Breathing down my neck.
Can't get enough.
No where to go back to--
no place to scream home.

Scratching down my throat--
the burn just won't stop.
No way to prevent
the pain that is
eating me.

Biting up my body.
Just got to get the money.
No other way to leave this life.
I'm breathing and
the poison wins.

I'm fading away--
blowing in the wind--
burning up my years--
pouring like the rain.
Fading away
like your smoke in the sky.

I don't know how to...
I don't know what this...
I don't know how this...
I don't know where...
I don't know.

I suppose if I don't know how to think...
I suppose if I don't know how to think this...
I suppose if I don't know what to think...
I suppose if I don't know what to think here...
I suppose I just don't know.

I sit and I listen;
I stand and move accordingly,
I bump shoulders with no apology--
I am simply blending in.

I stand and move accordingly,
I bump people with no burdens--
I am simply blending in.

I bump people wiping rain off their tears--
I am simply blending in.

I am simply blending in
I am simply blending me in
I am simply blending me in
I am simply blending my in


I am simply blending my end.

There lies a door with a lock-
its home on the wall, floor,
or even the heightening ceiling.

We spot it once at birth;
a solid color painted-thick or thin-
in the first quarter.

We meet it once more in love;
a pattern traced-bright or light-
in the second quarter.

We lean against it for support when
trouble tramples hope- crying or courageously-
in the third quarter.

We lie within its threshold when we die;
red fate string -too long or too short-
in the fourth quarter.

We won't depart until with the door
the lines between are colored silver,
and we await the fifth quarter to reveal a hidden truth.

My name is Darkness.
I have a contract with light,
so I can be seen in corners and alleys.
I follow you because you follow the plight
and I will let you carry me, as long I can catch you.

My name is Evil,
I have a contract with good,
to add balance to your soul and
let you see my horns and many thorns.
I stalk you because you are one person, not a people.
I will let you hold my hand, as long as I can run ahead.

My name is Moon,
I have a contract with Sun,
because I need to ignite the night
and show you that I can shine just as bright.
I wake up because I like to watch you respite.
I will let you sleep as long as I can turn out your lights.

My name is not Darkness.
My name is not Evil.
My name is not Moon.

My name is Shadow.
I have a contract with light,
so I can be in corners and alleys.
I'm glued to one person, not a people.
I may have horns and I can have thorns.
I will hold your hand, and even let you run ahead.
I won't watch you fall, but I cannot catch you.
I will let you sleep as long as you keep on the light.

My name is not Darkness.
My name is not Evil.
My name is not Moon.
My name is Shadow.
I was born a stalker.

With the body gone, I
No longer see a beautiful bust,
Notice the tears with free release,
Begin to know thousands of new feelings.

With the body gone, you
Cry and cry,
Mourn and mourn,
Sob and sob, some more and more.

With the body gone, he
Internally breaks and fails,
Externally stays strong for a man must not be seen crying,
Protects his daughter's pure body of innocence.

With the body gone, the World
Is one man short and three men larger,
Working to cover its unknown loss,
And keeps moving like the gears of solar powered clock.

With the body gone, God
Takes the soul,
Holds it carefully in his hands,
And admires the man who put the money on the table and said "here."

"There is nothing better than an empty head,
a clean house,
and sweet sweet reality",
we think.
"There is nothing better than an empty head,
a clean house,
and sweet sweet reality",
we say.
"There is nothing better than an epic party,
a screaming crowd,
and sweet sweet false lies",
we do.

It's started the time that we stop,
we stop and think about the things we say,and do.
There are somethings you hope for out of want,
and other things you hope for out of need.

It's time that we stop and we think.
It's time that we stop and we see.
It's time that we stop and do the things we think.
It's time we stop and do the things the eyes cannot see.
It's time we stop and look at the things that we tragically need.

The world is a selfish place, and it's time that stop.
We stop and think about it.
We stop and observe it.
We stop and fix it the best that we can.
If there is one thing that humanity is neutral in all conflicts,
it's fixing.
We never completely solve the puzzles,
But we always solve it to our best, usually.
Have we ever really thought, that just maybe...
There is an additional piece or two to the jigsaw,
The piece that makes the swing set sturdy.

It's time that we stop and think.
It's time that we stop and we see.
It's time that we stop and do the things we think.
It's time that we stop and do the things the eyes cannot see.
It's time that we stop and look at the things we tragically need.
It's time that we stop and look at things and never back down.
It's time that we stop and finish the things we were born to complete.




© 2013 Melody

Just wait,
be patient.
He'll come eventually.
He'll come and take the trait.
Just be patient,
and play the game of immortality.

We play the game of immortality.
We refuse the drink of swimming cells.
We refuse to imbibe the rich red wine liquid.
We do not carry allergies of the sun
We do not hold a heart with no beats,
And yet we play the game of immortality.

Swallow.
Breathe.
I promise pain.
An eternity spent with me
as your queen.

© 2013 Melody

Snap.
No longer able to run.
Cannot catch the ball.
Pushing.
Running on adrenaline.
Doing what I love,
Risking my one true love.
Snap. Again.
Broken ankle.
Goodbye, my love.


© 2012 Melody

Chop...Chop...Chop...Chop...Chop...
Laugh.
Murdering is an art!
It takes caution, skill, and smarts.
It also takes a weapon.
In the case of murdering, you can say...
that technically a human murders every day,
may not be of it's own kind, but...
we **** other living things every single day.
Do we see them?
No, maybe, possibly, I don't know. Do you?

I am...
Jack the Ripper!
I ****** prostitutes,
women who defile their bodies by
showing off their ******* and bellies...
and innards...to lost men.
I don't know why I **** this specific kind of pray...
but I do...And I know its fun teasing the media.
Maybe I should start murdering the men too...
Sneak into the room while their...going about their business...
...Never mind...That's a nasty thought...
Murderers care about that kind of thing too, you know?

They do not cry.
They don't have time to cry.
They do not scream.
They do not have time to scream.

I slice their throat first,
which means I win from the start.
Then...Save for my third,
I drag their innards around their bodies
like...fuzzy neck boas.
I take no souvenirs...It would cause a havoc...
A havoc I prefer not to have...

Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!
Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!
Chop...
Chop...
And laugh!


© 2012 Melody

Mommy!
I don't understand. Why is the room so quiet?
Why is there ringing in my ears?
Why is there red water surrounding you?
Do you want me to clean up the ketchup for you?

Mommy,
I'm not going to get it of you don't tell me.
Are you okay?
Does is hurt anywhere?
Why aren't you breathing?
Why do you smell so bad?
Why are you so pale?

Mommy,
I think I hear the police sirens.
Maybe they can help!
Stay here Mommy!
I'm going to save you! I swear!
Wait...
Why is there a gun in my hand?

Mommy!
I'm sorry!
I didn't mean to shoot out your eye...

Mommy!
Why did you die?!
It's rude to ignore an invitation to a royal tea party.
Didn't you hear? If you do that...
The queen sends you to a death sentence...

Mommy!
I'm sorry!
I made your eye
go bye-bye...
Just like Daddy...
What's wrong with me, Mommy?
Am I a monster?
Like the monsters underneath my bed
and in your closet?

Yes...
Child...You are,
A monster.

© 2012 Melody

Character: Myself, or Melody, Mel
Setting: Time is now, plain dark room with a stage and a single spotlight in a light blue light shining on me.

------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­------------------

I've asked myself before; why do I write the way that I do? Why do I continue writing the writing that reminds of the scary inspiration that if I let it get out of control then it could become my reality?
I've answered myself before; I don't know, I don't think I will ever figure out why. I don't want to know.  I can control my future, my destiny, my sanity...

No, and that's the truth. I will never be able to control my sanity! I'm weird person, with an even odder persona! I hate myself because I'm practically throwing my words onto a computer screen and not into a book. I'm hoping, hell I'm even praying (to the best of my ability) that by time I become something it won't be too late!

Have I ever asked for help? No...If I did, it was for a ******* topic, because I was desperate to get the greedy and clawing and tear-bringing words out of my system. I wanted to know what others thought that I could write. They wanted to read novels of which I had written, I told them I can't write a novel. I write poetry. ....Now I know that I can write anything I want.

My eighth  grade Theatre and English teacher taught me that writing a monologue is like drinking tap water. You stare deeply at the glass knowing that you need it, but it tastes so bad and the after-taste leaves an even worse taste but the after-feeling is like heaven in your mouth, the feeling of being regenerated to maybe not perfect health but you're alive and that's all that will really matter.
That's what writing feels like, and I would know because I was the one person who fainted at 8:00AM last summer from dehydration and lack of sleep.

I always have some error in my words. Whether a few lines need to be shortened or split, or even forgetting to punctuate. OR, oh and I'm famous for this in English class essays, run on sentences. It's odd though because I get told to edit it to make it even more perfect, and I never go back and touch it. I mean, sure, sometimes I do, but even that's normal for me to do.



I write the way I do because I'm terrified of a perfect poem written by me. I'm scared of getting a perfect 100 but if you hand me 99 I promise my right hand that I'll be happier than a dog with a fresh bone.
I write because I felt loved and then the chain broke and I felt hated. That hate, made me feel welcome to a whole new world. That world is called...

The World of Words.


And it's decorated hilariously because the city sign in big and flashy like Las Vegas but the stores and shops are either out of the most bizarre world or from another time.

I love writing because there's always something that's needing to be written about. It's an endless world of different flavors. The flavors of which I could add to my glass of tap water, but I refuse to because I think it'd be considered cheating.

So I hear,
You think you can dance?
Well, I'll show you a dance you have never danced before.
It starts with no music, just my solo and that's about it.
My feet will jitter like the wings on a lady bug.
My knees will shake like the Great 1906 quake.
My hips will move like slow crashing waves. Back and forth, back and forth.
My heart will beat a steady beat like a metronome in band class.
My breath will hasten like a car on a free way.
And my eyes will smile like a dog welcoming his long lost master.



So I hear,
You think you can dance?
Well, I just showed you a dance never danced before

You told me that you would be there for me, were you?
No.
You told me that if I went blind then you would be the one to lead me, were you?
No
You told me that if I cried that you would slap me,did you?
Yes.
You told me that if I died for you that you would continue to live happily, did you?
Yes.
You told me that all things are meant to be,
You told me that if one door closes then you would just open it again,
You told me ..
"Yes, I love you with all my heart."



You told me that you would be loyal, and I that I should trust you.
You told me that we are soulmates and that meant I was supposed to be in chains to serve your sorry ***.
You told me to never leave the house because you would bring the wedding papers to me.
You told me that we could have that sweet apple red 2010 Camaro with white racing stripes down the middle.
You told me that we could have my dream penthouse and your dream pool.
You told me that you would sell all of your **** magazines.



Wanna know what I told you?
No.



I told you, when you finally let your guard down,
That I didn't want for you to be there for me,
I didn't want you to be the one leading me when I went blind.
I didn't want you to be the one to slap me to get me to stop crying.
I didn't want you to continue living happily when I died, I told you I wanted to be the one living happily when you died.
I didn't want all things to be inevitable.
I didn't want you to be the one opening up the same door over and over again, I wanted that to be me, just with a different door.
I told you,
"No, don't say that, I want you to hate me."


I didn't want you to be loyal, I knew I would never trust you.
I didn't want us to be soulmates so I can be the one that you had *** with in the basement after poker nights.



I wanted to leave the house and runaway not have a permanent pigment change on my finger where your rusty ring was.
I wanted to drive that car by myself, but now that you got it and sat your *** in it, I don't want another Camaro.
I wanted that penthouse to be mine, not ours, I'm afraid of water, why would I want a pool?
I wanted you to keep those **** magazines so I could runaway and tell the police about what you've done to those poor models.



Every time...
I should have told you







No...


But every time...
A yes was what formed....



No..
Not anymore...



No.

I killed him
Without any evidence shown.
I wasn't caught,
Only suspected.

He tried to **** me,
he tried to use my womanly parts to make his children to make his ******* family delve further into time.

He was killed by hand,
my hand.
I stabbed him violently in his chest,
And opened the wound and picked out each piece of tissue my slippery fingers would rip from the flesh.

My fingers,
My lap,
my face,
The walls,
and the rope that dangled from the ceiling of which his lifeless body hangs from,
Smothered in such a thick and velvety crimson red...
I think of it as no blood,but yarn.
The yarn my grandmother used to knit her last pair of gloves for the Michigan winter in the 1960s before dying of a stroke.

There was no gun,
no poison,
No witch craft,
just my hands,
And my dad's black four inch black bladed hunting knife and the red gloves of which my grandmother passed onto me.

Dear Officer,
There was no gun, that I left to his ex-wife.

Dear Mam-ma,
There was no poison,
I couldn't get my hands on any.

Dear Papa,
there was no witch-craft, that was just his fortune.

Dear Mama,
Yes, I never remove these red gloves, and there were no tears afterwards just a bright long grin stretched eye-to-eye worn on my face.
This
I killed him,
Because only God and I know how much he deserved it.

I've been caught for

Foul ******.

For a felony of shame.

A tortured soul was buried within,

The lake down the street.

Maybe thirty blocks away.

I've been caught for

Foul ******.



I've commited arsen,

vandilism...

And just about every crime ever even thought of.

I sit in this cell,

With this officer's gun.

Thinking and thinking of murdering this guy..

Snoring as loud as Hades..



I have been caught for witchcraft,

for making potions and poisons.

I am a witch,

a wretch.

You can call me anything.

But I walk these mean streets,

these nameless streets.

Call me anything you want.

But don't be surprised if there isn't a tear shed,

Just a bullet in your head.

Or maybe,

depending on how much I hate you..

Ripping out your spine  and whipping you with it until it falls from the cartilage.

Or draining your blood and ripping apart your bones and muscles,

Then freezing your organs in a meat freezer,

And hanging your vacant body from ceiling of your attic!



Oh!

The excitement this gives me.

Just talking about it!



The blood shall be spread...

From this emotionless body of mine.

For I,

I've been caught,

I've been caught for foul ******!

FOUL ******!

And now I sit in this cell,

with this machete and pistol..

Ready to ****** this man in the most violent of ways...

I will drown him first.

Shoot him five times..

Rip his spine..

Whip him until there's no skin left to be whipped.

And tie his converse shoe string to his head and to his ankles and hang him up on the ceiling and stretch his motionless body..



Oh yes!

I guess I've got my dream!

For I,

I've been caught for foul ******..

I was lost, but now I'm found.

I was dead, but now I'm alive.

I was dry ink, but now I'm fresh.

I was dangling from a vine, but now I've been picked.

I was wrong, and now I'm right.



I hadn't realized that my writing simply wasn't barefaced

Now I've realized it's got taste,

It's got an angst.

It won't forever be in gluey, fluidy, paste,

Stuck to a wall and never embraced.



My poetry from before,

Simply wasn't eyesore,

But it was just that I never caught that that was the fish I had adored.



But now that I am shooting in the range

Of words I'll never rearrange

But now I know for sure and forever that my style and taste  can never change.

No matter how much you paint the world,
Or use crayolas or Rose Art to color the world,
The world will be an open canvas.

The world will be colorless even after it's completely colored.
Want to know why?
Because the foot prints we leave behind us stain the earth to color black.

This
World
Is...



*Colorless

I sit and I scribble,

With black ink pens,

Black ink pens and scribbles,

I scribble and I ribble my single given life away.

And when I shower,

I wash the ink off my hands,

and clean the deepest paper cuts down to the ends.

It stings and it rings,

But so do my pulsing fingers

And beating heart.


She sits at a desk

with black ink pens and scribbles.

Black ink pens and scribbles.

She scribbles and ribbles her single given life away.

And when she showers,

She washes the ink off her hands,

And cleans the deepest paper cuts down to the ends.

She stings and she rings,

But so do my pulsing fingers

And beating heart.


I sit and I scribble,

With black ink pens,

Black ink pens and scribbles,

I scribble and I ribble my single given life away.

And when I shower,

I was the ink off my hands,

And clean the deepest paper cuts down to the ends.

It stings and it rings,

But so do my pulsing fingers

And beating heart.


I die with this pen in my hand,

And my book of scribbles below my head.

She dies with her pen in her hand,

And her book of scribbles below her head.

I die with this pen in my hand,

And my book of scribbles below my head.