It's okay to leave your makeup on overnight sometimes,
Especially when you stumble through your front door at 3 am after forgetting to kiss the man who took you out goodbye
It's okay to wear the same pants two days in a row,
Especially after you've taken 4 finals, written 6 essays, and did a 13 page paper about the KKK.
It's okay to have a crush on the boy everyone else thinks is wierd,
Especially when he likes you back and your love makes him want to be a successful person for you when you grow up together
It's okay to cry,
Especially when your father disappeared just after avoiding a diabetic coma, do not let your mother tell you it's not.
It's okay to think you're pretty,
Especially if the other girls say you aren't (You are stunning)
Its okay to feel weak,
Especially when you're burdened with the weight of what feels like the world.
It's okay to let him tell you be loves you,
Especially when he means it
It's okay to LOVE YOURSELF,
Especially when you feel worthless.
It is okay,
When you think it isn't, read this poem,
Everything is okay,
You have to believe it will be okay,
Especially when it isn't

Give a paint brush to a guy and he can paint stars in the sky,black and white he paints the night time in a hearse driving through the universe,fixed in colours mixed,
how slick this guy could be,artistry universally.
Give a slide rule to a man and he can draw plans perfectly,draw cities,universities and cold dark lonely cemeteries,
where the dead and dying line up trying to escape,where fate intervenes with nightmarish dreams and scenes of the apocalypse.

Give a man a *** of gold,a rainbow that he cannot hold,a love before he gets to old and all his hopes sold to the wind that blows,
and who knows what the day might bring to me
I wait expectantly.

Months of stale, cigarette smoke
and spilt **** water pleasantly
offset the stench of cheap cologne
and ratty, abused furniture.
    
Fictitious stories occupy this tiny, dim
apartment, birthed on the lips of
rebellious juveniles whose tongues
pierce the ears of our elders.

In a forsaken corner, Jeremy lounges
awkwardly on a grubby-plaid sofa that
suitably complements his button-down shirt.  
I join him.

Behind his right ear rests a lonely cigarette, while
another sits snug between his lips, set ablaze
by the 1968 Slim Model Zippo he inherited from
his beloved grandfather.

His transparent sense of self-worth emanates
from his grubby, grease-stained hands, scuffed boots,
blotchy-checkered flannels, and faded blue jeans
that are completely obliterated with holes.

I look into his pale blue eyes, the depth of which
often goes unrecognized.  Jeremy is a soft-hearted,
pudgy youngster with the kind of chunky cheeks
that all grandparents love to torture.  

But his marred, acne-ridden face betrays the transition
that has been forced upon him.  Slowly, his trademark
grin appears across his face – subtle, mischievous, and
typically without reason.  But this time it appears justified.

Jeremy takes a moment’s break from his cigarette to drop two
hits of acid.  A new drug for him, he hopes to find relief from
his seething anxiety, evidenced now by the wide expansion of his
chest as he takes another, more lengthy and powerful pull from his cigarette.

The mundane chatter that fills the room continues, a seeming
necessity to offset any potential awkward silence. I feel as if
this noise is closing in around us.  But just as suddenly as I
feel overwhelmed by this sensation, the noise stops.

I look around, noticing everyone’s eyes staring in my
direction.  Jeremy is still next to me, now giggling
like a little school girl.
I begin to feel sick.

Jeremy swiftly leans forward, giving his
cigarette a premature but honorable
death, eliminating its glow as he smashes
the cherry into tiny bits against the ashtray.

As he sits back against the couch, I can see that
his eyes are now indifferent. Foreign.  With a perplexed
and fascinated stare, he watches the pearly-white smoke
slowly slither upwards towards the ceiling.

There’s no question in my mind that his
soul has fled. Jeremy sinks further into the
couch, turning his vacant eyes in my direction.
I want to *****.

His high-pitched giggle has now subsided into a
low whimper.  Gradually extending his left arm into
the air, he tilts it from side-to-side, examining it as if
an infant discovering his genitals for the first time.  

Bike wheels appear in the corners of the room.
Entertained, his eyes rapidly zigzag from the
corners of the walls to his hands. He asks me
if I can see the wheels. I don’t respond.

Intervals of psychotic emotion begin to cycle. Jeremy’s eyes
fill with tears as he tries to understand the hallucinations
engulfing him.  The expression on his face betrays the reality that
he has stepped onto the never-ending theme-park ride from hell.  

Together we leave and walk to the bus station, Jeremy
walking slowly and whimsically. The bus arrives,
and I hand him a few crumpled, single-dollar
bills as I attempt to instruct him where to get off.  

All I can envision is his mother’s first reaction to her son’s arrival.  
Would she collapse at her son’s knees, crying like a mother whose boy
has come home from war?  Would he forever be an awkward guest
at the dinner table? Would she disown him?  Would he become a feral child?






I no longer know what day it is. I am surrounded by lockers
and students, trapped in a tunnel of shadowy walls.  As I stand
alone, I find myself entranced by the blinding, January sunlight
that floods through the double doors a mile away.

My vision is unexpectedly blocked by a figure
standing in front of me. Clothed in little but jeans
and a bright, white t-shirt, Jeremy stares at me, his eyes
mirroring the emptiness I now feel.  

“Do you have a lighter?”  My hands pointlessly search my pockets for
what I already know is not there. “No, man. Sorry.” A look of confusion
spreads over his face, and I suddenly cannot help but notice the sick irony
of the scene in front of me - Jeremy flooded in light as if born again.  

My thoughts linger here too long, and just as swiftly as Jeremy
appeared, he is a mile away sauntering out through those double
doors. Estranged, I continue to stand here, hoping with
futility that this isn’t the last time I have looked upon him.

And the stars on this blood red night;
Wisps of light dancing like
Skeletal ballerinas, crimson eyed.
Black blood stained their teeth
And I held onto my bed sheets
As they descended upon me.
Satanic starlight and ebon hallucinations,
My covers served no refuge.
No refuge.

They came in waves, and I was
Almost falling into these planes of darkness
Dropped upon me by demonic dancing girls,
Like panes of glass falling from a cargo jet.
Yet I smiled.
I was sm**iling

I want someone that understands me.
Someone who gets that Jack Daniels taste like water,
gets that sleep never comes easy.
Someone who knows whats it like to have crazy inspiration at 3:30 in the morning,
who understands the reference, 'Lets do the time warp again'
I need someone who wont get upset at me for ranting about the difference on
   Hollywood films vs Indie films
Someone who is as obsessed with coffee,
who gets my love affair for Grunge music.
Someone to understand that its ok to cry,
that I would cry with them.
Who gets that I am a free spirit and will not try to tie me down..