the only time I'll feel beautiful is if you tell me while you have me pinned up against a wall,
your breath against my neck as the word escapes your lips before they press against mine,
the weight of your body pushing me against the wall harder,
and in that second,
I will realize I only feel beautiful is when I'm with you,
and that's such a cliche thing to feel.

I want to write good poetry again, but I cant seem to make it come.
I hardly have the energy to lift my arms or take a single step forward,
if only for the chains I wear
of lace, and tied down with heavy frocks.
The moment I reach for a pen
my dress begins to slip and I must grasp and fumble.
This masquerade is growing old
and my mask is wearing thin enough to see through.
I want to speak,
cry out and scream my soul
but the red they've painted across my mouth
is worse than any gag, and ribbons streaming
from my hair snag on the thorns and rocks of my path.
The weight which hangs, draping over my body is not of iron or steel,
Yet still I outgrow these bonds, and only now
realise they are bonds and weary of my restriction.
They are bonds I no longer wish to wear, as
with every moment I live weighted down
the sky in my eyes grows clouded with fire and smoke.
Any inspirations to paint are lost to the thread which hangs from my eyes.
Were I to try, the ability to sing would be choked away,
sounds stolen by the ever pressing knife.
But
my only chance to escape this seems to lie in the blade's threat, to sing
with all the fire and rage in my soul
and bow back before it catches my mind as prize.
I'm no doll to be toyed with
And I'm sick of playing make believe.
I think it's high time the clock struck midnight.
It's time to burn the dress.

Forgive me, dear mother,
For I am dead.
Inside and out.
I can't feel the pyre,
Or the cold grave.

Forgive me, dear father,
This is the day you dread.
I know this is not how it works
I am tired.
You'll just have to wait.

Forgive me, dear brother,
I know you've left.
You have your own
Disasters to live,
I wont be another day.

Forgive me, dear friend,
It is you I've bothered
Every time I was smothered
By the thoughts in my head.
Freedom is on its way.

Forgive me, dear lover,
For I put the noose
around your neck,
Every time I felt dead.
I have to set you free, let you stay.

Forgive me, dear stranger,
You don't need to read this,
I will be gone,
None of this will matter.
You will see a better day.

Going on a road trip
Something for my soul
It's gonna take a while
But, it's gonna make me whole

I'm going to cross the country
But, I'll start on both the coasts
I've been in too many bottles
Have to exorcise some ghosts

Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where the dream did end
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend

Greyhound bus out of the east
From the Maritimes my son
I'll venture through Quebec as well
This is journey number one

I'll stop and meet the people
Get their stories, of the man
I'll find the ones who met him
Try to learn just what I can

Adversity, I've had my share
Always tried self medication
Now, I need to find myself
This will take some dedication

I'll head on through Ontario
On the Trans Canada Highway route
And I'll try lose my demons
Give my devils all the boot

Brick by brick I'll bring down the walls
That over years I've built
Bricks made up of hate and rage
by love, and fear and guilt

From the west, I'll make my way
Do the highway he could not
Through the rocky mountains
Every mile is hard fought

I'll learn about the person
Who he was and who I am
I'll come through the fire stronger
I'll be a much better man

I will bus across the prairies
Through the Manitoba cold
I will focus on my endgame
I'll learn from what I'm told

Two journeys I will travel
Neither one from coast to coast
But, both are to be ended
by that famous mile post

Maybe I can find the answer
Join myself, go through the door
As he joined a nation
So many years before

Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where my journey ends
Mile Marker Three Three Three Nine
That's where I'll start to mend

The days of limericks
gone with the tide
thought as old fashioned
were they too hard to rhyme
or maybe thought childish
no longer taught in the schools
i hope we're not raising
a generation of fools
even old timers
seem to leave them alone
setting rhyme up with meter
is a skill that they hone
if we'd just write a few
and sharpen our mind
I think a lot of great poetry
is what we would find

I like the way a cigarette hangs
Out his mouth
Crooked
Like his smile
I like the way
His shoulders hang
And also
I like his hands
That knows a woman’s body
But mostly I like
That his eyes
Likes me
Though not me
But my body
And though I don’t like
Being objectified
I like
That he likes me tonight