Today,
I woke with confidence.
I excelled and did not disappoint.
I got a bit tired.
I became so happy I felt like I could die,
I was love-struck,
I was nostalgic,
I gained new inspiration,
I made a bad mistake,
I aced the test
but failed the homework,
I had a severe panic-attack.
I cried in utter self loathing,
I was comforted.
I was sheltered.
I was loved.
I was picked up
and put back together
by strangers.
I misjudged
I gained new confidence
and lost it.

Today was the best day I've ever had.
Today was the worst day I've ever had.
Today, was perfect.

But not Fish,
she'd say,
"Fish isn't damaged like the rest of us".

"I bought a lucky charm,
it's of a knitted fish,
because that's what you are,
my lucky little Fish"

"You're my kind little guppy"
"You're my protective piranha"
"Solitary Angel-Fish"

With all these names,
all this faith in me,
day after day
told
that I am their
"Lucky little Fish"
all because I'm not damaged.

Her forrest eyes looking into mine,
the admiration in her face,
the hint of hope in that stranger's,
at the mention
of my not being damaged.

"You're a quiet one, Fish,
but you're not damaged,
you're okay,
you're miraculous"

In that moment I felt guilty.
Thank you for believing that,
thank you for holding me high...

if only I could not lie to you.

I'd gotten so close to wanting to tell the world
no I'm not okay
No I haven't eaten today,
nor yesterday,
yes I'd like a hug
Yes I'd like to die.

But it's that faith
from those who are undoubtedly wounded
that tightens my binds.
I'm grateful
for the way they press into my skin,
holding everything in...

I needed that.

I needed that burst to regenerate
my need to keep quiet.

So I shall.
So I'll never stop.
I'll forever be your
"Lucky Little Fish"

When the silence takes the stage,
and I am called upon to perform, oh what a fool I shall be.
Dance monkey dance they'll say, and dance I shall.

On all fours I crawl,
your *****.
Leash me up
in a tight collar
speaking for your laughter.

Here it is,
my self respect,
I present it to you,
I give it all, unto you.
For I no longer need it.

It's a small price to pay for this life.
It's a simple token
for the price of a fancy gown,
for the reward of approval... from strangers.
To be able to buy that fancy car
To be the envy of it all.

To be admired...
For this handsome repayment
loss of self worth
seems nothing.

and it is nothing
until late at night
when I stare at my skinny bones
in a large
but empty apartment
with the city's lights
shadows dancing out my regrets on the walls,
reminiscing of the whole person I used to be.
when I was someone you could respect...
someone who could say no
and had control
and didn't live under constant contract
and scrutiny of the monster that is the media.

Late at night,
with a morning soon coming,
a morning filled
with my stripped body
contorting itself
and writhing
for the camera
to please a generation I will never know.
To flaunt materialism
and narcissism
expected to sound sagacious
and preach this deceitful verisimilitude
but teaching the youth
to be broken and hateful-
to live with these quixotic expectations.
and
it
is
disgusting.

Yet here I am.
Stripped,
broken and battered,
pouting my photoshop lips
and limp, sick body
to preach it day after day.

For It was so long ago,
that I was respectable.
perhaps I could better remember those days-
but in this life
with a restriction on ennui
you are not allowed to be anything but
deliriously content
and that is not a problem so long as this bottle doesn't run out,
so long as I keep swallowing these pills,
drowning out the voice
that despises me.

So long as I keep on acting.

Hello, weeping angel.
How are you, fallen star?
Where have you been, thorny rose?
Deflowered
and snapped,
left to turn crisp
and brown
in winter's quiet wake.

How do you feel,
with clouds hugging at your shine,
Cobwebs masking your beauty,
how does it feel
to be destroyed and
shattered by them?
Left in shambles, broken...


Tell me, flower,
how does it feel to die?

Tales marketed at the edge of all existence,
formulated by mass hysteria
and poverty
spit from the grinded ideals of our fathers
but our fathers were twisted and aged-
but our mothers,
our mothers
whom were convicted as the criminally insane
and held at a lower standard
knew the future,
they knew we would crumble,
that we must crumble.
For it has been predicted since ancient times
that mankind would fall
but the fall was blamed on Gods
and those of a higher power
because they could not believe
that man would wound himself,
slowly poison himself until he drags
his black and blue skin across the lands
and eats all he sees,
gorging himself till he bursts
and drowns our cities in his impurities.
Funny,
built like monkeys we are fools,
but more to the liking of our pink skin
we are pigs at heart

Cyrious.
                        My own Spelling.
Polly Wogs and Knick Knacks.
Goldfish and Brac-A-Brac
            I remember you. I’d love for you.
If it makes any sense
            My Thoughts Where Have They Gone?
Tell you know I’D.
It’s just a bridge, there is nothing here.
            The perfect is the biggest imperfection.


I MISS THE OLD DAYS,
            Times of pure nostalgia

It was Laughing and play all day
            Till we left and went our own ways.

You remember it
            I tell you, I miss it too
The fun times,
            When everything seemed okay everything was right.
Always tell, we put each other up in a fight.

            I can remember when there were many
                        AND.
We had our loved ones close by.
            Carpool and late night swims
Neighbors knocking at our door
            Making too much noise stomping on the floor

            But now, It’s gone, It’s all too quiet.
Neighbors, they wonder, if I’m even here.
            I question, what ever happened.
Life. No matter.
            If we’re standing still.
It will go on,

            Without us here
Little impact makes it clear.
            If there’s a point
Please take me to it.
                        I disappear as the last match is lit. .

Silver Bands on your finger
            Are we the same in one?
Perhaps it is no one à perhaps everything is undone.
                        The thoughts the Thoughts.
They swarm in our minds.
            Are they confusing?

Listen to them all at once.
            They say Practice Makes perfect,
But no one is perfect, so there is no need to Practice.
            Pretty Girls and Silent Boys, they all cry.
The good, the bad, the inanimate, they all die.

            We like to think we all have our part.
That when we die there is a torn up heart.
                        But that’s not true.
There is nothing to lose.
                      
            For no matter how hard we try.
Un-Important and Fleeting is our story,
And there is nothing we can do.

Sometimes I wonder,
   but not for grandeur,-
my mind does race as they go by.
Pretty faces floating
bodies lean and tall,
perfect figures
for the perfect stance
at me they do not glance.
No, low should this responsibility
be ****** upon them.
Why should the swans slow their pace
for an ogre of a duck,
waddling about,
chubby and clumsy.
I see them glare
But I do not care
save for such curiosity at my undeserved hate.
How selfish am I
at the delight I feel
At the thought of their reaction;
when I am so thin it is frightening,
when I am frail
and they do not touch
for fear of shattering me..
when I cry without a sound,
and when I go out with a BANG!
that will leave them speechless.

But not just any bang,
a literal bang,
coming from my tight grip
and finger pressing hard
against the trigger.

I live to make others happy,
all the time,
every day,
until my selfish needs boil up inside
and I scream out
"WHY?!"
"WHY CAN'T I HAVE WHAT I WANT?"
I pray,
tell you daily,
I want oh so little,
so tell me
why,
why can't I have what I want?
What I want makes me happy,
makes me smile so big,
Makes me forget everything that hurts,
but tell me why,
why can't I have it?
Every class is canceled,
all my friends are stolen,
I can handle it but tell me lord
why can't I be happy?
Why,
who's so broken
and twisted,
why when this broken rag
finally falls
for a gentleman,
a man who is not stick thin on *******,
striped up and down with tattoos
nose itchy from addiction
and a back hand
that leaves black and purple
to compliment my pale skin
tell me lord why is it all taken?
Why can't I have it?
Why can't I have just one thing?
I feel ashamed for wanting,
I feel ashamed for caring,
but lord sometimes
I give everything I have to others
I live to see others smile
but lord when do I get to smile?
Lord when do I get to look in the mirror
and smile proud
and love all that I see?
lord tell my why,
why can't I have it,
Why can't I be selfish,
just for a day,
I want to be happy.

I am happy.
I am happier than one can be
If happy is another name for Misery
because then my Happy is endless.
It's a sick kind of misery,
a kind I've written of before.
It eats me from the inside out
but gives just enough
to keep me living off it evermore.
.
It's a ***** kind of misery.
One I can't quite place.
Each day I saunter from place-to-place
with such broken elegance
I feel as if I'm floating,
my puppeteer gently tugging at my strings.
.
It''s the kind of misery I cannot live without,
the kind of misery that taunts me
and keeps my mind occupied for hours
with thoughts of atrocities.
.
I focus on a spot,
I let that spot consume me.
The name,
*******,
it soothes me.
I'd never do drugs,
I'd never drink,
I claim this time and time again,
but why do I need it,
something I've never experienced,
something a naive young girl like me knows nothing about,
yet I dream of it.
I think about it all day long,
snorting
and an assortment of needles too
not to feel alive of course,
but to feel nothing-
to feel nothing at all.
Sometimes I sit in the dark
and I wheep,
I wheep for such atrocities as those
for they are horrid
but I want them
I NEED them
an addiction to something I've never known.
.
That is not all.
I'm in desperate need of hurt.
Desperate need of pain.
Desperate need of nothing-
need of death.
I do not want to die,
I simply want to feel nothing.
When I don't think of atrocities
My heart is pinned to dark Angels.
These dark angels change from time to time
but there remains a constant-
they are sick.
Bowie is my love,
my life,
my light,
he heals me in every which way
but there are other Angels too.
Those such as Joe Van Moyland
that sick little man
bone with a tight layer of skin
with floppy hair
have you seen that man
so sick
so grotesque
how can I not admire it.
I look at the healthy and I cringe,
I look at the sick and addicted
and I swoon.
I see these sick monsters whom
I've conjured up the idea that
monsters like them know the secret,
the secret to nothing
and secret to misery.
.
As my grades plummet
and quality fades
I leave friends behind
to spend my hours in a dark room,
starving myself silly
daydreaming of atrocities
and dark Angels
so that I may fill my body with misery
and maybe someday achieve the ideal
of nothing.

Do not mistake me when I say that I fell,
for I did not fall in love,
not persay
not perchance
I fell long ago as a child
and I shattered.
I shattered and each of those
broken pieces reflected a monster.
And though through life
I have reached for the light
the darkness continues to encase me
consoling me with the one solitary fact
that only a monster can put me back together again.

Do not mistake me when I say that I fell,
for I did not fall in love,
I fell into a sickness.

I fell,
into the dark.

underneath our fiery skin
back when we learned to begin
I watched you wash ashore
****** with your sin.
Bearing all the sorrows of your kin.

You pull yourself up by those jagged bones,
faltering under oppression.
But what can we do?
we've got the world at our finger tips
but are arms are stretched out
from behind these bars,
pressing until bruised
simply trying to reach it.

For they say that
free speech only works
if you know when to keep your mouth shut.
Is that true?
Is that the air we breath?
We are taught to live
taught to love
taught to bear the scars
of the whips
that lash at our fragile skin
from the moment of birth
and for what,
to produce this same cynicism upon the next generation?

Cruel.
Cruel.
We fight for the rights of cattle
perhaps in denial
to the fact that we are the cattle.
That we are the animals.
brainless, mongering fools
who wag their tails in hopes of a pretty penny.
A pretty penny,
shiny to distract us from reality.

We are raised to be sick.
We live to be corrupt.
We breath to maintain this broken society,
and we die to protect it.

"It's so sad"
they say,
"I'm so sorry"
they console
"You had such a good friendship".

Did we?
is that what it looked like?
funny,
well,
I'm sure we did:
our loyalty was immaculate,
our trust undying,
a series of never-ending inside jokes
and practically identical bodies.

They look at me with sad eyes,
mourning the close-knit memories
that would never come.

Funny.

We were closer than any
in the eyes of the world,
and yet,
I don't miss her.

How do you tell yourself
you're beautiful,
when you've never heard those words before?

Today was the first time I felt it.
As I looked into that wretched reflection,
the feeling washed over me.
Nothing but self loathing and disgust.

I hate my fat face
and my fat body.
I hate my acne
I hate my frizzy hair
I hate my awkward body
I hate my limp
I hate my grades
I hate how alone I am
How unwanted I am
I hate how I can't talk to people
I hate how ******* ugly I am...

It was the first time I felt that feeling,
of convulsing into that mirror,
smashing it to bits
and using the shards to paint
the walls and floor a gruesome red.
It was a new feeling,
but one that I knew
would soon become all too familiar.
All too common.

Death didn't scare me.
The pain didn't scare me.
What scared me,
is to think about all the people it would effect...
and by that,
I mean no one.
no one at all.
They wouldn't notice if I left.
They wouldn't care.

Mark it down.
10/11/12
I willed myself to end.

I told myself,
"don't get too attached"
"He's just being nice"
"Don't get too attached"
and now,
as his perfect face looks down
and his crystal eyes cloud over with depression,
I ask him what is wrong,
even though I already know.
He replies with exactly what I had feared
"It's.. just a girl.."
I panic not to clutch my heart in pain then and there.
Stupid girl,
I think,
stupid stupid girl!
He's beautiful, clever, funny, a ****** animal
with flocks of girls following him.
Why would he want me?
Why would anyone want me?

Constantly acting
constantly tightening the straps on the mask I wear
but there are times when you can see it.
When you can see,
not pain,
not heartbreak
no,
you'll see tired.
Because that's what I am.
I get tired of it all.
Tired of this longing.
Longing, constantly longing.

My god,
how pathetic.

Such a short time
in which this feeling of fear
has grown enough
to control my life.

I "woke" each morning,
eager for the day,
eager for that class.
Acceptance,
and laughter-
a place where
we all look like fools
and our problems are left
on the coatrack outside the room.

I thought,
maybe I can do this,
maybe,
I can be happy,
just for a little bit.

I went so far as to socialize.
I thought this could be the year
to turn things around,
to finally be happy,
but then I made a mistake.

Socializing with someone
whom I would see in class,
outside,
and online.
Talking to me out of pity
or to make a fool of me
I know not which,
but I know now it was a mistake.

I was so happy,
just for a little bit,
and he made me happier,
but now fills me with fear
and an uncontrollable
nervous shake as we talk.

Chill, relaxed,
lucky for him as
he makes my heart beat fast
and not in a good way,
in a way that makes me self conscience
and close to tears.

Carefree personality,
but the way he speaks of women,
When he speaks,
like males often do,
of the petite sort of girl.
Bouncy and bubbly,
with short dyed hair
flowery skirts,
and spunky
with a perfect figure.

She's perfect!
He'll exclaim,
as his sort always do,
and I have to then hide my tears.

I go home and fall to the ground
curled in a ball
of my own pathetic tears.
Body overrun with the knowledge
that no man will ever lay back
at the end of a day and think
"I'm glad she's in my life"
"She makes me smile"
"I can't wait to see her again"
"How beautiful she is"


I'll never know that feeling.
I'll finish my starved
and shaky day
by confronting
my plain,
fat self
in that cracked mirror.

Now I "wake",
dreading the one class
I really liked.
Fearful of the irrational self loathing he causes.
Looking around to see a terrifying standard
of what is desirable.
Observing those beautiful girls
who know how to match their clothes
and style their hair
who leave school to live their lives,
while my mismatched cloth
and scraggly hair
goes home
to read books on how to fix a speech impediment,
on how to socialize,
on how not to be me.

How pathetic I am.
I'm not even sure why I'm scared,
or why his words hurt,
I just know that being there
kills me.
It rips me apart
and leaves my lifeless body
broken on the floor,
begging for death.

lack of rhythm keeps the music from flowing,
keeps the anger wrapped tight
and unleashes the screams of anxiety.

It's such a simple thing to want
such an easy thing to do
until you break down in tears
realizing just how pitiful it is.

I just want to play a melody
something beautiful,
hours each day
of nonstop practice
each ending with
the smashing of the keys
and the screams from my throat.

It all ends with tears
as I do not understand-
spending years on the same melody
yet it only follows one tune

How much longer will it go on?
When will this need to play a melody stop?
for until then
those sweet tunes bring tears to my eyes
in the knowledge
that I try every day
week after week
month after month
year after year
and those different tunes only blend
to a jumbled mess of one
due to my shaking
aching hands.

I just want to play a melody.
Why is that so hard?
It's the same song over and over
and though I try my hardest
it comes out the same
each time
and ends with
my screams and tears,
due to these shaking hands.

It is a never ending turmoil,
that breaks my untuned heart.

There is a line
between
pain and
pleasure.
But when that line blurs-
When the pleasure overthrows
your inhibitions
and the pain numbs your body,
When pain becomes pleasure
and pleasure becomes pain,
how do you know when to stop.

I glorify it.
I crave the taste
of the sickness.
of the disease rippling across my skin,
boiling in my veins
and flowing through my blood.

Is it Healthy?
I love you,
I love it,
but is it healthy
To walk the streets at night
in constant fear
not only of what lurks in the shadows
but of you too.

Anorexic bodies
falling all around us.
Mine included.
Skinnier by the day,
yellow nails chipping and peeling,
grinding of the teeth
to procure a never ending headache.

Pale skin;
cold to the touch
from lack of circulation.
Weak in your arms
an intoxicated mind
and a heart struck through with daggers.

Blasting screams
and beats
to block out the world
and create a throbbing in our heads.
Your freak show;
My guilty little pleasure.

So sick
So satanic
So tenebrific
So twisted
so disturbed
so disgusting
so beautiful
so broken.

cradled by poison,
hold me in your arms,
a monster in the shadows
with thanatognomonic eyes.

With my thanatophobia
You manage to keep me alive.

You do it to feel the pain,
as a confirmation that you're still alive,
But I do it to feel nothing,
to feel all this pain
all these repressed emotions
disappear.

Overall we do it to stay alive,
and shred away
our pitiful sorrows
one by one,
piece by piece.
For inch by inch
we come closer
to meeting the same
fate
of our cold,
useless,
easily forgotten bodies
lying on a metal slab.
Soon to be greeted
by the maltreated Earth.

No color but red lips and luminescent green eyes.
My hair flowed into my golden corset dress,
into my pale legs,
to my golden heels,
they weren't my favorite heels, but they were small,
and you were rather short.
    The black hair
you spent hours styling
lay across your face just right.
Black, skin tight jeans hooked
to a plethora of belts, buckles and chains,
complimented by the black and blue shoes you kept
religiously clean.
A checkered, black and blue button-up
with a black and blue scarf laced carefully around your neck.
You carried a complicated satchel by your side so that I could be handsfree
You told me I looked beautiful,
as you fidgeted with the
skull ring I gave you so long ago...

Us against the world,
trailing behind the rest,
Waltzing down the city's streets
arm in arm
clutching a black umbrella
as the rain came rushing down around us.
The neon lights of New York
creating reflective neon pools along
the grungy streets.

Thunder in the distance
and lightning
snapping across the sky.

What a beautiful night,
for perfect seats at WICKED.

What a beautiful night,
for a sushi dinner.

What a beautiful night,
to forget how sick we were,
or why I was mad at you,
or why you were mad at me,

what a perfect night,
to put the umbrella down
and let the storm take over
for a memory
of a time
when we still knew each other.

What a perfect night,
to end our friendship.

I adore the rain,
I long for those cloudy skies
and chilling winds,
with those shocking flashes of light...
but why does thunder shake my heart so?

"She's dying"
please stop saying that.
Stop the tearful calls
and sad looks
just stop saying it.
"she's dying"
******* I heard it the first time,
and once is far too much,
stop saying it.
I don't want to believe it.
This doesn't happen.
This shouldn't happen.
She's so young,
she has a family,
she has a brand new
beautiful baby boy,
with the bluest of eyes
and the most innocent of smiles
please God,
don't do this.
She has to see him grow up.
She has to see him happy.
We're going to eat pizza at the same place
we always have whenever one of us graduates highschool.
She's going to see my first book published,
my first short film.
I'm going to see her books published,
I'm going to see her happy, quaint life.

She's not dying.
She's not.
stop saying that.
I'd give anything to be nothing but a child
too young and ignorant to understand what's happening.

Please God,
don't do this.
I'm crippled on the ground,
can't sleep
can't eat.
I've felt my body go completely comatose.

Please, God,
give me a miracle.

I had a queezy feeling in the pit of my stomach,
but somehow I knew it would be okay,
and it was.
But then she said she'd have to do a followup appointment,
to make sure it was gone.
That's when I felt it.
My throbbing heart knew,
by some cruel choice of fate,
it would not be okay.
Then I got that email,
I got it at school, first period.
It wasn't okay,
the cancer had spread,
had grown and festered
and was taking over her body,

I couldn't smile the rest of the day,
oh, did I manage it?
What must have that smile looked like?
Did it mask my fear well enough?
   I'm changing my name for a reason,
I'm leaving my life in this town behind,
but there's just one thing I'll miss,
one thing, rather, person,
I'll forever cling to and love.
and that's her.
She raised me.
Not those lying, cruel creatures who call themselves parents,
it was her.
She taught me to drive,
to flirt,
to swim,
to eat,
to cook,
to sing
to do anything and everything.
She's the one I love most.
Please, God, let me keep her.
I can't lose her.
Do not take her so young,
do not take her from
her blue-eyed baby boy.
We have to write a book together,
act in an indie movie,
visit greece,
make videos,
dance,
we have so much to do,


please, God,
please.

Please do not take my sister.

Why can't we just read?
I love to read,
we all do,
somewhere inside.
I love the way the words flow,
I love how quickly it transports me
to vivid new worlds.
I like the feeling of fragile paper
and the smell of a dusty,
long forgotten book.
Pages of excitement bound together,
you think it could never lose its magic,
but you'd be wrong.

You go to school
and the magic is lost.
These light words that mean so much
are weighted down and draped in logic,
the book becomes dull and painful.

I don't care if the colour of the curtains
is a metaphor for the author's struggle with homosexuality,
I don't care to take this painted porcelain
and smash it into bits,
entirely digested,
sorted into categories,
and picked into nothing.
I do not wish to burn away
the heart and soul
to leave nothing but the bones.
I read to escape,
to love,
to learn,
to experience,
I read to forget where I really am.

I do not wish
for the thought of this fantasy tale,
to be flogged over the head repeatedly
with reality.
I wish to forget,
read for pleasure,
read for interest,
read for love,
read because I want to,
read to fully appreciate
the well-thought out story
by a person long gone.

Is that too much to ask for?

If you comment on one of my poems.
thank you.
If I don't reply to your comment,
I'm not snide
or ignoring it.
Sometimes,
certain comments are just too kind.
I don't know if you've noticed,
but I just don't know how to deal with that.

I appreciate any and all comments,
but sometimes, if I don't reply,
It's not that I don't want too,
I just.
can't.
I don't know how to respond to things like that.
So,
thank you.
and I apologize.

Deep in the womb,
an innocent beating,
unaware of the terror outside.
Ignorant
and thrashing,
begging to move-
to be released
and learn.

Emerging only to see
darkness
in an abandoned society.
The need to thrash replaced by the need to sit still
and keep things as they were.
That need to learn diminished
by the forced ignorance
and fear of truth.

That small,
beautiful being
would grow large in size
but small in mind
while living in this corrupted world.

A dark,
empty classroom.
Sitting here alone,
feeling no different
than when it was full.

I've never been scared like this before,
not until now,
never has someone known my secrets
Never has someone known how damaged I am.
It terrified me.
My poetry,
my true heart,
sewn together with scraps,
splayed out for strangers to see.
But that's just it,
strangers.
I'll never have to come face to face with them,
I'll never have to hide
and blatantly lie to them.
But what happens when I come face to face
with someone who knows my writing best?

I felt scared.
I was worried this past-stranger
would let something slip

The people I see daily must never know I'm hurt,
must never know
my nights of insomnia
are filled with tears,
and must never question my bitter humor.

But I was lucky,
lucky that the stranger,
like everyone else,
simply doesn't care.

I look at this empty classroom,
desks in shambles and dusty books
with plain walls,

it sends an eerie shiver up my spine
with the creeping question of
"what if?"

What if someone cared?
I can only pray
that will never happen.

I look at you and I see perfection.
that kind face
and kind words.
So many people love you,
and I've fallen in love.
But perhaps, not with you.
The you I see behind your eyes.
I look and see pain
Inside those perfect,
happy eyes
I see sadness
and memories you've tried to forget.
Underneath your tan skin
I see the quick ripples
of what's underneath
I see what beats true in your heart,
I see the monster you hold within.
All your sins
and demons,
I see them all.
And I love them.

You don't understand.


"Come talk to me,"
"Say it, it's alright"
"I'm here for you"

don't say that.
I'd talk if I could.
Maybe.

A life time of silence-
you think it's so easy,
that I can just say what's wrong.

I know nothing but silence,
I'll never say it.
never.

"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine"
"I'm Fine"
I'll never be anything but fine.

Suffer in silence.

I was not raised in a way
that I could speak
like others do.

Even if I wanted to,
I couldn't.
With each breath I hold it all back
with the everlasting promise
that I'll never say
I'm not okay.

What kind of society do we live in that makes people feel this way?

I told myself I would never succumb,
I pace back and forth with tears streaming down my face
telling myself again and again
"I'm strong I'm strong"

I look in the mirror
and I beg to see something beautiful.
I beg to find pretty,
but I have yet to see it.
"You're beautiful You're beautiful"
I tell myself again and again
But I never believe it.

I collapse to the ground, sobbing
because I've failed.
six water bottles
and feeling sick
as that hopeless feeling takes over me.

I look in the mirror
and beg for a sign that I'm okay
something to tell me I don't have to do this.

But there I end up,
crippled over the toilet
vomiting my insecurities.

What else can you do.
You starve yourself but nothing changes,
You exercise none stop
but you stay the same.

You've thrown away the food in the house
to keep the bare, healthy minimum.

Nothing changes.
Nothing but shivers
and a voice
that knows you'll do anything for a touch;
Maybe if I'm skinny,
I won't be alone.
Maybe,
Someone will find me pretty enough to ask if I'm okay.
I wouldn't have to sit here sobbing
feeling hopeless.

But nothing changes.
Nothing changes and I can't stop the tears.
Looking into that horrific mirror,
Looking back at that red,
pudgy,
unpleasant face
mocking me.

A broken body

with a  broken mind

what else can I do,

when nothing changes?

You beat me
you break me
you consume me
but what can I do?

I love it.
The pain,
the harsh grip,
the prominent shouting
and ice cold eyes
to match your icy heart.

It's not that I love it,
it's that I know it.
This kind of treatment
is all I've ever known.

Kind words,
a light touch,
and trusting eyes

I could not do that.

It's the monster inside you I fall for,
it's the sadistic ******* that chills my spine
it's the voice that says
I am yours to kick
and yours alone.

Monster who cracks the whip
and sharpens the knife,
Who leaves me black and blue,
I've never loved anything before,
so I might as well love you.

I'm begging to scream it out loud,




but no one would care.

Hair waving up and down in the wind,
paper flapping lightly.
Maybe I'll let it go,
maybe I'll let this poem be taken by the wind.
Maybe I'll write something from the heart
and release it.
No name,
no Title,
Just words that hurt;
words I'll soon forget.
I write them down,
but why do I keep them?
I should let them go,
forget.
The world would be a prettier place
if the garbage we pass on the street
was filled with beauty.
There's no point in keeping them,
rhyming thoughts
to remind me how sad I am.
There is no point in writing them down,
but nevertheless, I'll keep writing,
and I will hold the paper down
as the wind tries to pry it from me,
and I will promise not to let it go,
because somewhere in the depths of my heart,
these words matter.

I have tiger stripes on my hands,
I have them on my arms, legs and back too,
some are red and some are white.
I have tiger stripes lacing up and down my body,
proud because I've earned them,
proud because these scars,
   from memories I can't recall,
have made my teeth sharp
                    and eyes quick.

I have tiger stripes up and down my body,
Proud because I've earned them,
Proud because I deserve them,
Proud because I'm fearless.

It is an everlasting headache,
one to torment the soul.
It is a constant throbbing of the cranium,
from which I suffer.

It is the feeling of a knife on your skin,
It is the feeling of a bat against your bones
It is the feeling of wires bound around your chest
                               squeezing till' you nearly burst.

It is the result of loneliness
It is the result of starvation
It is the result of an addiction
                            to something quite sick.

Something form the yellow of your nails
the shedding of hair
and thin skin
where veins pulse a quiet blue.

A something not many people notice,
save for their glossy eyes;
   windows to the soul they once had,
but lost, so long ago.

This is not a poem.
This is a fact.
I am alone.
I feel alone.
I do not understand the complexity of touch,
of love,
or having someone care for you.
I have a million things to say,
            a million ways to describe,
fast and jumbled together
so I'll put it simply.
           I'm alone.
           I'm alone and it hurts.
It hurts worse than happy
It hurts worse than sad
It hurts worse than anything I've ever known...
but then again,
this hurt is the only thing I've ever known.

If I said that I long to be happy,
that would be a lie.
In truth,
Happy hurts more than anything else.
At this point I'm not sure
if hate it,
or am afraid.

What is happy?
What is this feeling
that leaves me miserable when alone?

Being miserable
and in pain
is by far easier on my soul,
than those fleeting moments of happiness.

Happy is something that hurts,
Happy is something brief,
Happy is something I do not wish to experience.

Foot tapping anxiously against the ***** pavement,
Body curled into a tight ball
concealed behind a pillar.
Invisible to all,
save for one.

Circular surveillance camera,
your eye trained on me,
what do you see?
Do you see what I see,
looking up at my warped reflection?
I see nothing.
I see something invisible,
pointless,
afraid,
cold,
but the most striking thing about the reflection,
is just how empty it is.

There's nothing there,
the people pass by without a glance
and I give up.
Like light paper
I let the wind pass through me
and carry away the remains.
I allow myself to cease to exist,
because in reality, I never really did.

Chubby quivering droplets falling from the sky,
splattering themselves across my skin.
Too foolish to look up from my computer screen,
from my technology,
publicity,
my box.
To see the many shades of moss green and grey
that had been laid like a blanket
across the city
overnight.

Running.
A compulsion.
Tight tank top,
shorts,
sneakers,
and gloves.
I run with my long hair down,
whipping wildly as I dash down the street.

Into the forest I go,
It’s dangerous they say,
There are bad people there,
But I don’t care.
I run through the forest,
Dodging trees,
Hopping over logs and ditches,
My heart beating faster with each
Ominous rumble of the distant thunder.

As I run,
An uncontrollable smile breaks out across my face.
1 mile marker,
2 mile marker,
3 mile marker,
4 mile marker,
of nonstop running
and a nonstop smile.

Fresh air,
With the calming scent of rain.
You can’t run forever though,
I reach the end and see a gate,
I could go on but the thunder rumbles ferociously,
Beckoning me.
Thunder is easy to ignore when you’re otherwise occupied,
But when you’re stopped,
The irrational fear of the distant booms take over,
And I run back.
4
3
2
1
out of the forest with the lightening and
beating of the drums
smacking at my feet.
I come inside,
Soaking wet,
I open my window and turn off the lights and open my computer to write a poem.
The power goes off.
The thunder rumbles kindly,
As if asking me to come back outside,
In nature.
How beautiful it is, this rainy weather.
How sad it makes me, to know that tomorrow
I will still be wet,
Not from rain,
But from sweat.

I love the grey,
I love the moss,
I love the flashing of lightening
Streaking boldly across the blank canvas above.
I flinch at the thunder.
But I smile as the rain comes down,
Breathing vivid life into a bleak world.

I’m afraid of thunder
I don’t know why.
Long hours as a child
Under my blanket with muffled cries.
Alone.

I’m afraid of thunder.
I like the sound,
I like the way it reverberates throughout the sky.
I like the way it calls for adventure,
For a battle,
For romance,
For horror,
I like the way it means excitement.

I’m afraid of thunder.
Something about the boom.
Something about the crackle.
Something about it that shakes my heart
And rattles my bones.

I’m afraid of thunder.
I like the inspiration that comes trotting up alongside it.
Something about the sound.
I’m afraid of the ominous possibilities that come with it.

Thunder,
It is a dangerous but beautiful sound.

Light white noise in the distance,
a constant fuzz that echoes the beating of the drum.
An empty mind and glassy eyes,
taking in the world,
swirling, fast forwarding
until it passes me by
in the blink of an eye.
Heart beats slow
until everyone is still,
I look around to see
the world is motionless,
and yet faster than ever.
Blank pages filled with words,
empty picture frames
and silent movies.
The world around me,
I'm sure it's beautiful,
I'm sure it's glorious,
I'm sure it has meaning,
but with each breath I can't help
but take it all in,
and let it pass me by.

Insomniac
driven by dry tears
a barely beating heart,
and scarce,
pained lungs.
In the dark,
eye lids lowering.
Staying awake with fear,
without a choice,
cold on a hot summer's night
the shivers em pattern themselves on my skin,
a pattern of another's arms.

Shivers tracing up and down my body,
imprinting themselves
to a place,
in a time where maybe I am not so lonely.
Curled up,
pale and frail,
long sovereign hair in tangles
with sad eyes
glistening with the tears
that are yet to come.

The house is empty.
The air is quiet.
Nothing but the quiet heartbeat of
me, myself, and I.

A distant melody of a land faraway,
where I do not mind being lonely.
But that is not where I am.
I am in a place where the shivers
run up and down my arms
with every minute
of every day.

I feel the loneliness closing in.

Shrinking into myself,
I hate that feeling,
of being cold on a hot summer's night.

Snapshots,
So little to remember
Dark rooms,
A dresser against the door,
Shattered windows,
Alone and forgotten
Faces creased into frowns,
Lies, tears and terror.
In truth, just images
From a childhood I can’t remember.
A dog I loved,
Behind the couch
In his golden fur,
Sleeping to a violins melody.
Theatricality in all it’s might,
With logic forced down my throat.
A friend, a foe, an acquaintance all in one.
Six years strong, it’s a wonder we’re not done.
David Bowie to sing me through long nights,
Trapped in a fantasy world to pass by the long days,
Bare feet hard against the pavement,
With continuous failed attempts.
Forced to wear dresses, because that is what girls do,
Bought Barbies instead of Legos, because that is what girls play with,
Books about horses instead of heroes, because that is what girls read.
Dyslexia,
Bad Eye sight,
A speech impediment,
Homeschooled.
Day after day, what did it matter that I’m clever if I’m alone?
No supervision,
Plenty of judgment,
Brewed and engineered by ****.
I swore I’d be different,
And so I forgot.
I forgot the life that taught me exactly what not to be.
At 18 my name will change
And these few fuzzy snapshots will fade to black.

From a single supernova explosion.
We are stardust.
I am stardust.
Stardust that has become self aware
And learned to question oneself.
Blood, flesh, bones, cells, arteries, veins, brains,
A product of God,
Or the product of a funny little happenstance?
The same as everyone else.
But I like to think I’m different.
Personality?
A conundrum,
Paradox,
Silent,
Stone,
Made of stone,
That is what they tell me I am.
Lost in a garden of graves
I reach for the light
But retreat back into the shadows
When it reaches back.
Speaking in sweet solitude
My heart lies with green
But my body is draped in black.

Quiet, a mystery,
An ignored enigma
Wrapped in Bowie’s melody.
Life in slow motion,
Seen on tattered film reels.
Long nights of insomnia,
Driven by an attraction to the monsters,
Let’s forget my past,
Let’s forget my name,
Let’s forget I’m a coward.

Long hours
With shaking hands
Trying to write a happy poem,
But that simply won’t happen.
That simply won’t happen.
Forgive me for my morbid ways.

Tell us about you,
Tell us the real you,
An assignment to create forced poetry.
Poetry should not be forced,
Poetry should come from the heart,
From my heart does not come my favorite authors, such as Scott Westerfeld,
Nor does my favorite food, sushi, my goals of being a director, or the llama as my favorite animal,
From my heart comes something much darker,
More complex.
I was asked to tell no lies,
And no lies were told.
The truth is all there,
The real me is in plain sight.
It all depends on if you know where to look.

In short, to tell you about me, I am a cube.
I am a rubix cube no one has yet to solve.




(This was a school assignment to write a poem about myself...)

I'm not who I am,
I'm not who I wanna be,
I hate where I'm at
I'm not what I say.
I'm not who I claim to be
nothing to set me free
Trapped inside a shell
is this me?
I can't tell.
Perfect,
It's not mine to claim
I deserve no such fame
I used to treat life as a game,
but that's what brought me to this world of pain.
Oh Vanity, sweet insanity
teach me what I don't,
it's a fear of what I won't.
Do nothing but speak
I am one of the weak,
Vanity comes with such calamity,
make me feel okay,
from now until the end of days.

Trapped in a fatal instinct.
I carry an ideal of a prince,
When I find someone of those qualities
I reach out.
I reach out in desperation for that kindness.
But my hand lowers as I take in the view,
between the Prince and I,
a field.
A field of broken glass
and the unruly truth
that I will bleed out
before ever reaching him.
I venture a few anchored steps forward,
feeling the glass cut into my skin
but again, I will bleed out.
So I stay behind the field of glass,
hand pressed against a window.
I remain in my dark corner,
shrouded in monsters,
because monsters make sense.
The prince, he is a silly ideal,
But the Monsters aren't.
The monsters let me breath easy
and though coated in violence
I feel safe.
It's hard to explain why,
but I suppose it's rather simple,

The kind ideal of that Prince is silly and terrifying,
but the monsters aren't,
because the monsters make sense.

This is not a poem.
This is something I must say.
When struggling with anger,
When in a war with one's self,
fighting an endless, raging ocean of emotions,
one must find peace within.
I can go through the day and not be bothered,
I can gain the upper hand in any argument,
I am peaceful, happy, and healthy.
There are reasons for this,
reasons which are often mistaken
and I must beg you not to mistake them.
Just because I meditate,
does not mean I am a buddhist,
or am in a cult.
Because I eat much fruit
and smoothies
does not mean I'm an "L.A. snob"
Because my body is in shape and in tune with itself from Yoga,
again, does not have any connection to a religion
and does not make me an "L.A. snob"
Tai Chi,
Yoga,
Juicing,
Pilates,
Meditation,
Active in politics,
ecologically aware,
philosophical readings,
does not bind me to any one thing in particular.
You judge,
you sneer,
you make your silly little assumptions
and snort when I suggest you try it.
Caring about the world around me,
Knowing my body,
how to stay healthy and how to use it,
Understanding our impact on this Earth,
is not a crime.
Adults,
you laugh in my face and tell me I am silly,
that I am ignorant and easily manipulated
simply because I am opinionated when it comes to those who run our country.

I have become a better person and the world refuses to accept it
due to how I got here.
Meditation was my first step, and I implore you to do the same.
Not for religion, rebellion, attention, or because someone said so,
do it for yourself.
Meditation is clearing your mind, teaching yourself to be patient,
and focus. When having a bad day and someone bumps into you,
you can just as easily get angry and irritated,
or you could brush it off.
You see, meditation is a way to clear your mind.
I'm not saying it's the only way, or that it's the best,
but it's a way that helped me.
I'm not converting you,
I'm not pestering you,
I'm asking you,
because when I see that you're unhappy,
the kind of irritable, unhappy, aching person I used to be,
I want to see you be your best,
I mean no harm,
I simply want you to be happy.

This is not a poem.
This is a thing I must say.
To the adult upstairs who screams at me for being a religious, selfish, ignorant, horrible person,
simply because I found something that helps me, be a better me.
To the sneering strangers who think me odd for dressing in dark colors and conservatively, because the reason couldn't possibly be that I like the color, or that I prefer conservative clothes,
no, it's because I'm a satanic devil worshiper, and a *****.
To the snickering teenagers who run off to drink, smoke, and fill a void because they do not understand that.... that what?
I see these teenagers come to school with tears in their eyes and bruises on their heart,
I see them flinch in an instant from being vulnerable to vicious and vindictive, brushing it off and laughing at something that is not socially acceptable.

Do not do things for others.
Do them for yourself.
I cuss,
I have fun,
I act crazy,
but also poised,
knowledgable,
looked down upon as a degenerate,
but I simply don't care,
because I'm healthy, strong, opinionated,
driven, confident, understanding,
tactile,  and most importantly.
I'm happy.




Also Dapper,
Very dapper,
Dapper is a great word.
:)

Forcing,
Grinding,
Beating,
Breaking,
Till’ it dissolves-
But without reward.
Without poetry.
I wander through an empty house,
With a blank slate.
My mouth hangs open
In the frightful anticipation,
A grotesque eager waiting
To hear the crackle of the quiet,
Long forgotten voice.
Merry music to accompany.
Faint lies,
“It’ll be alright”
but the merriment creates an anger within.
Suffering,
Broken pencils, wasted ink,
Slamming themselves against stone walls
Leaving themselves behind
In the pitiful agony of hope
That something pleasant might emerge.
But alas, it is useless.
There is no more ink,
No led,
No charcoal,
All the wells are dried up,
Nothing but my own rotten blood remains
To help produce a work of words
I can be proud of,
But without success.

I look around and I’m not anywhere.
I’m not in a cage with rusty bars,
I’m not in a crowded room,
Nor an empty one.
I’m in a place that is nothing but black.
I’m neither inside nor outside.
It is neither light nor dark.
But there are windows.
Windows I may look through to see happy couples,
Happy families,
Happy friends,
Strangers side by side,
A silent agreement that they are all together.
I look out the windows with envy.
That is where I am;
A blank expanse with windows,
Windows that let me know,
Yes, yes, you are alone.

Melodramatic beat,
A dark pulse,
Bouncing inside me,
Throbbing,
Quite old in origin but timeless.
Throwing myself into a trance,
“believing the strangest things”
up at the sky,
longing,
dismissive.
A distant forrest beat
Pulling the flow of blood
Every which way,
Close my eyes and feel it travel through my body.
Feel it slow with the melody,
Feel my soul fly
As the distant,
Grandulated voice calls out for it.
The voice of a fallen Angel,
Music to my ears,
Poison to my mind.
“Come closer” he calls
“Love me” he whispers.
Obey,
An Alien.
How can I not?
The trance lets me forget everything else,
So off I go,
One foot in front of the other,
Letting the music push me off a cliff.
Into an expanse I fall,
Eyes closed and faint smile painted on my porcelain face.
Porcelain.
Like china I shatter,
But not before the music ends,
The beat breaks free
Just long enough for my eyes to open
And realize the consequence,
But it is without regret.

Trapped in a disorder,
Surrounded,
Encased by a series of heated lies,
An arrangement of glass dolls by my side.
Here it comes,
An energetic melody that makes my heart beat fast
And brain overreact
So I cannot write proper poetry.
So hyper, so happy, so nothing.
Misery is in the past
But still clinging tight
So I wonder what it is,
That prevents the many powerful words I once held
From emerging in splotchy ink down on parcel.
I’m not happy,
That’s for sure,
But I’m not miserable,
I’m at some horrid place in between
At a place where I am not happy enough
And not sad enough
To fill page after page with
Rhyming thoughts that flow.
This place kills me.
No matter the dark rooms I once cried in,
I’d suffer a dark earth for an eternity
To see my bony hand swishing swiftly across the page,
Producing miserable rhyming thoughts once again.
What am I without poetry?
I don’t know,
And I don’t ever want to find out.