In the house that took my baby teeth,
inside the room that saw my many tears,
my mind is unable to rest.
The teddy bear wallpaper I never wanted still
dances around the room,
constantly taunting and berating me.
Some nights it feels like a whisper,
and some nights it is a piercing scream
that tell of all the memories those walls hold.
Every time I think I have forgotten,
the house that took my baby teeth
seeps the fragmented moments back
into the fabric of my psyche and reignites
all of the lingering resentment that I keep
reigned in.

I am not perfect.
I am nowhere near perfect.
I simply play the part,
But only for you.

I try to be the best.
I aim for perfection.
But like Cupid,
My marksmanship is poor.

I will always fail,
I will always be,
This same imperfect entity,
All that is yours.

If imperfection,
Is perfect to you,
Than I shall put down my bow,
And aim no more.

I am not a masterpiece,
I am a forgery,
Created by the perfect artist.
You.

I apologize for my texture,
The flaws that give me away.
For to an expert,
I am nothing but a replica.

To an unlearned eye,
I may be something,
Born of the renaissance,
Yet I am nothing special.

I was born of this age.
An age where an artist's ideals,
Are formed from past works.
And I am nothing but a forgery.

Not a forgery of Da Vinci or Michelangelo,
But a forgery of these new age artists.
Only a forgery of an idea's idea.
Nothing more.

I will write myself to sleep.
I will write long, pathetic
poems instead of texts to my
ex. I will write
the novel of my life
instead of asking you
for attention.

I will write
the new bible
on isolation, chronological
volumes
on loneliness.

I will write ten million
haikus before I write
you again.

I will write love letters
to myself until my fingers
bleed, until I
believe them.

I will write the handbook
on neglect, the idiots guide
to dealing with it.

I will write vague
fortune cookies about
self-acceptance and
self-forgiveness.

By the time I'm finished,
I will have exhausted
my depression.

I will write Shakespearean
prose about this
rejection.

I will write suicide notes
on my shield and armor for
protection and I will
save myself with them.

I will write angry, violent speeches
to rally the voices
in my head.

I will write a pledge of allegiance
to myself and recite it daily,
after coffee.

I will pray to the Gods of
"move on," and "get over it."
I will baptize myself
in holy water
that makes me
stop caring
completely.

Holy water, oh well, whatever
move on. Hallelujah.

I will write the ten commandments
on how to be
abandoned.

sometimes the world gets to be too much
and reason runs away
through the cracks already made
in the great stone walls
holding everything out
that have done their job
too well.

A semicolon
Is the symbol for something
That should have ended
But didn't
So what is the symbol
For something that ended
But shouldn't have?
I will search for this symbol
And when I find it
I will send it to you
A thousand times
In hopes that you will
Understand

here's the thing:
I know I am needy and jealous,
and my skin is only pretty in the summer,
and my hair frizzes more often than not,
and my nose is too big for conventional beauty

I know that I talk funny a lot,
and my body is disproportionate
(just like my music taste),
and I never really know what I'm talking about,
and my hands are always cold and clammy

I know that I apologize too much (sorry),
and that I usually make a big deal out of nothing,
and that I usually look angry,
even when I'm happy

I know that my exuberance is hard to handle,
and that I am easy to disappoint
and easy to be disappointed in,
and that I lose motivation too quickly,
and that my smile is too often late and clumsy

I know all these things aren't so great,
(and I know of many more),
but I know that
I am caring and loyal
and my skin gets tan
and warm and filled with sunlight
and my eyelashes are long and full
and when I smile for real,
it is sincere and warm and genuine

I know that I hold myself to higher standards,
and that I get very passionate about little things,
and that I read a lot more than most

I know that I am compassionate and considerate,
and find happiness in the smallest details

And I know that I am hardworking
(when I need to be),
but I also know how to relax,
and I can handle my own burdens
(as well as some of yours)

so between the pros and cons,
I hope someone will someday
find it in their heart
to fall in love with me
as I have done with you

boredom is a tight shirt,
a blanket shamefully pulled over it
boredom is how whiskey learns how to taste better,

chum steeps in the waters constantly,
the fragmented dregs of flesh dance and so we catch them cautiously
with our gnaw of impatience

boredom is waking up early and laying in bed for an hour or three,
occasional outbursts of "fuuuucccckkkk" - and then it's coffee
rolling cigarettes out of abandoned butts - a true old stogie

television, ******* turned down in volume,
***, movements of no virtue
more whiskey and then the pillow and then things get interesting

Sway seconds ecstatic bliss
The taste of lime and salt
Skin glows, criss crossed shadows
and a panic of lights.

Shifting music
Rhythm intoxication and
Shifting energy

Boldness alights
like a flock of crows gliding in at dusk,
landing on the shoulders
cast in neon-disco light

They fan feathered-dollar bills
With prospects of revelry and dancing
odes to debauchery and youth
and feigning adoration
from the swaying, neon hips.

Subtle chants and hungry eyes
We deserve this
We deserve this
We deserve--

Disappearing in her act,
She arises, in the fame of a dove
Unburdened and free
in the whitest of lights.

She thinks briefly of flying away.