she's the girl you meet
when you're young and reckless

you meet her when
you were expecting another pack of cigarettes
to add to your chain smoking addiction

everyone leaves her
because she is the epitome of
fuzzy blankets
reckless abandon
hopeful sunsets
long terms
unconditional love

and after they realize
the depth of the scars on her heart
they're gone
no explanation

"someday you'll find someone who deserves you"
"don't give up on love because of me, they're not all this bad"
and the worst,
"you're still my best friend"

until someone realizes
she is content with imperfection

she will always be alone

I remember the sweat
Clinging to your war-torn back
Like rain,
A succulent, torrential downpour
Of fury and lust.
And in that moment
I knew myself to be much more
Than I had ever at any variable point
Thought before.

Today my feet feel lighter.
Lying through omission,
I relayed to you
That I believed death
To be a great anomaly;
A pleasure swirl of brain drugs,
Encapsulating one
In a solemn yet impeccable nirvana
Of their choosing.

My heaven smells like the hugs you get
From smoker's seventh sons.

My heaven tastes like the metallic urge
That burns in the back of your kiss.

I am untamed,
A sorcerer, and
A God in my own right.

I'm the caretaker of a lonely lighthouse
On the edge of a small New England town
Not much here has ever happened
That is until Stephen came around

For weeks now I've been haunted
By the ghost of Stephen King
I'm quite sure that he is still alive
Which makes this very strange indeed

At first he wasn't doing much
Rattled chains, walked through walls like a normal ghost
Then Stephen discovered the roaming light
That I shine up and down the coast

Now his favorite pastime every night
Until the break of dawn
Is to make shadow puppets in the light
I don't have the nerve to tell his ghost  it's wrong

Yes, Stephen loves his shadow puppets
On the jagged rocks below displayed
Butterflies and puppy dogs
Is Stephen's ghost's forte

But all the puppy dogs have monster heads
And the butterflies giant bat wings
I guess you just can't help yourself
When your the ghost of Stephen King

This light house is no longer lonely
Since Stephen Kings ghost did arrive
I'm still not sure how he does it
Since Stephen King is still alive

The nights have become the most difficult
(Never sleep again, never rest again)
To manage.
Deeper, dreadfully
I soar into what I do not believe,
Into a pain much too real
And much more haunting
Than I have ever experienced.
The ghosts are back, Stephen,
They have returned to become the captain
Of my being,
To lust and breed and **** again.
I feign interest
And parry their blows back
Though my defenses are falling
And the blanket on my bed
Is never,
(Never sleep, never lay)
Ever quite long enough to cover me.
My worries today
Are an overheating boiler,
(COME QUICK I NEED HELP
I'M DYING HERE)
Pumping steam and pressure
Out of my jagged edges.

It is getting harder and harder to breathe.
Do you believe in God, Stephen?
I know Kubrick called you and asked the same
Many years before my birth,
But today I need your answer more than ever,
In that my every move seems to propel me
Into many-a-numbered
Ceiling and wall traps
And I am being crushed,
(Never sleep, never rest)
Soiled and trampled at the hand of fate.
I once thought myself too intelligent to believe,
But now I need a higher faith
If only to know that darkness is never truly darkness
And the candles I have left burning in my body
Will never be blown out.

Did you really see that boy,
That childhood friend of yours
Struck down by a train
In your ever so tender youth?
Was his blood and brain matter
What came to you in your darkest hour
As you wrote about presidential suites
And Danny Torrance seeing reverse ******
Played out in front of him for eternity?
Is ****** played out for eternity in your mind,
Too?
(Do you Shine, Stephen?)

They taught us about you in school, Stephen.
They made you out to be a God in yourself,
A novel machine
Intent on overpowering the industry
For your own gain and prosperity.
But those who read you,
(Those who know, those who feel)
Know you as a human.
You spirit, you singer,
You light of my life,
(You twisted man, you monster, you seer of sights)
You have kept the world alive
With sparks and shines
Under eyelids
For decades.

Stephen, I have stuck my hand in the wasp nest again.
Bring me your salvation.
Bring me
(Your understanding, your writer-virtue.)

And so I write to you today,
A young girl of but 18
With her own Shine set to murderous visions
And Terrifying conundrums.
My ghosts follow swiftly in my foot trails
And your novels warm my lap as I try
(So hard, so)
Desperately
To hear your voice,
Bellowing with contempt,
Your tone so monotonous and
Matter of fact,
Even when speaking of such malicious things
I have to stop children from buying your movies at my job
Because I could get in trouble if they see
Jack Torrance kissing a decaying woman
Or Carrie being burned alive in her prayer closet.
(I could get in trouble with the law
If they see the truth you speak,
The tales of loss and preservation you weave.)

Because of you and the horror you have struck me with,
I leave the lights on.
I am fearful
(But so hopeful)
Within myself each day.

Because of you
I have seen men and women
Find peace
Within their own private Overlook Hotels
Housed deep and high
In the mountains of their own consciousness.
Because of you
I have found
(Breathe in, breathe out,
Nothing to see here)
Solace
In my self-contained
Madness.

I was wrongly convinced that if I set
myself on fire first, that it would
hurt far less when you
threw me into the
flames.

so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"