I want my book to be long like a novel,
I want it to have paragraphs and characters the reader can relate to.
I want it to have a hard cover with a picture of me on the back, and a big title on the front.
I want it to have enough pages so you can thumb through them and make a breeze.

I want people to read my book and see themselves in it.
I want my friends to read my book and see that the characters are them.
I want to write a book that has chapters filled with truth.

I want to write a book about my life.
But i'll sit down and start with a sentence, or a paragraph....

then i'll erase it and give up because no matter how hard i try,
the story that i want to tell is just too much for everyone else to hear.

I was all "Hey dog, you like peanut butter?"
and she looked at me, with alert ears.

I was all "Hey dog, this jar is pretty much emp---"
and then i didn't have a jar or my hands anymore.

Here,
there is a constant
Humming, a Buzzing(!), a
thump-thump-Thumping
of busy bees and machines
Buzzing, no
Bouncing to the
again(!) mechanical beat
of the electricity Running, no(!)
Flowing as
I.
Sit.
Here..Still.
Not quite moving
to the flow of electricity, no(!)
Beating Heart(!!!)
of the
city train stophasnostopping
as its people walk, no
Glide(!) through the crowded
Wide(!) open space,
neverstopping
neverhaulting
except to order a
five dollar cup of coffee
so they can continue running
to somewhere more important
than
here.

From the beginning,
You were a toy in a store window,
And I could just barely peek over the ledge
To gaze upon your bright red beauty.

From across the room,
A wink drew me nearer.
Your hair cascade like ribbons off a present,
I’ll push aside drunken fools to find my way towards you,
Your feather eyelashes flutter and blush.
Don’t fly away because your eyes will land on me once more.

Closer,
I can feel your strong arms go limp from intoxication,
Your mouth mumbles and slurrs words you might not mean.
They flatter me all the same.

You are no longer the toy in the store window,
Bright red and exciting
I’ve grown taller since I first saw you,
And now I can reach over the counter
And grab you,
but still I am a child,
With no allowance money to buy you.
I’ll cry to my mother “why?”

Months later,
we still talk about that night,
when we complemented each other,
though we couldn’t see the other’s chest or heart
through the fog of brandy or *****.
We still drink to bring back those memories
Of the heart pounding knowledge of future intentions.

Your arms are strong when sober,
Soft skin holds in muscles that burn
You’ll tell me you’re melting anyway
I’ll insist it’s just the Drugs

You have never intended to be with anyone,
“Don’t want to get tied down,” you said,
“I just want to be free,” you say.
“But you are with me, my lovely,” I said
“I’ll always let you be,” I say.


As the toy, you may be a car,
Rolling down a hill towards the street.
Red and fast, not caring where you’re off to
I’ll buy you after breaking my piggy.

This glass with a stem, filled with brassy liquid, sloshing
It's sweating and dripping down the stem
I imagine a summer day--opposed to a late fall evening
Where this sweating would be more appropriate.

I lift the glass after wiping away the condensation
and tip it elegantly to my lips.
I imagine the glass slipping from my hands and shattering on the floor...
I cringe.

The wine is sweet and feels like a headache,
It warms my throat and stomach.
I look at it in the light and drink again, finishing it.

I will drink five more glasses then run home downhill.
I will wake with aches and bruises and a ****** lip.
I will cry for the mistakes i have made,
although i had a blast making them.

But right now i am enjoying the second glass, and the shape of it.
I can feel a pimple on my chin, and then i can feel the warmth and rush of DRUNK

I stand up after glass 3 and fall into the bathroom door.
I crash on the toilet and laugh at the cold porcelain.
I fall after glass 4 and knock over a chair.
I pick it up quickly and ask for glass number 5.

I don't remember drink number 6,
but the pains in my body say it was not worth remembering.

I knew a woman
who wore her hair in a high pony tail,
yeah--a high pony tail
and i would yank it
until she begged me to stop
I would yank her ponytail
until she told me to stop
I wanted to see what her pony would put up with

She wore her lips in a pout
yeah--a sad little
yeah--an angry little pout
I would kiss it until she kissed me back
I'd kiss her pout until she kissed me back
That woman pouted so naturally

That woman was an epidamy alright!

She wore her clothes modestly
No clevage or *** in sight,
and that kept her looking modest
it kept me wanting more
so when she walked away from me
i didn't have the courage to call for her back.
No--i didn't have the courage to ask for her back

She was the kind of woman that you let walk away from you
when she needed to
because she knew what was good for her
even if it wasn't you

So don't call her back,
she'll just ignore you
and keep on walking away
keep walking away to something better
Even if it isn't you

Did you know about the insides?
The parts of them they keep secret?
They'll never talk about it, and you'll never hear about it.
In where there are hopes and dreams
frustrations, tears and scars,
warm memories and fears.

Within the outline of skin,
There are secrets held within.