She's one of those charming tortured souls,
The ones with shadows in their eyes.

She drinks her liquor straight,
And she dances on her toes.

She'll flinch at the sound of a door,
But she smiles in dangers face.

She's a pretty little fool,
A sad little liar.

She smiles coyly,
Playing with her wild tangly mane.

She ***** her head to the side,
Scoots a little closer and says:

"I'd like to think that I tend to trip more people
Than I fall for."

night creates a certain pressure
i hope you won't pick up
dealing forever with that old
scratch scratch on the back of the skull

receptors burnt blacker than the bottom of a spoon
Welcome scars that cannot be covered
i see your eyes
don't even try to avert
or hide the disgust
nose held so high like
you haven't found a way to **** yourself too
Tell me your secret
I can appreciate it

little ****
little poke
constant sting singing:
I am the rehabilitation
the lightbulb still flickers in the basement
when i'm not there

i love you jacob  
so you can't go back
You can't go down jersey ave.
or even take okechobee
You can't slip between the cracks anymore
You've become solid full of atmosphere
still weak but the sun

Clean Waste
the tops of the hands are
treasure maps in circles leading
to the same old footprints
i am free so I take deep breaths for the hell of it
each time i see the crease of your knee
Purity
each word that falls from your lips
salvation
i don't need anything because i am more alive than a thousand poems unwritten
i am 20 years old and the next pill i touch will **** me

self-reflection churns out an image of a clicking cicada of an aggressively ****** young girl, who due to the pressing weight of a blue silk chord around her throat possesses

a shiny dark, green exoskeleton (refracting light and resistant to moisture)
(SO ******* KAFKAESQUE) (!!!)

who sings as she rubs furry legs together and has decided to spill pain whenever possible onto screens and sheets, throwing up wherever she lands, without true cause in a careless disarray, breeding narcissism (let's throw a party)

biting into shattered satin, like a moth feeding off of human wetness and stains while punctuating words with mispronunciation and self-absorbtion
because she is deathly afraid of being boring and a daily routine, how predictable

(the crowd looks on miserably, fanning their faces with paper plates, sweating profusely)

this poem is predictable;
sorry.

I never have tried to **** myself, it would be silly to think that not killing yourself or killing yourself would have an actual influential impact on most of the world, except in rare cases.

Death is looming, I am grinning, I have not yet seen it so I guess I will live forever and subside off the hearts of men (no, not really, I'm kidding).

Last time I checked blood was blue until it hits the air
Monkey see
Monkey do
I'm just a lonesome primate like you
Spinning on a pebble at the edge of a forgotten galaxy

One day father taught me to make a fire
Blowing air into the spark
Oxide

One day my father taught me where the throttle was
And I tore up the dirt road that led to the house

One day my father taught me where the trigger was


He beat the fire out of me
Until it raged a flame so fearsome no man could stop it

When I was born he let them cut a piece of my **** off
And branded me a first born son