stumbling home
in the evening
with my breath
smelling of cheap beer
and cigarettes;
people worry,
I tell them not to;
I do this for me,
not for attention
or sympathy,
I do this to feel
more alive,
because I feel so
dead inside
and my thoughts
are racing;
drinking shuts them up
for a couple of hours
and I feel better;
I feel sick,
but I also feel
great,
like I can do anything;
like nothing can hurt me;
is this what death
tastes like?
god,
I hope so

You're eyes look a lot like home
And that feeling swallows me up
And holds me, not tenderly, but with
A scorching intensity
That leaves me freezing with no way to warm my brittle bones
Whenever you blink
And that leaves me with a fatal hypothermia that I'll never recover from
Whenever you leave

Why are you an atheist?
How often I get asked this question...
Because I am alone in this world.
I am alone, and you have your God.
How is your God great, and is your God good,
When every time the news comes on,
I hear the latter?
People killing people in so called,
"Holy wars."
What's so holy about ******?
About war?
About ****?
Poverty?
Suicide?

So while you spend your Sundays staring
At the heart of an empty sky,
While you waste your last breath pleading for forgiveness,
I will sit here and be an innocent bystander
To the will of your ******* savior.
Such horrors your savior has put me through.
Why am I living in a place where people are judged
By the color of their skin?
A world where people slit there wrists and throats
Just to feel alive.
A world were daddy's **** their "little princess'"
And mommy is on the bathroom floor
A little too long this time.
If that is the world we live in,
I don't want to live there anymore.

So, take your comic books and your name tags
And pedal your beliefs somewhere they are needed.
I don't want them.
Your God doesn't know me.
He doesn't know what I can take.
And what about the people who couldn't take
What they were given?
With their broken backs
And your broken heart
And my broken mind.

Oh. But what if I have lost my mind?
Throw me in my padded room
With my bleeding writs
Tied behind my padded back.
Thanks so much for your God's help,
So much for knowing my breaking point.
It's too late I am lost forever and
The void in my heart is full of jellybeans,
And the void in my head is filled with my heart.

I, am tired.
Where is your god now?
Where were you when I needed you most? What about when I was face down on the ground?
I thought of you, it went up with the bottle
and went down with the pills.
Who stopped me from killing myself?
When the thoughts slowly left my head
And my heart ceased its song in my chest.

Where are you now as I sit in front of your children,
The corpse of a girl we all once knew,
And spin my stories?
Where are you now?
Where is your God?

I am God.

(a.m)

Hey, where did you go?
You have such a beautiful voice,
And though I've never heard it,
And I've only ever read it,
It always sounded so wonderful through your prose.

I miss seeing your thoughts.
I think I've read you,
Straight through,
sEVEN times at least.
It's been since February that
You finished your work from January.
I want to know your mind again.

You started
Me.

You told me I was good,
A shock after my first attempt.
It electrocuted my doubts,
And saw sparks bursting from my creative capacitors.

Then you told me to grow some *****.

Well...
You can't change everything.


Then you said you wished somebody would write you the way I wrote her.


Hmmm...


When I call words to mind
And haphazardly plaster my paper with them
They're really just scattered collections,
Lessons in literature I've unconsciously taken from my favorite authors.

So,
Really,
You're already in every poem I write.

My favorite authors are the minds
That create bodies for themselves
From the bodies of their work and skill.

Well,
When you write,
You embody the poem.
All I see in those lines is your hand,
Back bent over your thoughts,
Wringing perfection from English.

Point is,
My poetry is already partly you.
But why would you want
A poem of you
Written by somebody like me
When your own poetry
Is more you than I could ever hope to be,
And when you are such a brilliant writer anyway?