You all are here for the same thing
Money printed in the same green font
Tattooed "in god we trust" on our chest
Irony is that god is a million dollars
Turning itself into two, while you sleep
Some steal for greed, we just **** slowly
Orders for powders that steal your soul
Out of your nose , ripped up the right nostril
Some of us prefer the mud , hovering close to death
Describe a sunset to a blind man, high off ****
Asking for the sunrise to get himself breakfast
Society works at certain times, buttons for pushers
Fiends saving money for their own demise
I would rather die high as hell and float down
Then be as low as I am when im sober.

Never been so high
Never felt so ******

I'm content
I like myself...
How I look...
Who I am...
But I have writer's block
Because I have nothing to say
When I'm happy

Turn the wheel into the sun. Forget the stars. Forget the wind. Forget the way the waves are weeping. I am not coming home.

We are never again what we once were. And I am not sorry for it.

Some of them end before the music can even start. And we are left somehow, like monks, pinching book spines like vertebrae. Seeing if we can find our ability to
Stand.
Up.
In words.

Most days.

I am only words.

But some days, I am more.

Some days, the thought of those ivory temples run me up masts..

I am stretched out. Arms wide. Accepting the storm. Ragged.
(Stronger for it. Unafraid to unravel more.)
Inventing time. Investing it back.
Some days. I am yards of cloth, fighting history.

And when my sea is calm:
Puff your cheeks and blow on my spine.
For motion.

I am still.

I am calm.

I am still calm.

I am still calmly waiting.

It's worth mentioning that we never made love.

Now. Everything is different.

I am listening to an ***** grinder, playing my heart on his sleeve. Taking light from my future and shedding it on my past. Saying, "What happened? Where did you go?"

And I try to answer back but find my throat dry and only able to mutter, "I can't feel you, Lord. I can't feel you."

Some days I am lost.

Is it fair, when asked what happened, to say, "She did. Calliope happened to me."?

Start the music. Let the carousel turn. I am not coming home.

Is it fair to say that I am better now. But not always better for it.

I am walking a tightrope of strength and..

Something else. Something else entirely.

Now, I am tired. I am at a loss for words. I am sinking into the oldest crimes in the oldest ways and creating my own wooden chest. You are on it. Carved. Etched. Playing in my mind like laughter on the really cold days. Your fingerprints matching the grain. A petal for each flower I picked trying to fix it.

And this is how it will end. It was this way before it even began. When we found our faults on the back of each others lips with our tongues.

Thank you for teaching me the opposite side of love.

And this is how I will end it.

I will be words. And action. And learn to touch with passion. Learn to make love, like sounds strung together. Masterful. Seamless. As to seem less important. like lyrics. Like an aria. Rising and falling like tides to my mast. Lips pressed and cheeks puffed. And arms outstretched like a horizon to sail into.

And all wonderful happy lies.

I will be more. In hopes of forgetting that briefly.. I once more allowed myself to be less.

And found my self wondering, If it was me who slipped through your fingers... or you who slipped through mine...

I once allowed myself to seem less.

I guess...

I just needed to get you off my chest.

i want to know what makes people drift so that i can blow kisses at them and go the opposite
direction.

oh,

i’m not going to be happy

ever

and i’m doomed to be

divorced

because i don’t want to be swaddled in your sugar coated comfort blanket ?

i’m sorry that you believe love is only true if you suppress all of your satisfying, swelling feelings until the day someone wants to reproduce with you

and that you have to cover your most tender, lovely parts in ugly underwear and that on your wedding night both of you will

look the other way



it’s unfortunate that your God only likes you if you give him all your money and hate the right things

and that your life is a dichotomy of

knowing you are superior to everyone who didn’t happen to grow up with your doctrine pinned to their shirt

& knowing that if you don’t color inside of religion’s lines just so

you’ll

never

be

good

enough

for

salvation



and what if that still, small voice is actually doubt

and you spend your entire human existence trying to prove it wrong

by passive-agressively pushing your fear towards others

it’s sad that you’ll make yourself small for a potential outcome

while i’ll grow, grow, grow because i am boundless

you are too, but you don’t know it so you’ll pollute your potential with petty

judgments


yes, there’s a (pretty) ******* ring in my nose and some (meaningful) ******* ink on my skin and your son and i (beautifully) **** each other

i

am

no

less

and

no

more

than

you

are


your high horse has wobbly legs and thanks but

i will determine my own



happiness.

My niece turned 7 today.
I look at her pictures, and she is a beautiful
Little girl,
A child,
Just a kid.
She is innocent, pure, and beaming with light
Glowing with a future of brightness.
And see I look at this picture
Of 7 year old me
And I am corrupt-
Grown up, wasted,
Not a kid anymore.
My innocence was taken from me
And my future was only ever darkness.
See cause I just can't picture my sweet little niece
As not a ******,
I can't imagine her naked child body as anything
But sacred and untouched.
But I remember praying to God
That I wouldn't burn in hell
Cause I was the only little girl in Sunday school
That Jesus didn't want for a sunbeam.
And I remember my naked child body
Raw, and pulsing with pain,
Aching with what I couldn't understand.
I can't imagine her smiling baby teeth
Open up and swallow poison
As a 5 year old suicide attempt
Like I did at that age.
Sometimes the flashbacks sneak out my tearducts
And roll down my face,
And I feel like I'm 7 again.
But I just can't imagine her feeling that way.
And I just want her to be my baby niece forever,
Even though I know I can't protect her.
She wrote a love note to a boy in class
That read, "Do you want to kiss me?
Circle yes or no."
Her mom thought it was cute.
But all I could think of
Was my first French kiss;
Slimy, sloppy kid tongues-
And I just have to stop right there.
I always wished she'd stay 6 forever,
So she never has to grow up like I did.
Cause 7-year-olds should be children,
Not ******.
Not like me.
I can't imagine hickeys on her neck,
Bruises on her thighs,
Or cuts on her wrists.
When I picture her as a young woman
I don't see scars-
But the same bright future,
The same radiant smile (only with big-girl teeth.)
When I picture her as my age,
I hope the skeletons in her closet
Are sneaking out at night and lying in the morning.
I hope she has the innocent kind of fun.
And if anyone tries to take herself from her-
I will *******
****** them.

How you sound on the phone
Sounds like smiling