon
with open arms,
and I'd rather be curled up in my bed of rocks
that I made with my own wretched hands.

My nails have dirt under them
so when they find me
when they dig me up
they'll realize
I was more alive than dead.

Perhaps perhaps that is true,
but I'm unsure at the moment if I can breathe anymore
without the man upstairs jumping on my chest
and rattling my bones like
windchimes in a blizzard.

They forgot to take me in from the porch
so now I am covered in ice.
Hypothermia is contagious.
I learned that the hard way.

My mother doesn't know any lullabyes
so I fell asleep alone all my life
there is no such thing as love in a world where
doors are always sewn closed.

My brother doesn't know the meaning of the word death
so he doesn't know who I am
or where I came from.
It's a divided house with splintered shutters
hanging only on one window.

My grandmother handmade the curtains so my mother
wouldn't have to spend any money on décor.
It is important to be fasionable yet frugal
she said.
Know your odds and ends
and always sweep the dust under the rug
at the end of the day.

Clean freak.
Everyday.
Shine the house. Shine her shoes.
I think she mistakes them for her soul.
But, it's okay
because ***** things teach important lessons in life
like who can bring the most to the table.

Honesty is the best policy.
I lied to my aunt so I could go smoke
her cigarettes and drink her *****
while she was gone on vacation.
She doesn't know I've slashed wrists
and doused pills with beer and dry martinis
on Sundays after church, but
Honesty is the best policy.

It's hard to explain to someone that addiction's not
addiction because you sound like
you've been shot
when you ask for the stuff you've been dying
to hold.
And they look at you as if you were the one
that ran over Princess Di.

Back up.
Back up.
Sit down. Breathe clean air and tell them that
you're not
suicidal
you just like the way the word sounds
on your tongue.

Aftermath is fear.
Intentions
always change last minute and as they
stuff the tube down your throat
you question if you are you
any longer.

People like that shouldn't rely on such
demeaning ways to be found,
but I can feel my skin rotting
and I'm terribly afraid
someone is going to cover me in
buffalo sauce and swallow me whole.

I was drunk
but does it still count
I've never truly known a woman
because I know the one for me will be
unknowable.
I am drawn to the things I can't have
and oh god
I can't have you.

I hear that if you lick the alphabet
they will fall in love with your tongue.
No one has made me fall yet,
that is no one I have tasted.
I don't trust they are worthy
if they can't look me in the eyes.

I pray to god no one ever inhales the carbon dioxide
I contain.
It is spoiled rotten with ash.
In fact, I am confident the dioxide
has turned black
by now

I have decided to create a mixtape for you
I have seen this many times in hopeless romances,
and I do feel that it truly is the action that will best show you my love
The cassette is in my car on repeat
but none of the songs fit right

I'm not going to be a teenage wasteland forever
Someday I'm going to stop polluting my body and hating my mother
I have an addiction to those
toxic remedies
like hair dye
nutmeg
and bleach.
I'll be taking calcium supplements
for dwindling marow
and for once I'll actually care about politics.
Daddy had a habit of calling me a
super-feminist
just because I wouldn't bring him his slippers
when he got home
from retrieving the mail.
I've always hated dogs in the house
so I became vegetarian.

My subscription to Cosmopolitan has long
been expired.
Instead I stick my fingers inbetween the crevices
of the fan

There's a secret to resentment:
Hang it up in the closet
on the hanger
next to the apron.
It's wanting to pour wasabi down pants
so they feel the kick
so they can hear

the need for us to tell one another
that love is a game
and we are the losers
is evident in this place
i, however, wish to believe
that love
is a song
and we are the singers

she is my song
and the right
for the melody
is infinite

so dont tell me that i dont love her
enough
i love her plenty
more

Maybe one day I'll make finger sandwiches
for classy luncheons
in a pagoda in my backyard.
We all will be jolly
and have balloon laughs
as we sip our aged merlot.
  And my young children will waltz in
  with their curtsies and bows and then
  go off again to be with their nanny.
And I will be occupied
with the things in my pocket
so I won't know what the dark is anymore.

                                                       ­                I'd rather live in the dark though.
                                                         ­                   In a raunchy studio apartment
                                                       ­                          with a semi-attractive but
                                                             ­                  the most beautiful woman
                                                           ­                                who is educated
                                                        ­                   and still knows how to color.
                                                           My children will understand what it means
                                                           ­              to be alive and I'll let them decide
                                                          ­                               if they appreciate it or not.
                                                                ­   We will feed the ducks every Sunday.
                                                                ­    I want to be among spirits not bodies.

Humming sultry love songs and
lathering in tanning oil.
Wind-up chew toy.
Everything's
clearance.
Car roof down.
Stars are fire you know.
No more
No less.
Parts of me have been run over by
that sailboat party.
I threw up
everything
but
I pretended to not know
that I lost my voice
from tin cans and lighters.

fem·i·nist [fem-uh-nist]
adjective
1. advocating social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men.*

I used to be afraid I'd be stuck in a training bra forever.
For awhile I didn't wear one.
My grandmother would yell at me.
I told her I was a feminist.
I didn't know what it meant.
A part of me wishes I could go back*
to that time of AA's instead of DD's.
One less thing to define me.
Maybe then I could be free of the restraints.

Eyeliner seemed ridiculous.
Poking yourself in the eye with an 8 dollar glamor crayon.
Crayola sells them for 15 cents.
Always was cheap - Not the makeup - Not the crayon.
I don't leave the house without it.

I used to be afraid of tampons.
They grossed me out.
They confused me.
I didn't understand how you could stick something "up there"
and walk straight.
I'd be surprised how much it can handle.
Strength. Numbers. Endurance.
But, I still can't walk straight.

I used to be afraid of the boogeyman.
The darkness in the closet.
The monster under my bed.
I was a smart kid.
I knew they were there all along
under the comforter
beneath the sheets
next to my fragile body
stealing my sliced heart
and ******* the rest.

The monsters wear a disguise.
Rubber.
If you're lucky.
Without the water balloon and crossed fingers your stomach fills nine months times its size.
So they say.
I still like to believe it's an old wive's tale.
And I refuse to be an old wife.

I never considered thongs underwear.
I considered them floss.
Why wear one when you could just go bare *** and achieve the same result?
Now I floss regularly.
Hygiene is important.
Clean my mouth.
Well, might as well brush my teeth while I'm at it.

I used to be afraid I'd grow up and couldn't eat Popsicles anymore.
As if chasing after the icecream truck was something prescribed to a little girl in spaghetti straps
******* only her thumb.
Innocence lost.
I don't like Popsicles anymore.
Unless they're cherry flavor.

You told me that your arm was numb and swelled
broken out from the stress of life.
You saw this as a punishment from life's misfortune.
I saw it as an opportunity to hold your hand
and tell you it's going to be ok.
You told me that your lips puffed up and hurt
like heartthrob.
You saw it as disappointment, as you couldn't wear your lipstick.
I saw it as luck:
The perfect moment to kiss you and make it better
without having the red color smeared all over my neck.

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if my fantasies came true and we were together. I wonder how we would spend our days.
I’d wake up in the morning to see your face on the pillow next to me. To see you wrapped in the cream linen sheets
the comforter fallen to the floor.
To hear the rising song of our alarm and to have
you reach your arm over
slamming the top and turning back to me with a defeated smile.
I wonder
what it would be like to force myself to get up from that bittersweet moment and put on my blouse and skirt and
get ready to face the day.
Always asking myself
why
for the perfect day would be to stay in bed all day next to you.
I wonder
what it would be like if you cooked me breakfast with smiley face pancakes and a tall glass of oj. And the delighted smile on your face as I compliment your apron.  
And to see you drive. The wind blowing our hair from the windows
cranked down.
Your sunglasses sitting perfectly on the bridge of your nose and
your hand gracefully placed on the top of the rolled down window.
Running your fingers through your hair and me wishing to do the same.
The music softly playing in the background making the moment seem more and more unrealistically perfect.
Maybe we’ll shop in those trendy villages like blue back square.
Just walking the streets together, not really even entering any stores. Just walking.
Pointing out interesting things in the windows.
Maybe we even touch hands for a short moment
and if I’m lucky
our fingers intertwine
and it seems casual to you
unawkward
natural.
Maybe we'll go to dinner and we just talk over pointless subjects and a flickering candle.
Then I don’t know what.
Maybe we walk again.
Under the night sky.
Seeing your beauty in glimpses of the city lights.
Maybe it starts to sprinkle maybe not.
We laugh at a pointless joke.
I love your laugh.
I love your smile.
I see your crisp blue eyes as we walk past a neon sign outside a dull bar and I realize that I love them more than I could fathom.
They look into me and see every little thing about me.
The good. The bad. My fears. My past.
I can sense that. And I can sense that you understand.
That you get it.
I realize that those eyes are the purest and most beautiful eyes on the planet.
Maybe I feel the need to tell you that.
Maybe after we laugh and smile we both realize that this is the moment that happens in movies. The one where they realize. The one where they fall in love.
The moment that happens after dinner and drinks by the streetlight’s corner.
In a hip city of artists and thugs.
Like us.
Exactly like us.
And we realize that we must follow through with the movie.
Follow through with the feeling of realization.
And then maybe our laughs and smiles drop
not completely, not seriousness, just pause.
And then maybe we look into each others eyes and slowly slip.
Run my fingers through your silky blonde hair
heads lean in.
I feel your lips against mine
I am truly happy.
I want to stay there in your arms forever.
We pull a part for a second
Catching breath
Opening eyes
You smile
And that is what I live for.

It is quite dignifying to imagine
one's self to be invincible, but
at the end of the day
we are all submissive to nightmares
mirrors can't help but reflect despair
in bloodshot eyes.
I have lived on this planted for
3 years and 20 centuries
and I can tell you that
sleeping pills don't work and
buttering burns makes the suffering
more savory.
Fire will always be enticing
and smoke will seem like clouds after a while
you can **** as many mosquitos as you want, but your blood will always belong
to the earth
and when you are drained like sandy bath water you will understand
what it feels like to be curious

My mother drinks cranberry juice and lemon tea to detox herself.
She says it gives her a clear mind
I drink Clorox
She takes it away.

I am stuck in this whirlpool of euphenisms.
Everything is more than it's allotted value.
Imbalanced by coincidences and lost chances.
I can't chew my food anymore because I have no gums.
Skin is excess.
So are bones.
There is an art to being nonexistent.
Dissatisfaction is suffering
and to free myself
is to not desire no longer
to the point where there is no
want for life's ticking.

And when I play Candyland I still feel you next to me
singing "Danny's Song" faintly
under your breath.
And in that moment I remember when we went to
San Francisco and you kept
all your money with your passport in a pouch
inside your bra And you thought you were
genius, even though
we lived there three years and
never go out of state.

Life really *****.
This isn't a poem.
Just a reflection of the truth.
15 letters that scream.

I have a bad taste in my mouth
one that toothpaste and scotch
can't make clean
tainted by temptation
thrown down a well
zipped close

Since when did lighting our lungs on fire and vomiting up our youth become fun.
When did cigarettes and *** become a carnal desire
and **** and ******* a symbol of pure lust.
How is grinding on some sweaty unshaved guy *****.
When did fake ids become the one thing we have on our Christmas list
memorizing the identity of another so we can lose ourselves in stale beer and cheap *****.
When did ***** songs about ******* become the theme song of passionate love.

When did losing yourself become the game of fun.

I have been there
I have been lost
but unlike the rest of adolescent adults,
I do not desire it.

Everyone wants to grow up too fast.
act too old for their own souls.
be provocative and disgusting to show that you know what it all means
to show that you can do it too.
Good for them.

Rhymes have no reason
but they are pleasant I suppose
It seems that's all that matters
Satisfaction is bliss
So is ignorance
But it's hard to say which I would prefer
in a world that is deaf
and the people wear eye patches
to save their irises from the sun

Spoiled in more ways than one
For the record
I once was a pure white maiden
who wore their hair in pigtail braids
and only chewed tobacco on
Saturday evenings.
Sabbath never meant a word to me
The misunderstood don't understand
Mistakes are still made
Out of control
In the backseat beating to a drum
Sound coming from the heart
thrown in the glove box
I didn't mean to -
You chopped off my hair
with a rusty blade
left scars on my shins
battered not broken
for the record
rotten. In more ways than one.

It kills me to say this, but I think you and I are like oil and water.
Despite my longing to decapitate into your molecules and blend into you,
Maybe we weren't meant to mix.
Some times the forbidden-ness creates passion and pride,
and it did on my side.
I would still do anything and everything to dust your rocky shores.
You still are my ocean and everyday you swallow me whole.
But, I heard about this lake where the salt and fresh water collide and make waves.
And I wouldn't mind making waves with you.

Can you sing me to sleep again?
No dear my voice is hoarse.
I would massage it if I could.

I want to crawl deep inside your pocket
and live next to the quarters and
gum wrappers.
You will never feel empty again

Springtime is my favorite
because I can see that white
outline of yours
more clearly.

You are so fresh.
You are a berry.
Yes. That is what you are.

The finest of them all.

I almost slit my pulmonary artery
and I almost tasted bleak ** drops.
But I escaped the morticioner's needle
I refuse to have my eyes sewn closed
and my lips clasped tight.
Freedom only comes by the light of ultrasounds and x rays.
I can see now
better than before.
And it's all thanks to the gravediggers
who replaced the phlamalderhide
with breastmilk.

I don't believe that such a deed is allowed in human fate.
A made up rhyme cannot fathom the truth as I can you.
No matter the wondrous colors that shine through on a daily basis,
no matter the birds singing in the
autumn leaves,
there is no sun
there is no hope
The birds are singing, but they are
corpses in spring mulch.

The problem with me is that I believe in souls.
A dangerous belief to say the least.
I feel as if I have lived this life a million times over
The pain is
so routine
so familiar
so real.
It is recognizable.
Quite.
I have been around a long time.
Though: I am not experienced.
Nor am I inexperienced.
I am not young. I am not grown. I am not old.
I never will be.
I am but a mere soul living in yet another tattered body.
A problem in itself.
But, if I am a soul I will exist forever.
And I am tired.

she reminds me of sunsets
I'm sure that's a cliche from somewhere
but

I picture her on these nights when the air is warm and the breeze is cool
walking through a quaint little neighborhood
where couples retreat in their yellow houses
with white picket fences
and automatic sprinklers
and I smile

Now
i am walking with you
and we are holding hands like the elderly after sunday brunch
and we are laughing at flowers like children playing in autumn leaves
and we are in love like hopeful adolescents
but, you know what

it feels right

I'm not really sure what to say to you to let you know that there is more
You are a hard person to convince
stuck in a mind turbulence that throws you overboard and practically drowns you in thought
Don't worry, I am too.
However, you are the one thing that breaks the tide, and I take a liking to that.

The forgotten tale of a young girl
with bloodshot eyes and traces of
broken wishbones.
Death on doorsteps and
tails-end pennies
scattered beneath her feet.
The garden of good and evil has not existed
for a long while since it hasn't stopped
raining,
and by now,
the fields of purity are drenched
in melon-cholia.
Maybe next time.

I only write in black ink because it reminds me of conformity and
I have a loose comprehension of unsaid secrets.
Maybe a year from now we can sit down
together like civil warriors
and you can tell me why you drank
so many Blood Mary's and received so many Black Eye's.

I want to tell you all my secrets
so that you know that I am a damaged person
and that I understand how cruel swords can be on pale skin.
So that you know that I can feel the pain you have felt,
and that I am a survivor like you.
I want you to know just how much I've been through and I want you to feel sorry.
I realize this sounds bad,
but
I'm lonely
and I think we can be ****** up souls together

and learn how to make it all right

I have a tendency to block out the unwanted.
It's a survival method mastered since and early bird age.
Mind games do help the helpless no matter what philosophers say.
I believe that everything happens for  a reason,
and too often that reason is a lesson
birthed from bad luck sprinkled with karma with a capital K.
Pain is seductive.
The way it creeps ever so silently and makes itself at home
Uninvited things tend to do that best,
understandably:
Where else are they supposed to go?
I ask myself that question every day because I am homeless.
I have a tendency to block out the unwanted   :   I have a tendency to block out myself.

I sat there in the darkness of this girl's backyard
I didn't know her that well, but I felt that I should have.
Missed my chance.
What I do know about her is that she was very beautiful.
I didn't know that until she was gone.
It wasn't until the tears were streaming down my face that I realized
She was very beautiful.
It wasn't until I was standing in the darkness in her backyard with a hundred other people who's eyes were red and who's candles were gleaming that I realized
She was very loved
I didn't know this girl. I went to school with her. I saw her in the halls. I heard her screaming in classrooms.
I never knew how much we shared in common - the same family, the same passion for art, the same life.
It wasn't until I heard all the stories people had and all the memories people shared with her that I realized
I loved her.
And it wasn't until my candle got down to the nub to the point where it was burning my fingers to the point where it blew out that I realized
She was gone.

I am convinced that bodies are walking trees
and I am consisted of moss
if we stand still maybe we'll
grow right back into the ground again.

First stone skipped.
I think about who invented hardhats
and why trees have rings swirled inside their bodies
I decide that mother nature knows best.
Preparation is contentment.
Satisfaction is preparation.
I suddenly crave scrambled eggs with A1 sauce
then I remember
I don't like eggs at all.

Second stone skipped.
I think about where I should go for vacation and why I always lick off my lipstick.
I tend to run late
(in the mornings)
because I always go for coffee
at this dive in the opposite side of town
and end up chatting with the
waitress about why I don't like sugar

Third stone skipped.
I think about the blister on my ankle and the callus on my thumb
I never learned how to work a lighter
properly.
Simplicity is a ***** job
and I'd rather have my finger nails
ripped out than be ordinary.

Fourth stone skipped.
Sinks.

It tastes like fire.
I've been run over by crickity
subway carts
one too many times
and now my deformed fingers
can't pick up pencils.
On the way back from
Manhattan
I was tied to rusted train tracks
and left to drown
in the salty August rain.

Old man with cane,
let's call him Michael,
prods at my sockets
picks at my skin.
Rope burn stings almost as much as an
infected
sore
from all the laps around
my head
is filled with
maggots
and being
last year's leftovers
again
and again

There's a bruise on my knee
from last weeks' repention
when you kicked me down the stairs
and told me to be thankful
I have food
on the floor
and a roof
over my scars, and
I must be forgiven for each tear
because drama runs deep in my veins
so that I have become
the boy who cried wolf
and you told me to apologize
for ever word
I've ever written
because it is
a waste of time
and time is precious
so we lay down on the floor
and say grace
and I try not to look at you
but I can't help but see your reflection
glaring off the knife in your hand

Free me.
Teach me how to be grand and pure.
No more will I be an expectation unfit for the queen.
I may have potentioal, but in my capabilities,
it is nonesistant.
Bring me to the sun and let me burn
The cigarettes match my memories, but
they don't add up.
Electrical wires are down.
No one seems to see farther than glass.\
If I were any more translucent I would be a ghost - i was always quite spiritual
I am trying so hard to listen to the secrets but
I am enslaved by souls that are far from sane

Get your act together
What are going to do about the science test today?
You’re gonna fail.
Stop thinking that.
Discipline.
I need discipline.
You need help.
Shut up.
Yeah, like that’s even possible.
Your purse has makeup all over it.
So?
It’s ruined.
There’s no Billy Joel song that makes sense now.
This isn’t normal.
Maybe it is.
You’re not.
It’s the little sugar tablets.
They’re making you crazy.
But, if it’s them am I crazy still?
Yes.
Oh.
That *****.
Your life *****.
Hurry up and type.
Shut up.
No.
Please.
Please stop.
I don’t know why this is…
Just shut up.
Help.

my hips next to hers and we could have the Universe.
her rolling thumbs pressed against my blushed cheeks.
her fire light piercing through all of my -

i don't care
if the moon chokes me.
these throbbing increments of time
are wasting away like musk rose.
and the smell of her spirits are lingering.

her shoulders are galaxies
i'm tied to their crevices
i'm tied to the souls
of her shoes.

i want to know all your ghostly habits
do you cross
yourfingers
yourlegs
youreyes
                 my planets orb.

I know why the heart contracts and squeezes like a lucky python.
I know why it drives salty tears
and drunk nights
and endless painkillers.
Love is a killer that has no grounds
for saving
And I am aware that my heart is trying to escape its wrath,
trying to get to its desire
Its destination
It wants to eat her
It wants to swallow her whole

i am on a ship
sailing far away
to a place completely different of where we are today
where nothing is forbidden or taken advantage
where you and i are we
and there's nothing that stops the flying arrow or entangled souls
evil and hate wont matter anymore because we are free
adventure and life is the only thing left beyond our love
and there shall always be the wonder if well make it to the next morning
thriving off the little of which we have
but its all we need
though they say the climb is the best part of the win for tis where you hold the dearest memories
i still want to get there now
so i can see your face and kiss your soft pale lips
and you can stroke my hair and whisper sweet words in my ear
holding me forever and never letting me fall again
promising to always be there to catch me
we can dance in the sun like silly gypsy children
not caring of who sees
and we can lace our fingers together
we can watch the stars light up the night sky
so i can see your face and kiss your soft pale lips
and you can stroke my hair and whisper sweet words in my ear
holding me forever and never letting me fall again
promising to always be there to catch me
we can dance in the sun like silly gypsy children
not caring of who sees
and we can lace our fingers together
we can watch the stars light up the night sky
the moon shine and gleam over our eyes
and the night shall project shadows of our souls holding each other until daybreak
so we can create the dearest memories
this ship is bland and white and scary
nothing like the achievement it was made out to be
at times i am mad
crazy for i am all alone
no one can hear me except you
why dont you answer my cries?
perhaps you are busy crying as well
but, most of the time i am thinking
of what may be
of what could happen if i am not careful
of what will happen to this dream
of us
i am on a ship
sailing far away
to a place completely different of where we are today
where nothing is forbidden or taken advantage
where you and i are we
come with me my darling babe
and we shall sail together
and bask in the morning light
and climb the breaking mountains
and pick the withered flowers
and sing old songs of broken records
and fall overboard
come with me my darling
and we shall purchase these tickets to nowhere together