She battles her demons, day in, day out.
They don’t stay quiet, they scream and shout.
They tell her she’s ugly, they tell her she’s fat.
Her thighs are too big and her stomach’s not flat.
She starves herself but that’s not enough.
This desire to be thin has proven to be tough.
It’s making her miserable, it’s making her sad.
The quicker the weight loss, it won’t be as bad.
But the weight is staying and it won’t disappear.
She’s taking it to the extreme
And she’s making it clear
That she wants to be thin
And thin she will be.
But what you don’t know is that girl is me.

Childhood is awe
Youth is uncertainty
Adulthood is steady realisation
Middle age is bleak acceptance
Old age is beating or succumbing to all
It all depends on what you did,
What crazy suicidal tendencies you had
When you were uncertain about everything.

Insanity is a gift
Few relish like you
So if you are unsure of your footing
Don't wobble, dance
If you are unsure of what you will find
Don't stretch your hand out, charge forth!
****** noses, cringeworthy memories and broken relationships may spew forth, but
Nothing
Hurts
Like
Regret
In
An
Unnused
Insanity.

Poetry
Pen in hand
Sheet of paper
Words in mind
But no inspiration
Forget basic sentence structure
Because of free verse
But is it really
Poetry
There is no
Rhyme scheme
No beat
Only clever words
Constructed
This way
There is always a part
of me
That wonders
Do they get it
Do I need to write this
No
I don't need to
And that's why
Just another line
A few more clever words
That hide
My second meaning
Poetry
A secret love
Of mine
I will always
Find a time
to write you
And dream
of the day
Someone will see
You and me
As more than
a girl with a pen
That scribbles out a line
Or two
Or the one who
Always has extra
Notebook paper
Because I
Never know
what will catch
My attention
And steal away
to your words
And you
To be more than
a dreaded part
of high school English
But you
Are patient
Even when you are
A dying great
But you live happily
In my heart

A writer's glory
Is a quick thing
Never does last long
Shorter than the time
I've spent writing
The novel in my mind
First page written
Plot half finished
But enough about that
A writer's glory
As fleeting as it
Can be
It is a glorious
Feeling of
Triumph
of feeling like
That your words matter
But then you
Realize that
what they love
you can not
Write another single page
It's sad really
They've forgotten
What you wish to write
I bet you have too
I've spent so much
Time too much
Time
Writing fanfiction
A terrible plot
Wraps you up
In the
What ifs
I can't bear
That anymore
I want to
Write about
What I want
And when
My glory fades
I'll be okay
I know that now I
know nothing
of life
And the way it should be
So goodbye
Writer's glory
I will not fall
Under your spell
Because after
Every glory
There is always a
Tragedy

dear media;
my body is art.
**** your opinion and your ideals on what I should be
because I am living, breathing art.

my face shows young beauty,
inspiration and awe found in my eyes
and just beneath the pupil, a shimmer of excitement.

my lips have said so much, they seem to be so ripe with the words they speak,
they send daggers
yet stay plump and baby pink.

and what about my arms? they have endured so much,
every cut, bruise, and punch for a lonely night or the feeling of not being good enough.
they allow me to write my words;
hold those up plagued with the feeling of being alone
my arms, they are strong.

my stomach is like a mountain and
next time I'm in bed the man I'm with will understand as he
runs his fingers between every space of each rib and kisses my stomach,
down to my inner thighs and back up again.

and my thighs, still fresh and wild
dangle and jump at the mere sight of adventure
wrap around a mans waist to make him feel better and
kiss him on the cheek with the lips I spoke of before.

my brain will hold and absorb galaxies,
an endless universe unfolding before me and
i will take in each bit and dream of it at night because;

i am ambitious, diligent, strong and talented,
and yet I can still be
soft and caressed and fragile but,
media, society, never mistake my kindness for weakness because
i will take the food you feed me and spit it right out because
my body and mind is worth much more.

dear media;
my body is art,
and you will not be the artist.

conceptcollection

tight silk ******* with the lilac bra to match,
cream coloured knee high socks.
a collection of classic rock on vinyl and a compliments jar covered in news articles.

too many celebrity perfumes, but a versace collection that makes her think of the beach;
peach smelling deoderant.

chapter books on the floor accompanied by hair ribbons of baby blue and cotton candy pink,
****** by Vladimir Nabokov laying near the juvinile pale legs of beautiful sixteen,
as she paints each toe nail red, pink, white.

almost naked body, remember her tight, fresh lace set
hair perfectly auburn, lips perfectly light coral
mouth slightly open
Led Zepplin playing.
hairspray and rose powder,
unlit vanilla candles and twilight scented creams
she smells faintly of Modern by Banana Repulic and her daddy's cigarettes.

silently waving, a flag of patriotism
the beautiful, elegant sixteen.

-part 1

conceptcollection

With eyes as pure as water
And hair as red as the sweet sunset
With a figure like that
Do you not see my heart beguiled

Do not bestow then, your gaze upon my tired eyes
Do not speak to me, in a voice as dainty as flowers
Do not dance around me in so charming a fashion
And do not say nice words

Unless you are willing to receive my passionate and unconditional love
Stop breaking my heart

you said, "you're not afraid to love
you love kittens, you love rainy weather,
you love shakespeare and sweaters
movies and being kissed
on the tip of your nose
new york city, you love beaches
and the few times it snows
you love crime tv, you love poetry
so why is it that when it comes to me
you feel hesitant?"

i said, "i will tell you, the reason
that i am guarded
yes, i love all of the things
that you listed.
but shakespeare never wrote me a sonnet
and then disappeared, leaving me stranded
new york city may drive me crazy
but it will always be here, you see
poetry may tear me apart
but it won't look me in the eyes as it does
do you have an answer, now, to your satisfaction?
please listen, believe me,
i do not fear rejection.
i fear giving up all of my secrets
only to find you've painted yours
on someone else's skin."