Isn't it ironic
how i said
that i would
never
drag a blade
across my skin
because of
my fear of blood
Isn't it ironic
how people
didn't realize
that was my
perfect excuse
to do so
Isn't it ironic
how the things
we do to
feel alive,
are the things
that can **** us

.
i am so tired of my bones being
romanticized; being made of
stardust does not make me infinite or
beautiful.

i don't know what
to say to
make things
okay.

i wish you would try just one last
time to reach out, so that i could be
the one to walk away

(i'm so ******* proud of myself
for not loving you anymore)

What is it I'm looking for today
Something that I'm not
Something that I wish I had
Instead of what it is I've got

If I had what I admire in others
Would I be happy then
Would that bring true satisfaction
To this shell that I'm residing in

Or would it be a false worldly peace
Just enough to blind the eyes
What is true to them, to me may not be
Nor what it is I need in life

So let me take this very day
And not wish for the could but grasp the can
Not looking for what it is I want
But look to who it is I am

My brother-in-law is the tightly wound sort.
Self contained in his miserable way.
Always quick with a quip or a nasty retort,
and, most likely, a miserable lay.

His job unfulfilling, his woman unwilling.
His co-workers thought he was gay.
He labored long hours for his indifferent masters
for infrequent raises in pay.


When he defenestrated his co worker Sally
and police asked me, what could I say?
" It's always the quiet ones
you have to watch out for-
I knew this would happen someday."

(i picked up
all your old habits,
and i'm not
letting them
go)

She graciously rolls up her sleeve
For another mainline of hype
America's a ******
You can see it in her eyes

She must really crave it
She keeps coming back for more
America's a ******
Her dealer is media the *****

They feed off each other
No way to pass the blame
On the streets of long lost innocence
On a night of goodbye shame

America's in the ally
The needle dangling from her arm
While media hits the corner
Waving down the passing cars

Are we to late for intervention
Are we to late to find a cure
For America the ******
And her dealer media the *****

Her eyes,
Sunken, blue
With edges of ruddy green,
Of olive, kelp, fatigue,
A certain muddy camouflage,
Bright with purpose,
Ambition and fierce urgency,
Set their twin star sights
On me and I learned a new
Word that day—
Surrender.

I fell into formation,
Saluting her stars in the fullest light
Of the falling day.
I learned how to survive
Under such searing heat
And became intimate
With sneak attacks,
Friendly fire, sudden blitzkrieg
And the nuclear winter,
The dark sheet,
Of sorrows unveiling.