You spoke to me in a dream,
voice like honey,
"The angels won't save someone with so much devil in them."

Nights of bumming cigarettes
off men too old, who should know better.
Welcoming the darkest of us with a thin smile,
all opalescent.

Lost yourself in poker chips,
another wager on the poker table.
Some middle aged man's fantasy-
legs spread like Russian roulette,
who would go with you?
Appealing the sin inside of your bones,
you locked your demons in a box.

It's not your fault,
you were murdered.
you were chosen-
this world tends to expire on
a girl with an imbalance of hedonism & an angelic temperament.

Beauty can lead us to truly dangerous places;
those veins belong to you,
but BOB wants to bury himself underneath your skin.

Seashells mixed with bits of sand
clung to your ocean blue skin,
your lips looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry I wasn't myself"
- the town's patron saint

Early morning,
clouds shine down
on your still frame,
like a movie scene-
it's cold,
but you've always been a fan of snow
snowflakes touch your nose
in a light dust of blow.

Did you ever really live?
Or had you already been a ghost?
Of who they all had come to love and adore.

Food is tasteless,
but my bitterness is an aftertaste-
mouthwash can't cleanse.

Fragmented into pieces
in the palm of someone's hand,
the ache in slow-motion that I can't be fixed.

Never worrying about my happiness,
doing what makes everyone else feel good
leaky faucet with not enough to give
but too much to stop.

They're always talking to the next lover
and I plant kisses all on the surface of my suffering.

Live my life through photographs,  
see foreign faces of people as my eyes dialate while,
my brain has taken the picture no matter how many centuries.
Is that the meaning of an old soul? 

My paintings have improved,
mixing the colors has become easier,
irises are a video camera
while, the nerves can rewind the sequence of events
and how the portrait or picture had developed.

Who the people were
and what their lives meant.
I don't live a tragic life,
I'm not trapped in some cryptic looking tower,
Only trapped, by my own personal unhappiness.  

These pictures are a way for me to live vicariously through someone else,
Imagining myself there. 

These pictures are taken to capture a momentous
or joyful time in my life,

television and movies are like that in a way. 
They remind us of the miserable world,
but we have decided to allow our worth
to weigh our subconscience like gold, 
These pictures are memories that trigger another event,
in a vicious cycle. 

I promise,
You don't get pictures taken of the countless empty bottles,
the pills you've choked down,
the tube that's shoved down your throat
when they 'save' your life.

(That left me wondering why I had to stay alive and it's all about contributing-
keeping up with the rent you're due on existing.)


 The happier times are easy to forget,
we didn't run out of film.
Aren't those kinds of things in pictures we see?
The media tells you to cut the corners of your mouth so,
you can smile.. 

 
My mother died some time ago a year and some odd months,
my mind had accidentally snapped a picture of her,
still framed; her statue like chest, no veins flowing, and the urge to wait for her chest to rise again. 

I think,
waiting leaves lesions on the brain,
because, most see waiting as pain without any kind of gain. 
That's where trauma comes from-
waiting,
time changing, embedded in the bellies of women and dripping out of men's mouths.

I've stood in front of an angel teary eyed,
nodding that I was ready for departure.
Spoken to a Heavenly Father,
with a weeping tone caught in my throat
that I didn't have the strength to keep living.

The devil had me in chains,
but Angels spoke to me once
"You are enough" they sang

Static in my mind,
as I hear the shakiness of photos falling off the wall,
the beast has come to feed on my head-
it wants me dead.

There aren't enough prayers to lift me
from what's breaking my spirit,
Spirits wept and spoke inaudibly,
"Let it happen, there's not much to be done"

Ethereal, but they could detect darkness all through my body,
in shades of red, grays, and blacks.
They frame my figure and display it in the gallery
of tortured souls.

Nightmares had predicted such a tragic ending,
when I bled,
the beast could track me down.
His claws are long and sharp, cutting into my skin
Its disease infecting my blood.

It likes the parts of my brain that are seeped in ink,
it loves when I'm alone and all I do is think.

It's stronger than me, coming to life when I write about it.
I hear it's heavy footsteps, deep breaths
and smell my death-
resembling the inside of its foul, jagged mouth

Angels will carry me to a place I might consider home,
they'll admire my suffering because,

I've become a martyr
to the imbalance of chemicals in my brain,
and with every moment my heart was beating,
I made efforts to fight off everyone else's pain.

Perhaps, when I meet heaven
I'll have a cigarette
and not be bothered by everything in white.
When my skin touches its surface much of it will turn gray.
Willing to die, they'll recognize my own lack of willpower
in letting it rip my heart from my chest.

It pounded so loudly in the beast's clutches,
it squeezed it between its palm and erupted--
painting the living in sinner's blood.

Misguided with glazed eyes,
they gleam in an effort to encourage impulsiveness.
I no longer have a desire to be the windows inside of you.

Admiring a lavender sky,
sunsets continue to die,
plagued by the thought of
night creeping in again.

I am vulnerable to the pale moonlight.

You once told me, 'There's a cracked home that you carry inside of you.'
No longer am I the thoughts filling your head,
that I'm the cure to your sickness.

Isolated myself in heavy sheets of sadness,
suffocating-
in an uninvited guest room,
just some extra space.
A breeze persistently tugging,
the tattered curtains.

Someday, you'll understand-
I was never your home.
Never becoming a garden,
never a lonesome white gate.

Paint chips from my decaying bones,
from years of damage.
Been here before
a ghost to these creaking stairs.
Fixing everyone else's homes,
a loose floorboard bares secrets,
but I continue to keep things just to have something to hold.

Stairs cave,
with each step I take.

I end
as it begins;
your body becomes an earthquake,
the house crumbles,
words evolve into raspy whispers

Damage has been done,
marks are on the wall,
as demons claw.
They're ripping through your veins
as I feel the foundation in my fingertips.

The walls won't be here tomorrow,
no longer holding everyone's hands,
or breathe through these polluted lungs.

I've begun to feel a need to repent
and with every move I make,
my happiness is spent.

There must be something more;
lillypads and ponds seen in past lives
Heaven once lived inside my home,
but the polluting of lungs that comes with us as we age--
invites purgatory.

Well, each time my father smokes there must be an entire  section of clouds reserved for him.
Desperate for faith,
I've been turning the key points from farewell letters into psalms.

There might not be much left,
when I'm writing my own version of the Bible in blood.

I won't drink all of the lemonade: take down my artwork,
My shoes won't litter the welcome mat:
I promise not to haunt you.
I won't scare you when all the lights are off: I won't take up space or bother you.
I won't scare you by turning all the lights on: no more wrinkled sheets,

My voice won't be in your head: no more unmade beds.
I won't give you chills: the tv won't flicker.
My favorite songs won't burden you: you won't have to worry about me never leaving the house.

My journals won't appear to you randomly begging to be read:
that ink will follow me in my death