I died back in '85
but I was told my whole life
I was alive

the mattress I sleep on
is stained with my tears
multiplied with the years
of emotional trauma and fear
fear of dying alone

I pour my heart into different bowls
add some water and mix it with a brush
then sling it onto the blank walls
of the asylum
I built inside of myself
where I go to forget
that I have died before
and this is hell

the colors bent with the corners of the room
a different part of myself is in bloom
I'm redecorating my mind
as an abstract collage of everything I've learned so far
in my short amount of time

I entered back in '85
and it took twenty eight years to realize
that I have been dead this entire time

And we never stop being girls at heart.
Even at 80, in the nursing home bathroom mirror,
I will probably stop
and stare, at the parchment-faced woman,
with wrinkled cheeks and drooping eyes,
and wonder where the acne faced girl,
with bright round eyes,
has hidden herself away.
I will smile at the young, handsome, CNA
as he passes in the hall, wondering
what he would think of me at 18.

I believe
when it all boils down to it
the majority of us
would rather have nothing
with someone
than everything
with no one.

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

I don't
claim
to be
a superman
but I can
tell you
this,
my
kryptonite
is alcohol.

Just pour
me one
straight up
and watch my fall.

When
I die
I want
my spirit
to fly,
lock in on
my prey
from far,
far away.

Only rattling
bones
I can assume,

will be rattling
around
in my tomb.

Perhaps
it is better
to scatter my
ashes to the wind.

Because
really all
I will do
is just carry
my light in
to another room.

That's it,
I'll just
carry my light
in to another room.

© 2014

The Future;
   The Past...

They're
The
  Only
things
      We
Cannot
**Control