fake a smile
for after a while
that simple deed
could help one in need
and may plant the seed
of a smile that's real
and then you will feel
that there is really no doubt
you have something to smile about.

I love to drink tea.
It's just so good for me.
But if I drink too much tea,
It makes me really have to ***.
But there is no place I'd rather be;
Even though I have to ***,
I will sit right here and drink my tea,
As it's very good for me--
Just me and my cup of tea.

One night I was with a friend,
Visiting and spending time.
I took a sip of water,
And set the glass on the table nearby
Without looking.

When I turned to the glass
To take another sip,
I noticed the glass was only
Halfway
On the Table.

If the table is bumped,
If I don't grasp the glass
Just right
It could fall.
I looked at it,
Almost afraid to
Touch it.
It was an accident
Waiting
To happen.

I looked closer to the water in the glass
And saw my reflection
And realized
That I was the glass,
Just waiting to spilled,
On the edge,
Just waiting
For someone to shake my table
And let me fall
To shatter on the ground
With water all around.

Life is too busy with its own simple demands,
And subtle rejections for dreamers. She's been asleep
For a day and a half, but she hasn't closed her eyes
In over twenty four hours. She watches the
Clock, begging it to move slowly. Just give her
A little longer in her blanket, her bed, her
Fortress, before the day has to begin.

She lays frozen, like a fleshy Popsicle,
Waiting for even hunger to offer a different
Feeling. Life, with its tedious footsteps into the
Office, and its lonesome visits to the shrine of the
Porcelain god, for a moment of silence from
Chatter over coffee, and the tapping of
Keyboards; life is too noisy for dreamers.

Just let her sleep a while longer,
For dreams and darkness offer more
To a mind starved for beauty,
Than sunlit strolls to crowded buildings
Ever did. She drinks her coffee with only
One sugar, five times a day. She fills her
Blood with caffeine and time. She watches the
Clock, daring it to move quickly. She screams
Inside her head until it's time to go home, and
Lay back in bed.

Good children, do not build castles in the sky.
At first they may seem lovely and magical--
Because they are--
But!

All castles have dungeons,
And the dungeons
Are where you keep your
Fears and
Worries and
Inner demons.

While you are frolicking
Inside your castle walls,
In a world constructed entirely
Out of your imagination,
The things you imagine but
Pretend to forget
Will creep out of their
Darkness in the dungeons
And turn your magical kingdom
Into a frightful prison
Of the Mind.

Instead, good children,
Build your
Palaces in
Poetry--

Dance with the rhythms,
Sing with the rhymes,
Build your imaginary world
With words and stanzas

Because these palaces
Really exist--
You don't have to pretend!

Just run away and hide in your
Palace of Poetry,
And paint the walls with
Your stories,
And trap your
Worries and
Fears
In a corner,
And fight them with your
(S)words.

Leave when
Reality commands you to,
But come back when you can.

Lock the door each time you enter,
Put the key in your pocket,
And write yourself away.

injecting these words into this page
     like a cure for a disease unknown.

The unliving man
     has lost his heart--
     he gave it away to a
                                        thief.
The unliving man
     has lost his mind--
He walks as if he's searching,
     but he cannot fool himself.
Mere existence isn't life...
Time stands still for this man,
     while everyone else
                         rushes by
Living their lives--
     life he has never had,
          and doubts he ever will have.
Existing eternally,
                                is he not alone?

There was once a girl
who stood at the edge of the sea
plagued by thoughts
                        and full of worry.
She prayed for comfort,
                        but the gods did not hear.
She was consumed by pain
                        and torment and fear.
A friend nearby saw her standing there.
He whispered her name and
                        stroked her hair.
He grasped her wrist
                        removed her watch,
and threw it into the water.
He kissed her forehead and told her

"There is no such thing as
                                                time."

Somewhere alone,
she cries her hurt aloud.
Can you hear the screaming
                        of the girl of bones?
Her beauty is wasted--
hunger pains are her only comfort--
With only her bones
      and beating heart
Slowly,
      Slowly,
            Slowly
Wasting away
                       away
                             away...
She waits for someone
      to tell her
how beautiful
                        her eyes are.

Somewhere between
      space and time
A young boy walks alone
Through a dark corridor,
      lined with doors
      all locked and
      dark inside.
Lost and afraid, he used to search
      for a brightly unlocked door...
Knocking, knocking
      looking, searching,
Such hope he used to have...
Still he walks,
      alone in the dark
Waiting for someone to
      welcome him
            home.

can you be inspired
without imagination?
can you imagine
without intelligence?

can one dance
without music?
can one write
without words?

When I was a little girl
Monsters used to sing to me at night.
They would stalk closer and closer to my bed,
With their soothing lullabies,
Waiting for me to fall asleep
So they could tear at my soul
With their nasty teeth
And swallow it, bit by bit.

Every night I tried to hear past them,
And listen to the angels outside my window.
They said they could protect me
With their songs about sweet dreams.
But when I did sleep,
The dreams were never sweet.
(Yes, even angels lie.)

In my dreams I stood by the sea,
Staring out over a cliff.
My tears would fall with the rain,
Until I jumped to an icy death.
I was murdered in a dark alley.
I was eaten alive by bugs.
I was drowned in someone's bathtub.
I was ***** by demons I couldn't see.
I was buried alive and tore off my fingernails
Trying to claw out of my own casket.

(Who the **** dreams this as a child?!)

I'm all grown up, and I know now that
The monsters in my life aren't the ones
That try to sing me to sleep.
The angels in my life aren't the ones
That lie about sweet dreams.

But even now,
With my half-eaten soul,
I never know what lies in the darkness
Or how I'll die when I fall asleep tonight.

She first met the mirror when she was
about four and a half years old,
strutting around in Mommy's heels and pearls,
wanting to grow up just like Mama:
beautiful and
strong, intelligent, and
successful. She was
young, sweet and pretty,
dancing the years away
without a care.

Mother always taught her how to behave like a lady:
manipulate manipulation
ever so sweetly-
so gently-
so secretly-
discretely-
and smile.
Never cry unless you are
alone.

You must work hard to be happy,
and happiness isn't free.
(And remember happiness
can be taken away from you,
but don't let it look like it can, because
that's how you beat it.)

Always look in the mirror
to see  what everyone else can see.

Never feel sorry for yourself.

Lola was a clever, and rebellious girl,
politely mischievous, and prettily spoiled.
She learned to **** with
kindness, to
be so sweet it made her sick to her own stomach
and she simply wanted to run to the bathroom
and ***** all the undeserved
praise and adoration.

But, she soaked it all
up like a sponge, primping herself in front
of the mirror
every day.

And as she grew, the mirror stood there,
with years of little dresses, and mother's
jewelry, and cute new tights every Christmas
prancing across the glass; epitome of
a child: selfish, heartless,
innocent, sweet.

Mistakes could not be made,
and if they were,
they weren't mistakes.
She always painted over her sins like ornaments on a tree;
add a little glitter here, a little paint there,
and every thing will be
alright for everyone
to see.
Just smile, Lola, darling,
and breathe.
(Breathe.)

She is a classic and tragic beauty,
this Lola. One day,
she came to a realization
that shattered her mind.

She stood in front of the mirror
and as she looked, she found she could not
recognize the girl inside.

The girl in the mirror was all grown up, and
could be anyone she wanted to be. Except,
the girl in the mirror didn't look
like Lola, or sound
like Lola,  or do the things
Lola liked to do.

The girl looked happy there, in her pretty clothes,
her sparkling smile,
her polished shoes, but

Lola stood before the mirror
confused because she couldn't see herself.

Lola wanted to see herself.

She looked behind the mirror.
She discovered
that the mirror was different on both
sides.

One side was reflective,
and the other
was see-through.
But the side that was see-through were rose-tinted,
and made everything shimmer
and glow.

"Oh **** it,"
said Lola in a drunk rage one day,
and she punched the mirror
And watched it fall to the floor.

To hell with it, she thought, and picked up
the pieces of her shattered reflection,
and made herself a mask.
She glued them all
together, in the shape of her face, so that it
would fit only her.

She learned to like how the world looked
with rose colored lenses, and she supposed that
would have to do.

She wakes up each day, with a cup of coffee and,
a cigarette, putting on her make-up, her jewelry,
her mirrored mask--
like a a barbed wire fence
wrapped in silk ribbons.

Everyone smiles at her,
and she smiles too.

She can only see the the beauty
in everything she sees, and all eyes that look at her
can only see the beauty in themselves.

Lola keeps her mask a secret, so that everyone will
smile.

She doesn't mind that she's
invisible now.
The world smiles at her,
and she's free behind her mask.

Everything is okay now,
except

Lola regrets never asking the girl in the mirror
Who she was.

Some night not too long ago-
or maybe centuries-
or weeks-
in fact, I don't really know-

a dragon I had never met
came to my window.

He handed me a something
in a silver cloth
and flew away with not a word-
but a smile
and a wink.

I opened up the shiny
handkerchief
and a little black star floated out
and kissed me on the cheek
where it left a bit of it's
black lipstick
in the shape of a star.

She told me she loved me
and will always protect me.

Then she flew out the window
and the cloth exploded into
glitter.

--I can't really tell you when it happened--
each day is just a blur--
maybe it was yesterday
or the day before
      or the day before
            or the day before...


that Voice--
that Thing--
bound
around
my wrist
a string
and
dragged me

(--screaming,fighting,writhing,clawing--)

into a darkness
where he stabbed
my brain with
my very own
writing pen.

unwritten words
poured out and evaporated,
floating into the
emptiness in which
echoed the Thing's
                        laughter.

my arm reached up--
without control--
and pulled the pen
out from my skull--

with blood as ink I
tattooed the air--
while the monstrous Thing
tugged at my hair--

my soul hung from a distance-
hanging from the sky--
with every word that I wrote,
I heard her let out a cry--

YES!!
SCREAM FOR ME!!
SCREAM!!

YOU'RE MINE
AND
ALWAYS

WILL

BE

It kept me writing Its poem all through the night,
until It had no more words left to drip from my hand--

until the inkwell ran dry.

scarlet snakes slither
and slide, dancing around the
s[t]ars i try to hide

There once was a girl who was utterly mad
She was tired of living and was always sad
So she stabbed herself with a knife
So that she could end her life
And now she doesn't feel so bad

I've lost count how many times
You said you were
Sorry,
Or how many times
I lied,
Telling you I forgive you,
Just to
Stop
Hearing
Your
Venomous voice.

My first physical connection with a man
Was simply you
Injecting your
Parasitic poison
Into me

And,
No matter how many times I break my skin,
And try to bleed it out,
The poison still flows through my veins--
Slowly killing the heart you broke,
And filling my brain with
The insanity I take pills every day
To try to
Ignore.

The only revenge I seem to have have
Is that guilt you claim to feel.

I know I should be happy
You're "doing better"
But to be perfectly honest,
I would be much happier
Watching you
Suffer as I have.

The god you claimed to serve
Was not the god you really worshiped--
The man you saw everyday when you
Looked in your mirror to
Shave your face with
That expensive electric razor
I bought you for your birthday.

I always knew you were lying when
You told me you loved me.
But, I understand now
That you were lying more to yourself
Than you were to me.

We couldn't fix each other,
And secretly, we both knew
We weren't even trying--
We were just trying to use each other
To get by in a world
Where ****** up people like us
Simply couldn't fit in
With everyone else.

But none of that matters.
What matters is now,
And now,
I am relieved that I will never
Have to see you again

Because in my mind,
I can sit, watching you
Writhing in pain
From the remorse I hope you feel,

And ask my new boyfriend
To pass me the popcorn.

There is a white hot flame that burns in my chest,
Boiling my blood,
Sending bubbles to my fingertips.
I pop them, one by one, on your skin.

I'm drowning in this blazing ocean,
Reaching out for your touch,
Feeling the flames consume my body,
But I'm only grasping air.

Can you not see this water rising,
Filling my lungs, and bringing me down?
Do you not see my hands reaching out to yours?

I see you standing on the beach,
Looking out to the stars,
I know you see them,
But is it really too dark to see me?

the stars of the night sky
opened up like roses
whose petals cried
tears
unto the earth...

a man walks under the downpour,
his whistles echoing between
dark city buildings
and concrete alleys
mingling with the echoes of the
raindrops hitting his
umbrella

It's kind of cute watching
Those little bubbles
Come out of the lines--
It's kind of like watching the
Raindrops racing each other
On the car window--
You wonder which bubble will
Get the biggest,
Fastest.

The belly button is
                                     a poet's

most used
                     part of
                     the body.


Say what you will of writing
         from the
                         heart
                                    or writing
         from the
                          brain--

*Is it not true
that we poets
are known for
the things
over which

we contemplate?

Tell me what you see
While watching the universe
Dancing around you.

If you stop leading,
Then the intricate patterns
Of the stars lead you.

You are a part of
A most beautiful and pure
Waltz of the cosmos.

You are but stardust
Lighting up the universe
And moving mountains.

You alone can choose
To lead the dance or follow
But you must still dance.

You were always so blithely blind, my dear,
Whispering to the angels behind the wall,
While you kissed away my sorrows,
And held my hand when I sinned.

The glass from which I drink my life
Isn't half empty,
Or half full.
It fell and shattered into
Sharp little bits
On which I continue to choke,
And all that I have left to say for myself
Is the blood that I spit up every single day
On my pillow when I wake from my nightmares.

There is blood on my hands,
Because I tried to ****** your light,
Leaving everything in darkness,
So that we could see the stars.
Forgive me for that,
If you can.

All that is left are
Memories that
Never existed and
Dreams that
Never came true.

I want to drag you into
The sands of time with me,
But I would hate to watch you suffocate,
With the sand in your nostrils.

So let me fall alone,
And don't reach out to catch me.

This time, I will swim among the stars,
And rearrange them into my own story.

I'm itching to tear this body down.

I'm being deafened by this sobriety,
Trying to silence this urge to
Scratch off all this skin
And smear my insides all over these stupid
White walls.

I've gone too long without the razor
To give up now--
But, oh!
The desire to watch my own blood
Drip and
Slip and
Slide down my skin,
Watching it dance around
The freckles and past scars
On my arm.

Isn't it amazing how
Fragile
My first line of defense for my body is? How
Thin
it is? How under several tiny layers
My insides are held in place,
But with one
Slice
They can come tumbling out
So everyone can see the filth
I hide inside?

These silent screams that no one else can hear--
That others deny even exist in my mind--
Are rattling around in my skull,
Calling me,
Coercing me,
Nearly forcing me to--

.

One small cut.

One
Small
Carefully
Controlled
Cut

By my own
Shaking hand.

And finally,
There is silence once again.