Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

art is me trying to be me in a world where everyone is different so aren't we just all the same in a rat race where everyone is everyone and everyone is running just to try to win even though everything is falling apart and your words don't make sense ideas don't come fast enough and everything is spiraling out of control and you can't keep your balance can't stop dropping the matchsticks when you just want to make a flame to light to light up the dark because you can't see where you're going and all thats left to do is wonder if theres a god and whats he like and does he love you like everyone says he does or does he even understand love because I sure as hell don't
I mean what is love I say I love art but sometimes I don't want to draw even though drawing makes me feel sane makes me not feel all the hurt but sometimes I need the hurt to make me realize I do things to make me happy but sometimes its too much and your lungs feel too tight and everyone tells you they understand and they don't and that just make your lungs tight sometimes too tight to breathe

There are so many days.
                  How do I keep track of
                                   what to feel?


I can feel happy,
                 but awful.


Beautiful, but those are the days I tend to cry.
                  and I don't cry beautifully.
There are times I'm an open book,
                  yet so closed up.


Days I feel full of myself,
                  but there are more where I wonder,
                                           "who the **** would want me?"

Maybe I should want me.

Cross legged on deserted asphalt.
                              Imprints on my legs.

Nothing but glitter,
                              Against a cold black sky,
and a silence of broken bottles.

For once in months I think
                             nothing.

My mind as quiet, and numb as the glass.

While my thoughts never end,
                              never stop screaming,

Silence was the answer.

What would happen if when you came home.
I was sprawled on the floor.
With a bottle of pills in my stomach.
or
With a rope tightened around my throat.
or perhaps
Wrists cut deep,
Thick red all over your nice clean floor.
Because that would be your biggest concern.
Your freshly cleaned floor

**I hope it stains.