i wish that i still dreamt
because then i could escape the reality
that i dread so much

dream (/drēm/) :
   1. an alternate reality created by our
       subconscious minds to satisfy our
       greatest and deepest desires

if you take a minute and

look at yourself

you will see

a vast inquisition is held

in that brain of yours

because who are you, really ?

tell me again that you love me
i love to hear people lie
because you don’t know how to love
i cant say that i do either
but, i know that love isn’t supposed to feel like this

love isnt supposed to manifest itself as paranoia
nawing at your every thought
or jealousy
overriding your functions like that little green monster

love is not these cruel things that you do

the red and yellow fire glistened behind her eyes
shone so brightly it was obvious to the specators
the red and yellow sparks frightened her and those who flanked her
when they saw the saturated color of the flames errupting no one could stand by her any longer
it was clear that she was set to explode

spectators watch from afar as the red and yellow flames rapidly consumed her
as they ate away at every part of her flesh
the smell of burning organs groped their nostrils
filling them to the brim with a stench they could not withstand

the girl stared as the people continued to back away
stuff their noses with their sleeves
and felt as she burned
her body became bloated with the fire
and then she burst
into a great flame that scorched everything in its path

the specators watched the finale
as she disappeared
into the red and yellow flames
and was never heard from again

everyone is an artist
because we craft our lives and decisions
so meticulously
our choices are so specific to who we are
that no one can make the exact ones as the other

everyone is an artist
because we craft our insults and hatred
so carefully
our awful and greedy actions are so specific to who we are
that no one can do the exact ones as the other

everyone is an artist
because we craft our love
so perfectly
our hearts interwine with those we seek the most and are so specific to who we are
that no one can love another the exact say way

everyone is an artist
but just the same as art we can not plan our lives
because it will not come out the way that we imagined
and it will not go perfectly
but we will plan anyways
and try our best to make everything go the way we would like it to

we cant really craft our lives

we cant really craft our hatred

we cant really craft our love

but we sure as hell can try

i want to write
but, not just anything
i want to write beauty
i want to write poetry that transforms people
i want to write so exquisitely that when a person who doesn’t love, or rather show love, reads my work, theyre overwhelmed with emotion and passion and love
i want to change people’s perspectives on the world.
i want people to fall in love with the delicacy of life and the human race, the way that i do everyday
but how, how can i write all of this grace when im so angry?

anger is the least graceful emotion
and im angry all the time, at nothing specifically
im just angry
sometimes i can feel myself getting angry in my stomach
it starts in the pit
then it travels up and up and it feels like its consuming me
and my chest gets tight and
i cant breathe
and i can feel the blood hastening its flow through my veins
my head burns like someone set me on fire and i lose control of my body
it feels like the air flow to my brain has been disconnected.

i become a ball of energy
no longer able to control its own thoughts, feelings, emotions, movements
or anything for that matter
how can i breathe my own words into other peoples hearts
if i cant even get myself to breathe air?

i dont like the person i become when im angry.
its as if i forget im human and i turn into a machine whose only purpose is destruction
i get scared of who i am when im angry
i get scared to hurt someone. not physically, but emotionally, i am so mortally terrified of scarring someone else’s heart
emotional scarring doesnt heal like the scarring of the flesh, it stays, constantly reappearing in your frontal lobe, all the time.
who am i to bestow that kind of pain on someone else?
no one, i am no one.

i want to write
beauty
passion
misery
emotion

i dont like who i am when im angry

inhumane

destructive

i want to do better.

i will do better.

my mother told me that
a woman’s prized possession
is her hair
that it defines her
and all of her beauty emanates
from it
but i didnt agree with her
so i shaved my head