1,2,3,4

What do you 1, 2 be 3, 4
They 1, 2 be 3.
What 4.
Why do you 1 2.
I just want 2 be 3.

What do you want to be free for.
They want to be free.
What for?
Why do you want to?
I just want to be free.

a quart of tequila,
still no feelings,
spinning ceilings beneath me,

in my venomous state,
we went to comedy night at the viper room.

torn to shreds in the front row,
of a gung ** americanised show.

i came because the river still flows,
with depp and the stageshows from the whiskey a go go,
directly opposite the pavement.

the boulevard was full of cars,
and homeless superstars,
that made it far,
but not past the stars on the walk of fame,
Holly would never be the same again.
*******, *******.

we walked past the cast of a bottomless flask,
cast in the shadows of the sorrows of rodeo drive,
staying alive is easy,
follow,
the yellow brick road and wish for a dollar.

tomorrow is another day.

i seen a man of my same age,
he was a traveller,
vocabular immaculate,
hair cut ******, dindn’t shave much,
one of the same touch.
grubby hands and unfinished plans.

his sign said, were ******.
i teared up,
he looked up and stood up and we hugged.
i could see me in his weird look.
just another rhyme in my page book.

i gave him a bag of survival necessities,
i hunted him down after 24 hours.
i was worried to go back,
and finish what i started.

i consider the concept as an artist,
but the truth is this,
the humanist within,
could never miss that appointment.

he sat there in the same spot,
and if i didn’t come,
he could of lost faith in the promise of a circumstance.

i took a certain stance,
he said he was a traveller,
a poet with grubby hands,
i held him with open arms.

i don’t worry about him,
i worry about you,
a ***** and the truth,
trumps and mansion and no use.

i’ve read between the lines,
and wrote this motion on tightropes and suspended emotion.
they want a showman,
but when we show them the ocean,
the don’t want to know the deepest minds inclined.

absolutley,
mutiny in the ranks,
my heart sank when you decided to revamp,
your opinion of me implicitly.

minor to me,
skeleton key to multiple routes.
i never gave a **** about your opinions then,
and I certainly don't give a **** now,

nor have i ever,
stared the gift horse in the mouth.

oh, my god,
stop praising little girls for being "tiny" and "slender" and "willowy"
for being skinny.

because the scale offers validation
and eating cheetos and twizzlers and cookies and candy without gaining a pound becomes an accomplishment
a sharp and boasting laugh
ha, ha! i can eat all the **** i want
and still be /skinny!/

because a girl will feel pride
in her ballerina legs and bony joints
and guilt
in her best friend wishing she were as small.

because "skinny" stops being an adjective
and becomes a definition.

because being skinny becomes
owning stacks and stacks of size zero jeans
but ******* and shimmying and squeezing your *** into them
(god forbid you buy a size two.)

skinny becomes looking flat in the midsection
but only if you eat triscuits for lunch that day

becomes seeing the outlines of individual ribs
but grabbing with a grimace the layer of fat and skin that covers them

becomes standing with legs spread apart and back tilted and eyes squinted
and looking maybe kind of like a forever 21 model,
until you sit and your thighs melt into huge endless expanses of tissue

becomes avoiding the bathroom scale because you told yourself two years ago you'd never get above double digits.

becomes knowing that most girls would **** for your body, or for the absence of your body - for the carved out spaces where flesh could be.

becomes feeling guilty, feeling ridiculous, feeling ungrateful
becomes never admitting to anyone that you feel anything but skinny.

Cold fingers
Reaching for warmth

Broken nails
Clawing at slick walls

Bloated figures
Floating in icy water.

As we say goodbye

When you texted me back
and said you were in the building,
my heart skipped.

I couldn't tell
if it was from relief that you responded,
or anxiety that you were so near.

I knew that if I saw you
I would either break down,
or become too numb to function.

But if I did not,
my mind would think up awful situations,
and send my panic level to the stars.

I can't help but wonder:
if we weren't so close,
would things be different?

I like to think
that if we were further apart,
I would have gone out to find you.

But instead, I stayed where I was.
Hoping you wouldn't pass by,
while at the same time needing to catch a glimpse.

You didn't text again

Fragments
of abandoned dreams
swirl and slither
in between.

My mind
has been infected
and severed.

Temptation blinds me
and I fail
to see your objective.

For all I know
you may never truly leave.
You control me
you own me.

You've infected me
warped my  thoughts
and yet
I still let you in.

A poet is a nightingale
Who sits in darkness in the wood

He sings to cheer his solitude
With sweet sounds noone's ever heard




"In His Land of Dreams"

Watch your body fall to pieces.
It will not be the first to give up on you,
but it won't be the last, either.

When your nose bleeds,
resist the urge to scream.
It is only because all you've eaten
in the past three days was a grape.
Calcium deficiency.

Your skin will turn yellow
and your nails will be brittle.
It's not beautiful.
You will not look like the plastic
photo lies on the magazine covers.

Your body is consuming itself.
Maybe it sounds like poetry,
but it tastes like fear.
The fear of gaining weight,
the fear of not being perfect.

Your heart will weaken,
your kidneys could fail,

If you die of anorexia nervosa,
it will not be beautiful.
It will not be poetic.
It is grotesque and painful.
The doctors will shove tubes down your throat
just to keep you alive,
while your mind screams,
we can't have those calories

How do you waste away?
It's easy to do.
Hate every piece of yourself
until it's so small you can't feel it.