Oh me, oh my.
Why do I try,
Its like sticking a camel through the miniture eye
of a needle, I see thru every facade.
The things I love have been deemed me odd.

Oust the judgment
which effects the mental
of the masses, whose glasses started half full.
Now they're half empty,
No problem solved simply
by lying and cheating and all of that bull.

Influenced to forgive and forget,
my mind, in time, forgot.
Now I realize who im not.
Not phoney or fake,
I'll make a mistake
This here is me and all that I got.

recovery is not pretty.
it is not painless or simple or instant.
it is a road littered with backsliding and obstacles and doubt.
a path marred with reopened scars and sleepless nights and feigned smiles.

recovery is rubberbands and ice cubes and pacing and cigarettes.
it is phone calls at 3am when you can barely breathe and all the walls are closing in.
it is screaming at the ones you love because they love you too much to let you break your skin.

it is long sleeves and overly-cautious internet browsing and lots of movies.
it is eating way too much ice cream and taking walks in the middle of the night.
it is hard. recovery is hard. it is messy. it is painful and chaotic. but it is not impossible.

One day at a time is the mantra of the sickly beggars I call my people
oh addiction, such a hot, edgy topic, look at you breaking down barrier after barrier
no not this one
this one's one for the people who took the road less traveled
only to realize nobody walks that path for a reason
the bushes buzz with flies looming over dumped ****** victims
women sell their trade for a feeling of being loved
and the monsters don't fear the dark
one day at a time
this will all be worthwhile in the end
the end.
it never comes really
you think it's just you? your ignorance makes me laugh to sickness
give me a runners high over a drug any day
like there's an actual difference between the two
like one hundred years from now we won't be sharing the same plot of dirt?
my awful lungs and liver and kidneys and heart
your slightly less awful organs
One day at a time
every day of the year
tally marked against white walls with posters of the things we took for granted
one
day
at
a
time
time to get up
it's a new day
roll the die
play the game
hope you get lucky
one day at a time

It's not cute,
I don't find it funny.
The lack of concern for education,
And your glasses aren't cute either.

I'm growing quite tired of the lame leaders.
Expectation to teach the future generation.
The warriors, in a future of unknowing,
By the ignorant, traditionalist.

And I could sit here all day,
Catching glints of light off your hip glasses.
Peppered with egocentric, infantile remarks.
So cute
The lack of education
So cute
The lack of nutrition
So cute
The false profits; the obtuse teachers
So cute
Your hip glasses.

And here we are, a bunch of
  bad poets writing bad poetry
   liking each others thoughts while
    hating our own words, trying to
     keep ourselves open and free in
      a world full of cages and traps, pens
       full of ink, thoughts full of rage, a blank
        white surface being turned into a stage and
          we're yelling and screaming in vain as another
            bad poem dies on the page...

dreams and memories
get muddled in my mind
I can’t remember what I've lost
or what I've left behind

it’s like an important part of me
has forgotten to exist
while in reality what’s left me
continues to persist

I sacrificed my youth
on the altar of tomorrow
the futures full of hope
that yesterday can borrow

but when dreams come true
they often lose their silver lining
that star that I've been wishing on
has already ceased it’s shining

as I wake up from my slumber
I realize that tomorrows finally here
and it’s everything and anything
I had ever hoped to fear

the question one must ask oneself
is the same one everyday
if I dream hard enough tomorrow
can I find a better way

They say home is wherever you lay your head at night
That must be true
because my former house has a lock on the door now;
a lock to keep me out.

I never realized this is how it is to be homeless,
the endless wandering of a place to rest at night
the endless cycle of hunger and
thirst and
protection

I walk out of work with not a place to be in the world
and if I’m being honest it should frighten me.

I am a wanderer.

I have no sense of direction,
no moral pull,
nothing to lose and everything to gain.

I have this endless feeling of discomfort and
an airy breeze where the good in my heart and soul should be.

I am a girl, not a very beautiful or talented one.

I belong to anyone who belongs to everyone.

Home is where I rest my head for a night.

Home is a backseat
Home is a smoke filled room at 2 am
Home is a parking garage
Home is a strangers bedroom

Home is a feeling rather than a location,
but those who have a lock and key and
a mortgage fee will never understand.

I wish you well, my wishing well; I can't deny the bed you've made
I knocked the clock off of the wall; it was always wrong anyway
I'd argue my reality, but I deserve the love as much as the pain
Taking arrows to the heart like needles plunged to the vein

I don't exactly fit the part of she who deceives it all and loses
Then again, you're the shining star, of Robitussin and ***** fits
The nights weren't worth their weight, in every song and noir flick
When you're cornered and half-alive, it's easy to spill your secrets

Talking like you couldn't be thrown; rocked but couldn't roll with it
I made my bed in my own making of hell; I'll step to the wonderment
Don't you know, love is more than a game and the love of playing it?
How were you so true and yet so horribly deceptive with this?

But still I wish you well, as much as you played with my soul
If I had an enemy greater than your treachery, I don't wanna know
If it's ride or die, I guess I'll fly; you let me in, 'til I had to let you go
But the kiss on the lips left an imprint, that still refuses to show...

Why does the wind howl so loudly
Why can't the moon talk back
To the lonely souls with tear stained faces
Why aren't the love letters in vintage stationary with ironic stamps and coffee stains returned
Why are novels abandoned and potted plants left unwatered?
Loneliness is universal, and the universe is a hell of a lonely place.