"Write", she says.

"I have nothing to say", I answer.

But, of course, it is a lie.  I have plenty to say.
It is a matter of staying hidden.  

Sometimes, I want to be invisible.  

"Don't look at me", I say, "Just see me."

*I am the invisible substance of subconscious,
and I want nothing more than to be found.

there is something beautiful about a sad girl who stands staring into her own soul,
leaning hard against a mahogany mantle wondering how quickly gravity would take her if she let go

clutching onto something solid reminds her that she isn't lost inside some ****** up dream,
that the twitchy movement on the edge of her peripheral vision isn't your ghost ready to bridge the then, there, and in between

yesterday's masccara leaves the perfect hangover smudge, and wild curls turned stale frame a face ridden with gloom,
sadness and beauty compliment each other so well, she looks herself in the eye and decides to say forever locked in this room

i sat on my roof and screamed,
i'm gonna revolutionize this
******* world if it kills me

and my neighbors all turned
and stared, interrupted from
mowing their lawns, washing
their cars, teaching their sons
to play catch, and daughters
to go fetch their morning papers

they quickly turned away at
the realization that it was just that
crazy neighbor girl who hasn't
done **** with her four year
degree, but create a fortress
in which she hides day after day

they smell that stanky marijuana
pluming out of her window
and watch her stumble home, drunk,
listening to her sing along to the music
that the devil has surely put on this
earth to corrupt good catholics,
like the one she once was

and they shake their heads and
hold tight to their son's shoulders
and even tighter to their daughter's
hands, because maybe, just maybe
if they hold on tight enough they'll
always be dumb enough to withstand

because the masses are the winners
and this is the spoiler,
we're being taken over by cookie cutting
stepford wannabe *******,
and they're gonna ruin the world

ALL I can give you is broken-face gargoyles.
It is too early to sing and dance at funerals,
Though I can whisper to you I am looking for an undertaker humming a lullaby and throwing his feet in a swift and mystic buck-and-wing, now you see it and now you don't.
  
Fish to swim a pool in your garden flashing a speckled silver,
A basket of wine-saps filling your room with flame-dark for your eyes and the tang of valley orchards for your nose,
Such a beautiful pail of fish, such a beautiful peck of apples, I cannot bring you now.
It is too early and I am not footloose yet.
  
I shall come in the night when I come with a hammer and saw.
I shall come near your window, where you look out when your eyes open in the morning,
And there I shall slam together bird-houses and bird-baths for wing-loose wrens and hummers to live in, birds with yellow wing tips to blur and buzz soft all summer,
So I shall make little fool homes with doors, always open doors for all and each to run away when they want to.
I shall come just like that even though now it is early and I am not yet footloose,
Even though I am still looking for an undertaker with a raw, wind-bitten face and a dance in his feet.
I make a date with you (put it down) for six o'clock in the evening a thousand years from now.
  
All I can give you now is broken-face gargoyles.
All I can give you now is a double gorilla head with two fish mouths and four eagle eyes hooked on a street wall, spouting water and looking two ways to the ends of the street for the new people, the young strangers, coming, coming, always coming.
  
It is early.
I shall yet be footloose.

Like a screen door flyin' off the hinges
Like your truck comin' up the drive way
Temper
It seems to stem from those cigarette burns
On your forearms
Maybe cause your dad made you **** your dog when
She got sick
Maybe because your mother locked you in the closet
Until you screamed for help
Like a pit-bull
with one blue eye
And one green
Your temper turns them red
Slobbering at the mouth
Cutting yourself with stones
Callin' out to devils
A black horse springing
Down from the clouds
I have just as much a right
To have a temper as you
- but you could drag me to church
Talkin' bout how
Music is the devil
Whiskey is the devil
Lazziness
Pride
Guilt
Fornication
You may think like a stupid *******
That the devil gives a ****
The only devil I've ever seen
Pressed his workboot to my throat
When I was fourteen
Screaming
"You ain't no son of mine"
Looking down at me choking

You spit on my face

Sometimes things fit and sometimes they don't
I spend my life trying to put pieces together
and when they don't fit
I just tape them and glue them
and they look a mess, but they hold for now
and that's going to have to be good enough

Sometimes things fit and sometimes they don't
and this time they fit
perfectly.

I guess I like it better when they don't.