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

Maybe I'm a cat
With 9 lives
Cutting off number 8
I could have gone so much sooner
But luck has spared me
Although I'm not exactly sure if that is good or bad

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’m sick of this chapter.
I’m sick of science fiction and horror and fables.
I should be able to choose my own genre.
Fantasy.
It doesn’t really work that way.

When someone writes a poem. The poem exists. It doesn’t have a choice.
It has to be read. It has to be printed. It has to be spoken.
Forever.
Until the day the author removes it from the shelf and the binding goes stale.

I was the kid in 3rd grade who would skip to the end of the book to see if the rest was worth reading.
I am that kid.
And I am sick of reading.

if you were here i would tell you by the light of the television that there is nowhere else i would rather be than by your side
i promise to always let you snuggle
under the blankets of my love
but i don't know where you live anymore

and if you are crying right now
swallowed by sadness and sinking in tears
i am sending you every good thought that comes to

mind
it is hard for one to see such a beautiful person

hurt
but you
it kills me.
i would do anything to take it all away, but i

know that nothing is that easy
i am not sure what to do to make it better
i have been there and i know that words are just

letters that are just sounds that are just the

breath moving through two slabs of flesh
and i know they dont make that much a difference

in a foggy mind
all i can think of is to tell you that i love you

each time i am reminded that souls get twisted

and may crack

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

Better. Better is a term. A word. A concept.
It could mean something more, I suppose,
but in reality,
                                                                                 everything is what it is
                                                                                 we just want to make it out to be more
Everything is nothing - and we don't wrap our heads around this idea
We can't believe this because:
                                                   If we tell ourselves that everything (even the things that mean the world)
                                                                                                         are nothing

Then we are nothing also
And we cannot bare to be nothing.

If I am nothing than I have no purpose, no reason, no substance.
                                                                                                      If I am everything there will be nothing else
                                                                             Which is worse?
To be a grain of sand
or to be the ocean that smothers every other grain?

Lose lose situations are my specialty...........................................Ah! But, what if you are something.
Just something. That is the thing to be. Smack in the middle
between a ghost and a giant,
life and death

That is where I want to be.
Where I want to spend my days,
and that,
that is improvement.

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 can feel her. nails digging into my skin
.and her lips. pressed against my heart
like soft rose daggers
but. i am holding her. hand.
clutching on
when i know that she needs to be free.

maybe next time
when I
pick enough
blackberries
they'll be
ripe.

and i think about how giving
the world seems to be
when i'm next to your shadow

and i am reminded that
you need light too

and i think
my god
she's the sun
and i'm the moon
and it was never meant to be

Our bodies will rot
in the green of the earth.
Crammed into a box and
drilled into the ground
as if purity ate us whole.
You'll be buried with your rosaries
and I with my pearl earrings;
and if there is such a thing as heaven,
our souls will entangle
and our corpses will be holding hands.

It was him.
He was coming at me
and it was him.
I remember it clearly,
but it’s all a blur.
He reminded me of him.
The way he grabbed me from behind like a ragdoll.
Raggedy Ann.
The look he had in his eyes.
Like there’s no escape.
Like it was time for me to pay my dues.
Pay my rent.
Game.
I feel like a doe caught in the headlights.
I know I’ll never make it across the street.
I know I’m gonna end up as roadkill
or the driver’s main course.
It was him.
Living on.
And he brought back all the things
I have strived to forget.
All the feelings
I have been trying to bury
in the sunsweet earth
since I slammed the door
and swallowed the key.

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.

How desperately I cling to the image of a lost cause
with a side of despair,
tomorrow I will be a blithering fool,
but today I am content with
just being
next to the furnace
with the radio on.

And I don't think it can be solved with cookie dough Icecream or endless walks of thinking.
I don't think the blades or tears or blasting music helps.
I don't think that the round of drinks vomited in the shower or the bloodshot eyes are decent.
But neither is it all.

Most of the time I don’t feel actual
But it has occurred to me that this is real
I am real
For all I know the moon could be a figment of my imagination
It’s too far for me to touch
It’s too big for me to hold
The moon
sneaks slowly out of the dark every now and then
Its smile can illuminate the world
But, its absence is noticed
The night swallows it whole and only every so often
it is spit out
I imagine the moon gets tired
I know I do

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 have once been told that I am a deep person
that my roots extend into the earth
that I am vast
like oceans
of blood
that I know.
I do not wish to be the sea
because
then
I
will
drown

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 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.

Cakes,
I know I just wrote to you,
but I can't get you off my mind - you live there 24/7,
but it seems today you are running in circles.
I'd like to stop you and kiss your hand and wipe the sweat from your forehead.
People tell me you're a hopeless cause.
I disagree, you are my hope entirely.
But spare me love,
is there a chance for us?
By any means could you possibly even have for me the slightest that I have for you?
Spare me the truth, should I try to shake you from my heart?
(No)                                                                                                                                         (Yes)
Thank god.                                                                                                       I'm sorry, but that's not valid.

Je t'aime,
Bug

She doesn't know a thing
about the immense strength
Her teeth have over my
attention
Or how I would rather have my  eyes fall out
of their sockets,
from lack of blinking,
than to miss even a single moment
of her grin.

If I get you out of my mind
I will not be able to get you out of my heart
Love is a game of trades,
although it seems you are the only dealer.
I want to inject you into my bloodstream and drip your euphoria
or burn with you in blankets of fire
Smoke me until I have been tasted with all the wasted lips of reckless youth.
Addiction is my drive and you are the cure
So save me and take me to meetings where I can talk with other sad people like me

Interest
compound interest.
Collect my shoes
and walk
for miles.
Come across a clock
wave.
The birds sing.
but they have no vocal chords.
Wave back
faceless hands.
Oops.

I was never aware that everything in this godforsaken world is pretend.
Everything is an illusion,
a time waster,
a sweet dream that may or may not go dark.
Everything is made up by people in lab coats
or philosophers with spectacles
or old men with top hats.
Everything is made up by dreamers and livers and do-ers.
So I can be anything I want
and that is such a beautiful thing.

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.

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.

I never really learned how to tie knots
I never really cared
Now I am burning in the attic of desire
drinking by flames of doubt
wishing your image out of my head
and praying that today
I forget how you threw a pail of water on
me in the thunderstorm of 98'
and I remember those reeboks that were
kept closed with
velcro

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.

The love of my life has caution tape wrapped around her like a mink stole.
And I don't know how to break it to her,
but I happen to know a thing or two
about the sort of wind she carries.
Sweet, Serene,
But, when it comes
Oh it comes.

I very much would like to sip on your soul for the rest of my existence
Get high off your laugh
Hover on all the words you whisper
I very much would like to spend the rest of my life with you
I think that just may be great.

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.

Strip me of my privileges. The privileges I am unworthy of.
Take them away. What’s the point of them if I’m not even happy.
Take me away.
The undeserving shouldn’t deserve, take me away.

Push me down the stairs. Try to get my head straight.
Don’t help me up. I created this myself; it’s my responsibility to break my fall.
Don’t lend a hand.
My hands are scarred and clammy, don’t lend a hand.

Dissect my interior. Rid me of the wrong.
Slice me up.  I need to cut out the lines that aren’t mine.
Let me bleed.
If I need to see what I’ve done here, let me bleed.

Color me black and blue. My internal bruises from sinking to my knees.
Turn my soul to dark. Destiny is a bitter truth.
Turn it dark.
There is no lightness, turn it dark.

Give me chains that I can see. I’m tired of the invisible ones.
Lock me up if you must. If you can’t bear to look at my swollen eyes.
Throw away the key.
If you must, throw it all away.

Rip up old photographs with me waving in the background. I wasn’t really meant to be there anyway.
Light them on fire. If my existence posed no resemblance to living.
Light me on fire.
I won’t mind, light me on fire.

Watch my pleading soul decapitate. After all, it never really was in one piece.
Tear me apart.
End the misery.
End it all.
That’s all I ask.
Just somehow light me up.

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

fate is an uneven sword,
but time is the real enemy here
because i am no longer
among love
because i am no longer
among you

I guess there comes a time
when all that's right
goes wrong
when time runs out and
you're left
spineless without features
When you discover the truth
of the matter and blink
in its face
I love you
but I know you don't
So I guess its become the time to
erase the one thing that's
right in your life for the sake of her innocence.

And I find myself seeing everything pertaining to her.
The sunset on seagreen waves reflects off the sand like her creamy white skin and ice warm eyes.
Some stranger’s smile in the park seems to glisten just as hers does when her rosy blood-drained lips spread so even.
A character from the TV screen seems to match her perfectly perfected pitch or create the same unthought delicate gesture that is more graceful than the ballerina’s pleat.
And I think maybe if I fill the utter corners of my heart and soul with these minute details of her mere existence I will become closer to her.
Closer to grasping her heart and her hand.
Closer to holding her soul and her face with mine.
But, it has occurred to me that no one person in the world can symbolize this woman.
No person in the world has her beauty and her rhythm.
And I can try all I can to be with her. Even when she is right next to me.
But, I know that I will never have her.
Because this woman cannot be had.

Her face suddenly turns to me with Exite -
you're glittering again, you're full of warmth.
Was I cold before, I ask her.
No, but I couldn't put my hands in your pockets
the same way
I used to.
Come here.
I am back.

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

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.

my name is
hard to pronounce anyway
I am just a little
old to be doing this
sort of thing I know
I can try again
does that suffice or do I still need
to try to chop myself up
itty
bitty
too small to fit through cracks in sidewalks
i'll drown
in a lake
I'll try to climb up ladders
instead

I'm beating myself up today with regret
I woke up suddenly realizing that I never noticed
In the moments I had and the time I spent with her
I never noticed her shirt

I never noticed the way it clung to her like sad sultry poem
Or the way it slipped off her arms like cold raindrops
And the way it cusped to her neck as I wish I could

During the time that I spent crying to her
And speaking to her soul and feeling her eyes
Praying that the time between us wouldn't end
I let that giant piece of her slip right through my mind and my fingers

I never noticed that shirt she wore on that day in that moment of time
And now I will never see it the way it needed to be seen like it did then

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.

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

You remind me of someone.
Yes, yes.
You are the girl with the golden hair
that was chopped
off
to pay the bills.