You love  the gentle force that slowly begins to get stronger with our every interaction. You love the way my hair stays wild like fresh from *** wild. And you love the way my eyes have that passion. You love the regret and darkness that hides there too...I know. But you've fallen in love with a tornado and I will tear you apart the closer you come. And the longer we interact the more you realize your resentment for me. You loved the beauty of this storm from a far now you might get hurt. You will not escape my love without a few broken peices.
But it will be the most beautiful hell you've ever ran with...I promise

I wonder
How it would
Feel to spark a flame,
Watch it ignite,
To light my
Flesh on fire,
And sear the very
Skin from my body.
To allow
The white of
My brittle bones
To blacken and charr.
I wonder if
I would suddenly
Feel some
Sort of warmth
In my bones.
We are so cold here,
My soul and I,
So very damp and cold.
Its like a hurricane
Inside of these
Bones I call home.
So if I was to
Really and truely
Ignite my bones,
Would it warm
This hearth that
Has been as cold as death
For so very long?
Or will I simply burn,
While others use my light
To continue on
Their own path
As if my screaming
Is only background noise,
Gravel crunching underfoot
On their journey?
Will I only burn
For others to take my light,
And leave me to
my own conflagration
Until all I am
Is ash and dust?

What's left in the world
For the woman in the burning house
Except pain and sorrow?

She meanders through life,
Picking things up
Here and there
Where
Here is darkness,
There is nothing,
And tomorrow never comes,
And each new thing
Is something to hold
For just awhile.

She must watch
The house burn down,
While still inside.

First the drapes.

She clutches onto the past,
In the falling ashes and huffing heat,
And can't let go,
Even as her skin peels away.

Black tears stream down her face,
And the inner workings of her own soul
Become even more confusing to her.

The walls crackle,
The windows shiver and burst,
And the world rushes in upon her.

On the braided rug in the living room she kneels,
Holding her things underneath her *******,
Praying that everyone will see
And that no one will see.

Her life,
Ruined.

Her family,
Gone,
Long ago.

Her hope,
The match that lit the trashcan.

And now, flames all around her,
Her black tears a residue,
And the world watching,
She knows nothing.

She has nothing.

but
Pain and sorrow.

I
A scream scares the day away and makes the night a dark eternity.
Mating calls lurching behind barstools talking about nothing and jumping deeper into conversation over the bovine carcass at Applebee's.
Desolate honkytonks fueled by Percocet and chlamydia, fat musicians and anthems of Beer drunkenness hanging over the toilet to ***** their soul away for a buzz.
Coal diggers and gold diggers painted in black and red and the pinks drips down their leg to a puddle of shame. Crying in the corner for a fix with their broken knees and backs and their black lungs and their pharmacies of solutions that end up being their prison. Poisoning the air with the smoke of death and masculinity with broken hands punching the walls until the blood pours.
The **** of the body and land in unison in mind, flutters from our corner of the world to the coast
then to the heavens where it again rapes. Where it forces itself upon the consciousness of a nation
That buys it up and sells it again for naut. Souls of the lost gather for your final baptism in pain, together,
Ready and willing for more.
Trailers like tombstones in the distance at the end of hollers buried beside their dignity in the mines. Eternal monuments to good enough sprouting from every seed wasted in the divine Goddess who is reduced to the ***** of Hazard and surrounding counties.
Repeat the cycle of suffering.
Churches of skeletons praying for that divine **** of death,
reap what ye sew,
Harvest of the men in plenty,
eat for your fill!

                                                            II
I­t has been a cold winter, and I have traveled to the land of my heroes, who live now only on the page and in spirit alike.   I have bussed cross nation, gone to Boulder and Denver and dear Allen Ginsberg I found out the time. I search for the street where I can find you, curl up in your beard, hear your stories, and hitchhike with you to Nirvana. I have snowshoed high and happy with friends and have no regrets only that I didn't stay longer.  Played music on the top of mountains and felt them dance under me. I have been reborn with life and friends and it is good enough. Dislocated souls connecting in the ephemeral plane somewhere between Kentucky and Colorado in dreams and though and music and poetry and body and soul.

Is it better to be entirely useless or partly great?
Depends I guess.
What does it mean to be useless?
What does it mean to be great?
If I am useless, may I choose to be great?
If I don't want to be great, does that make me useless?
If I am useless,
and being partly great means that I am partly not myself,
Then I'd rather be entirely useless.
I'd rather be entirely me.

I can picture how it looks
A small room, a bookshelf with no books
A staircase going up, with rooms filled with who knows what
And a staircase going down filled with people who no longer know their way around

They're bumping into one another, and I find myself doing the same
kissing all the wrong people, trying to remember my name

A year has passed and so have I
The phase of partying until 2:00 has left me high and dry
Because I find myself awake for different reasons
dreaming of my future as I change with the seasons

Passing through the hot and cold,
passing my classes- doing as told
I've changed who I am now
Although that life will always be apart of me
My interests have changed, but I hope you can still see

The small room with a bookshelf and no books
The staircase going up, with rooms filled with who knows what
And that staircase going down filled with people who didn't know their way around
I hope you still see me, and everything we once used to be
And know I still care, even though I'm no longer there

I am not here to stay and make my home in you, or with you.
I am nomadic.
I will tell you how much I love you knowing that I'll be gone the next day.
There are so many paths and I'm on my way, wherever I come to find myself I promise it's not for long, and I will not change.
This is for the best.

I am the memories hidden from my consciousness
for better of for worst
like the mess inside my room
that helps me organize myself.
Four years ago that mess wasn't there.
And four years ago I used to sing in the shower
with the same voice as my mother
when she sung me lullabies, while tucking me in to sleep.
And later on she'd pray to a god I can't see,
the same god I used to beg at when I was fifteen
and yell at-- and scream at--
and love as much as I hated myself.

I am the words I've been told,
the prophecies,
the gold in my ears,
and the astrology sign that stays the same
year by year,
even though I change
like my favorite colors: pink, red and beige.
But I'm not too sure because those colors are pretty lame,
if you ask twelve year old me,
the one that thought boys were a necessity
as fundamental as air--
but, no; I also like girls.  
And when my counsellor asked me why,
I couldn't really say;
I'm not sure I want to tell him I've been thinking of *** since I was eight,
or how long it took me to be okay
with the fact that I'm not actually straight,
even though Mom thinks it's a shame.  

Mom, I'm still the same, even though I'm not;
I am still the string of cells that was once bundled up inside you like a knot.
I still wrap myself around you in a hug
hoping you will understand that my love transcends the heavens above
and the destination of the lost
that some people call hell.
I don't care
and I don't think I ever will
because the past stays still
while the future stares;
no matter what, I will continue being myself,
even if I don't understand my nature.

I am more than what I seem:
I am the dreams produced in deep sleep
by my curiosity,
the ones I cannot remember
but to which I quietly surrender,
as I am a vase crafted by the hands of destiny
and the ever changing state of humanity.
I am the moods bestowed by the seasons--
sometimes they mess up with my reason
and inside me grows a fight
of who I am and who I should be.
Who am I, definitely?
I can't really say...