I listened to my stubby heels echoing light clicks and clacks

on the ***** pavement,

a sound far better than the the laughter and chatter of the previously escaped classroom.

I mozied along the empty campus, feeling warmed by the bits of fog that clung to the air

and moss trees towering from pine needles in a very still way

that if not for the fog's gentle swaying I would have assumed the world to have stopped.

I liked it that way best.

When things are still and quiet and full of posibility

but you choose not to reign in that possibility because you love the freshly chilled air,

air so fresh it makes you want to fill your lungs with it

and take a To-Go bag as well.

Sometimes I sit and look out,

silently hoping that if I sit there long enough I too,

will become quite still and fresh fog might cling to me

and someone else might admire me as part of a still world,

like a picture in a golden frame.

I want to give you up,
put down the pen.
I want to stop writing
about all these awful feelings
I can only announce
through tacky rhymes
to strangers I'll never know.

I hope some day,
I won't have to write poetry.

I wrote no poems,
then I wrote them all at once,
falling into the satisfaction
diving into the acceptance
that he is all I could ever want
all I could ever need
all I had never dared ask for,
My heart was quiet,
then it shouted and sang all at once
it asked to be with him
it asked to deserve him
it promised to treasure him,
and all at once
quickly
deeply
I was encased
in unwavering loyalty and adoration
and I would not
deny it.

Take me home
gates guarded by Trolls
Strong men
strong women
strong people
Let me fight
alongside you
brother
sister
the cold can't hurt us
lets go home
to beauty and serene
to fresh air
and friendly streets
party until Ragnorok
and hang our woes
on Yggdrassil
over the bridge
over the Trolls
where it all began
lets be fierce as our ancestors
smart as our kin
we still have time,
let's go home,
let's go home,
let's go home.

I want to write a poem
that expresses
my insecurities
in a way
that will justify
my emotions,
but I'm lacking the words.
I want to express
the tears that fall on the page
prompted by feelings of self loathing
and betrayal
and shame,
desperate to communicate
how ugly I feel,
but the page remains blank.

I need to keep reminding myself
that these people are not my friends.
They will not remember or cherish me.
Despite a gift exchanged or two
I refuse to be a fool.
I can't get offended
or feel left out
I know my place
I know the structure,
these people are not my friends,
a friendly word
here and there
make not a companion.
I have no friends
that I can see
no one to miss me,
so I must not miss them
no I refuse
       I reject
         I repulse
the idea
that I might love them.
On the outside looking in,
I must remember,
that these people,
are not my friends.

You'd like to look into my expressive green eyes.
If only they weren't blocked by my two extra "eyes".
You'd like to kiss my lips,
if only they didn't share the same face as this acne.
I'm sure you'd like to run your hands through my hair that's quite soft,
if only it was cut to not look so long and scraggly.
You would like to hold me too,
if only I was skinny.
And you would most certainly like to hold my hand in public,
if only I didn't dress like a fool.
You'd like a lot of things from me,
if only I were someone else.

I dreamt

of Ombra

and others

violating

the sanctuary,

and the Goddess,

   loved it.

I don't want to break
but what's the point
any one
of these old fat rich men
I'd never have to worry about money again
I'd never have to feel the preassure of the outside world
people say I'm brave
maybe I'm tired of that

I do everything I can
all in my ability
I'm trying so hard
above and beyond
it's not good enough
I am still not worthy
I am still just ****
sitting half on the littered street
half on the drain

I don't understand

I saw what she wrote
and that sat me thinking.
Cruel eyes,
cruel hands,
painting me
black and blue.
purple here,
green there,
I'll stitch it with my hair.
Grit my teeth,
naked in the sheath
salt pouring out from
those that saw it all.

Close them.

Maybe this time
the dents in the wall,
the splintered bat-
the window
where my feet
set running
on that muddy earth-
-
maybe this time it'll hurt so bad
that it'll have never happened.

I come home

and there is no one to hold me

I held a knife to my face
and was tempted to cut
layer by layer
the ugly, pink stained fat,
because then my face would look skinnier
and I'd be so deformed
that people wouldn't dare call me ugly.

I DON'T need them to like me

     As I spend hours picking out an outfit I'll let them see me in

I DON'T need them to like me

     As a wrong look can send me spiraling

I don't need them to like me

     As I spend my weekends alone

I don't need them to like me

     As I cry myself to sleep

I need them to like me

     As their every word dictates how I feel.

touch me

feel me

breath into me

satisfaction
of desire

mary unto me

absolute

glorification

I'm trying to breath
but my open mouth
is drowning
in my tears

you see I get you
two times a week
if it's convenient
for you
but there are times
when it's not tuesday or friday
that I need somebody at my side
but that'll never be
for like always
you don't care for me
like I care
for you

I often wonder,
with a feeling of great tragedy
and listlessness,
of what would have happened
should I have scrounged up the money
to pursue my dream.
Overcome by woe,
I can't help but fear
how different things might be
had I flown off
where no one I know has been before,
cringing at the thought
that I might have sacrificed triumph
for comfort,
happiness
for safety,
that I let the mere matter of money
pour cement over everything I've ever wanted.

Breath in,
breath out,
time will continue to pass.

Gasp for air,
and struggle hard,
the waves will continue to crash.

Keep pressing your feet
against the steep path,
for it grows longer by the day.

Stand up and hold tightly,
the bar is being raised.

My dear,
       the end is near,
so do not regret,
     do not lose faith,
let go of your hold,
give your feet a rest,
struggle no more
and take your last breath.
because, my dear,
                      the end is near,
          and you must greet it with no fear.

When that song comes on
and I close my eyes
swaying
mouthing the words
feeling them to the core
it's clear I sing them to you.

When that song comes on
and you can't take your eyes off me
swaying
mouthing the words
feeling them to the core
it's clear you sing them to me.

ducked by the toilet
fears and sorrows
vomiting hoarsely
I can't help but wonder
will the pain ever end?
Will I ever be satisfied?
I can starve myself all I want
and purge all the food
and never stop the exercise
but when will it change
when will I finally look okay
I weighed 135 once
that was just a few months ago
I weigh 110 now
and that's not drastic enough,
I can do better,
I can do better,
Will the pain end?
I don't know.
Should I just take that razor and end it now?
no,
no,
because deep down I know
that one day,
someone will love me
and I'll be okay
and that it'll all come together
if I just do better.
so I wrap my stomach and sweat disgust
***** my organs if I can
throw the food away--
I can do better,
I know I can.
I need Ana's help,
she's always there,
encouraging me.
I believe in Ana
and Ana believes in me.
I'll destroy myself
until I feel okay.
Again and again
until the pain numbs.
I'll never stop,
because I can do better,
I know I can.

I fear the way you look at me,
such love and adoration,
I fear the sweet things you say
and all those classic movie actions of love.
I fear how deeply you care.

So often am I filled with anger
at your sweet words;
I am not an Angel-
how dare you call me your princess!
I'm nothing but a piece of trash
waiting for this bond to crash.
I'm a ***** fat creep
a disturbed dying freak-
I beg of you, stop loving me,
you do not know you are not free.

I'm a liar,
a sad dying liar,
you embarrass me
you're a *****
you're quite ugly
and lame
you have no sense of adventure
and not an inch of loyalty.

My dear I'm a liar,
a cruel, sick patient.
I'm a ***** fat creep
a disturbed dying freak-
I beg of you, stop loving me
For I've never loved you.

I wander through my own carcass
putting duct tape on every corner,
caution signs on the slippery bits,
and stitching every opening,
even those that should remain open.

I can't tell what's whole
or what's shattered
or what's cracked,
I have no idea what's broken inside me,
so I'm trying to fix everything,

Where did the artist go?
Not even she knows.
Is it depression that suppresses
those lifelong idealics
of stage and acrylics?

Has she broken from her cocoon
                                                       -too soon
still blind
to what she has become?

The artist wanders but does not wonder
The artist works but does not create
She nods her head but does not sway
She feels but does not write
She remembers the things she's supposed to want to do
but does nothing
                nothing
                nothing

the artist has gone,
she knows not where,
perhaps she refuses, this question, to ponder
for fear of learning
the artist has gone,
and shall not return.

Did I grow up too fast?
or not at all?

If five year old me,
bruised and battered
with big circle glasses
could see me now,
what would she think?

I can't imagine she'd be more disappointed
than I already am.

These harsh wounds on my face
were once mistaken
for "smile lines",
I could not muster to say
these lines were truly
from the thousand hours
I have spent,
in agonizing sobs.

she slept
  till 1pm
                thinking about last night.
she stayed in the sheets an hour more
playing every second
  over in her head
toying with the idea
that she could live in that night
                                       *forever

wrapped in his arms
                 I feel only warmth
               and un-yeilding
                  
                              *serenity

Mortality is poisonous,
it corrupts the beauty of now.
Mortality wanes the future,
makes eyes lower to the ground,
not wanting to look at what the future holds.
Mortality is infectious
always looming
Mortality kills before it should
it slaughters decades too soon
Mortality is the enemy
the nemesis
the seed of greed
of lust
of materialism
of egotism
of broken hearts
of viscous words
of broken mirrors
and wealthy doctors
Mortality,
another word to mark a piece of time
in which there will be no more,
inadvertently became a beast
a nightmare
a phobia
that shreds my society
to bone.

Brother
see I love you
till the end of time
come home
I won't look back
if you promise to look forward
P(ain)hotographs
they're so old
let's take new ones
tell me how you're doing
brother
protector
fighter
lover
you had it hard
let's fight once more
I'll read you a story
like you used to read to me
no one else can take your place
you are still my brother
you are gone in the desert
adventures
you are having adventures
I like to believe
you are happy
with loved ones
if only
you hadn't drunk so much
brother
I love you
come home
you don't have to bring the bottle
don't bring the bottle
curse the bottle
brother.
'till the end of time
I'll be waiting

I asked him
how many others
he said 81
because of course
I only had the courage
to ask him in a dream
but in the dream
I leapt from the bed
I ran out the door
and cried in the dirt trails by his house
waking with a start
unsure if it really happened
knowing it HAD to happen
I had to ask that question
and stop leaving myself
letting my tears roll into the sheets
as I clutch his warm naked body
stop fooling my self
c'mon girl
you know you're nothing special
just a tight young thing
his thing
and no matter how much you daydream
it'll never be more
so stop the ******* dream
you tiresome little kid
this is real life
people are animals
and not everybody has a heart of gold
let your tears wash away
the ideas
of how you think the world works
because baby
you see the bruises on your heart
it'll only get worse from here
so pucker up butter cup
don't let yourself turn into a ****
because you want to convince yourself
fairytales are real
and the nightmares
could never be based off reality
but you got to stand up
ask that **** question
you know you won't like the answer
but you have to stop this nagging painful
atrocious
feeding frenzy
destroying you like cancer.
be brave,
and get that **** answer.

The grass is greener on the other side
the sky is blue
the air is clean
and the sun is shining always
and that's how it is over here
as long as the pictures I post make it seem so,
as long as my statuses are vague and humorous,
as long as I reveal the good and not the bad
no one will know
how hard things really are.

caught a glimpse
of myself in the mirror
dropped to the floor
couldn't breath
tears started to flow
worked so hard
no results
so much pain
too much
will my heart ever stop hurting
caught a glimpse
of myself in the mirror
it hurt to see
to realize
I might look this way forever
I keep trying
keep working
but there's no difference
no change
it's a horror show
with every breath
I can't figure out
what I'm doing wrong

The air feathers around me
like the tender embrace
of one that is not there
it feels so joyous
but so torturous

I shudder

this isolation

akin to religious torment

is breath taking

I've always been told,
since I was a kid,
that I was mean.
I'm told it nearly every day.
So I try my hardest to be the nicest person I can be
and sacrifice my limbs and time
to helping others
and worrying about them
all backed by the fear that I'm not nice
and I think I'm nice
but at the end of the day
there's always someone to say
"You're really mean"
which sends me into a depression.
I go home and cry
and try harder the next day
and keep trying and trying
trying to be nice
but again I'm always told that I'm mean
almost as if the harder I try the meaner I get
and today when he told me I was really mean
and an awful person
I stopped talking
drove him home
and then cried in the car and sat in an empty room
and cried some more
and I'll never understand
how no matter how hard I try
there's always someone there
to tell me I'm cruel.

I shall give you my soul

you shall give me reprieve

I just want to be pretty.
I want to look in the mirror and not want to cry
to not hold back the urge to drive my cracked fist into it
and shatter it
in hopes it'll shatter me as well.

I want cheekbones
defined arms
sultry curves
sturdy, thin,
long legs.

I want to be skinny.
I want to be pretty.
I want to be noticed.
I want someone to tell me I'm pretty
to tell me they like what they see.

I just want to be pretty.
I want to have a chance.
Boys don't look at plain girls like me-
and neither do the girls-
nor do the teachers.
nor does anybody.

Plain, scraggly
flabby
slouching
gross thing
that I am,
resembling a monotone thing
that crawled out of Satan's ***.
I'd like, just once,
to look in a mirror
and have a genuine smile,
to think I look okay
to not have this mutt body
drive me further into my shell
ashamed to look at people
ashamed to have people look at this
ugly dawdy body.

I just want to be pretty.

We are born crying
over the loss of our past life.

It sounds silly to complain,
every other girl would say I'm lucky
say I've got it in the bag,
that I've got things I thought I'd never have,
yet still I am not pleased,
for while my bank account as been eased
my heart
has not

I'd be lying if I said
I wouldn't mind looking at him more often,
since I first laid eyes on him
he has fascinated me.
He has funny clothes and earrings,
sometimes he wears a skirt,
his locks are lovely
--he shaved them off--
but he still looks cool,
like many I pass on the street
I'll never know anything more about him
other than his name,
I only discovered his inner poet
by being in the right place at the right time,
and let me tell you,
he writes like a God.