I can't help but let my thoughts run wild
I can't keep up with them though
because they take me to places I wish I had never seen
Places I didn't know existed
I always stand with the same unanswered question:
”Why am I here?”
But do they listen?
Not even once do they turn around to answer,
they don't even look at me with the intentions of even thinking of an answer
Some just grin at me, while others look at me with expressions full of panic
Their emotions are somehow contagious so after a while I find myself
full of shame
full of fear
full of anger
full of hate
I somehow come back to where I was all along;
In my room on my bed, crying without knowing when I began
All I know is I can't keep up

I was raised with one hand
firmly gripping my neck.
Not enough to choke,
but just enough to scare.
One wrong move and
He could snap my neck.
One split second of insubordination-
And death.
He occasionally squeezed too hard-
blamed it on his stress.
Gasping for air is the only
Memory I have of him.

No abuse to report,
No marks or scars except the ones on my heart.
I cried alone at night so
No one could hear.
I smiled through the pain
and hid every tear.
Threats were daily and
Love disappeared.
The child I was,
No longer appeared.

Each year I grew older,
His grip would tighten.
Shackling me to his commands and
Endless profanities.
I was told to toughen up,
But my heart was wilder than he could tame.

Shorter breaths and more tears-
Years and years of silence.
Waiting for the perfect time
To stand up and say,
"Good riddance"

Every day it gets closer now,

To the day I'll break his hands.

The worst part about being adopted by someone who already have kids is the fact that you know they will always put their kids first. And it hurts because you know you're the least important. You could die and they wouldn't even care. So long as they're blood child doesn't die. I hate it. Its so hard sometimes

It's hard to believe a beautiful girl can make you dizzy
As if you have been drinking jack and coke all night into the morning.
Her presents gives you a uplifting feeling
She's a Promise, promise of a better day
Promise that there is hope
Promise there is a new tomorrow
This particular aura can be found in the gait of this beautilful girl
In her smile and in her soul and the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like its gonna be ok...
And she, she is the one...

Every night
It's 3 am
Dead hour
The heals are awake
The heals are alive
A body without a soul
Is a corpse of course
Lifeless limbs
Still walk
In the dead hour
Some say they're gone
I say just broken
Hickery tickery tock
Hourglass breaks
There goes the clock
Birds chime away in the heads of the insane
They are searching for something
In the nothingness of black
Staring at the ceiling
Does the ceiling stare back?
They think about outer space and stars
Insomnia and insomniacs
And healers and mystics
of all kinds
But there is no light to be seen
and every night
It's 3 am
The dead hour

She sat alone on a pretty park bench, breathing
in the ugly air. She had encased her body in layers of
wool and worry, but it didn’t keep the cold out.
She felt. She felt the hard wooden boards beneath
her thighs and the metal pressing into her vertebrae.
Her fingertips secretly snuck out of her unraveling
gloves; they were still chapped from endless empty
nights, still grasping for a warmth they knew long ago.

An odor emanated from a pile of courage
in the corner. The lump moved to her throat
and conjured a swarm of guilt like spears that left
scars on her lonely lips and bruises on her unforgiven
hips. She watched as the men splurged together on the
serendipity found in a half-eaten, tofurkey concoction.

Killing the ruins of peace in her desert
chest, she was pulled to the shore. Tasting
the salt on her cheeks and the salt in the air,
gravity guided her to her knees. The water
soaked through her jeans, chilling her knees
and conquered the remnants of her soft spine.
Two bony hands then emerged from the dark
and encircled her homeless heart.

Rich, red raspberries in your palm,
rolled there from a damp paper towel as you sit
crosslegged on hardwood floor,
perfect posture,
head leaned against the lowest of the barres in the studio.
Your shoulder blades shift and
your collarbones gleam with perspiration.
Down the wall, another girl savors every drop of an orange.
Through the wall we hear an instructor yelling
and slipping into strings of Spanish curses.
You lean your head on to my shoulder wearing a new shade of lip stain: raspberry romance.
I bite into my bell pepper like an apple and
try not to breathe too loud.