Insults travel trough generations.
They embed themselves in our minds,
Echoing the same phrase:
"You are nothing."

Somehow the phantom voices
Hurt more than the bruises across our cheeks
Because the purple and blue fades over time.

Sticks and stones may break my bones
But at least they heal.
Words are harder to forgive.

A creature that I live with every day
Creates something that I can not escape from.
Something that follows me and rapes me of my happiness,
Something that recreates the worst parts of my life
And forces me to watch, paralyzed in my own bed.

The Creature has dyed red hair, brown eyes.
The creature weighs 136.2 lbs and continues to gain more.
This creature is 5'8" tall.

This creature shares the same name.
The same putrid name as the girl who
Fell in love with someone who saved her life,
But had to convince herself to keep loving him
In order to endure the thing he said to her.
The same ugly name as the girl who fell in love with
Someone else, but ignored him because of her guilt
And then kissed him only five days after
The one who saved her dumped her on her 16th birthday.
The same name as the girl who forced herself to feel
Numb because everyone who surrounds her
Tells her not to feel bad because they have or had it worse.

The creature screams, trying to make her happy, trying to
Please her, make her leave.
SHE REFUSES. Every day, she lays down and can't get up because
Nothing is worth it. The creature ignores her pull.
She leaves bruises with her fingers,
But the creature is used to the pain.

A picture on the internet told me
That I should write every day
Because it would make me stronger.
It said to write even when I couldn't
But if I couldn't then how could I?
That’s the problem.

If I don’t write every day then I become weaker.
The weaker I become, the less I write.
How can I write to get stronger when
I am already too weak to write?

Its like throwing a bird without wings and expecting it to fly.
Each time it hits the ground it is closer to dying
But it can save itself if it can just fly.
But that's the problem!

The bird becomes more jaded every day it doesn't fly
And the more jaded he is, the less he wants to.
How could he possibly save himself
If he is already dying?

Its like slamming a door in a decaying home.
The hinges creak and the wood splinters,
It comes closer to falling apart with every motion
But the people who use it only use it for their own privacy.
That’s the problem.

That door creaks and splinters every time it is closed.
Keep closing it and there will be no more door,
Just an empty space in a wall,
Another hallway.
There is only one decaying home and only a certain number of doors,
Pretty soon they will all fall apart in your hands.
It sounds like a metaphor.

We invented god, and fear
ourselves
and our
own creations.

Torn in flesh, worn in faces,
I like it when I walk somewhere
and the sidewalks are suspiciously
empty of strangers.

Thumps like clockwork,
and speeds up for all the same reasons.

Listening to Miles Davis,
******* a stranger in the bathroom,
falling in love again,
screaming and crying
and banging your head against the wall.

The clouds dissolve and when they
almost see you face to face,
you burn down your bridges
and make them start from
square one.

Footsteps outside your door
You hear them like a roar
Getting louder and louder
The thing comes nearer

You feel helpless
Afraid
Of the thing behind your door

Will your life come to it's end?
Is tonight the night?
Or, maybe
It's your wife?
Your children perhaps?

All deceased
By your hand
Shaking before
Your hand ceased
Like a nightmare
You're unable to move
Frozen by the site of...

Something
You can't believe

You force something out
Almost incomprehensible
"No.... Who are you?"

"Why, Daddy....
It's me"

If this Winter lingers just a little longer and the nights are drawn in tight about my shoulders, will you hold me just a little closer, take the candle and with flames of passion,
fashion me a blanket and snuggle under to see the winter disappear, and if the Summer wakes us with a nudge and winks a light into my eye,
will you be shy,
shall we wander down the avenue, just me and you and several hundred pigeons looking for a place to eat, breakfast and the heat of toast upon our lips,
If this Winter seems too long, will this song we sing bring unto us the joys of Summer?
on the bus?
the city dwells and in all seasons, well it would,
wouldn't it?