Death looks lovely wrapped in silver satin,
Strung on the back of a Chiavari chair.
Pools of mahogany
they exit me,
Everyone will know what went on in here.

But he smiles through his teeth,
alcohol, rope, sliced and seized
an accident you see, Gentlemen.
She had a mind of her own.

Politics, a tricky game
it's easy to forget which way you came
when your only intention is to rise up.
It's a wonder to see the trail of bodies
that hold up streets paved with gold.

He forgot about me or so it may seem,
no sun to nurture his seed,
a dance of political schemes with a woman as she.
Even after death, I don't give up so easily,
He can hide from the blame, but he can't hide from his dreams.

Two magnificent turtles
and I’m surprised I can see them from the distance between us.
I’m sitting in my car on a Baltimore street close to the cobblestone kingdom.
He just exited, I’m waiting patiently.
Were both waiting and this is one more step taken on a path we have carved that leads to our future
and is created from scratch.
Hardly working, and he’s looking to work hard.
Although most days I wished he would just stay in bed with me.
We’re planning and we are praying that the floor doesn’t fall through.
Living this way, living under a rain cloud.
Things tend to have a way of working themselves out but it’s hard to guess fate’s direction
when you’re standing on shaky ground.
The sound of a bell barely awakens the pedestrians.
It might not mean anything, but it sure is a pretty sound.

Empathy.
Suffocating from your lack of sympathy and you’ll drain it till its dry.
Taking everything that’s left from me.
You take away the light.
I can’t see.
I’m still waiting in the dark.
Whatever you decide.

Birds are my favorite animal,
natural and careless.
I’m looking though the lens of a bluebird,
I’m certain there is something more this life has to offer me.
I’ve never been comfortable with day in and day out routine.
I want to fly south for the winter,
Lima, Peru.
I want to be with other bluebirds.
I want to erase you.

He tried to teach me one night.
Not the first, not the last.
We've tried this many times over  
and I'm just as frustrated with myself
as I was in the beginning.

Strumming nothing,
Why am I so easily angered?
I loath his naturalness and the way his
fingers desperately desire to fulfill
the spaces mine fail to be.

Just when I think I hate him
enough to move locations,
I can hear him in the other room,
playing a song for me.

I could tell them that you're dead.
Pretend you're not around, watch your ghost jump
billboards, flying out of town.
Keep the night behind you,
Keep your hands over your head.

Don't tell me to miss you,
don't repeat what I said.
Bewitchment and trials,
or whispering in bed.

Keep the ocean moving,
hope that the river remains calm.
Tell me everything that you hope happens,
and again, remind me why you're gone?

Messages in bottles,
paper stitched in the center, written in a song,
your words make me feel better.

I don't blame you for not liking anything you see.
Worms of disgust, hate, and deceit
crawling inside of me.

I don’t blame you for not liking,
anything you see.

Worms of disgust, hate, and deceit, crawling inside of me.

I haven't heard from you in months,
all the while I've been existing in a day dream,
letting caterpillars place their cocoons around me.
Leaving no space for breathing.

And with each one that comes and goes,
I'm always left feeling the same,
Their kind words stabbing into my back,
So silly, the reasons we endure pain.

You're no stranger to my lonely tide,
a person with which to sink,
I know you'll do the right thing.
I know you better than you think.

Prison is a germ.
Infections and ****** hand towels,
place it over your mouth and breath.

He talked about a place and described the images he's seen.
Then he admitted he didn't think of me.
I've been ripped from his memory.

He cut me out with their dulling scalpels.
He poured liquor over the wound and
he stitched it at the seams.

I've dream't of a father,
sons and ghosts; it's all the same to me.
I've been scrubbing your genes off my skin,
it's the only way to stay clean.

Your time on earth filled with religious sacrifice.
You didn't curse, swore to serve heaven
by spending Sunday mornings at a pew,
while the world recovered from Satan's Saturday night.

You've been with the same women,
that lost that spark so very long ago.
Satisfactory health, breakfast, lunch,
dinner, little league, bible camp,
suicide...

Confession. "Those thoughts aren't allowed"
...maybe life isn't so bad.
But I heard the sinners have more fun?
I'll live longer blessed, while they die young.
I'll continue in safety hoping heaven isn't a lie
with no vacancy sign.

Wearing out your welcome,
old news on new terrain.
******* life from the bodies of boys
that you believed served a bigger purpose.
We all get bored.
Restlessness is a chore and  I do it so well.
Make the parents proud that you're living in their
hell.

Some days I wake up and the world doesn’t seem as vivid as it did the day before.
The colors aren’t as bright and my optimism is half dead.
These are mostly the days after coming down from the happiness you had while killing the pain.
Watching the worst version of ****** Tunes. You’re despicable.
I’m despicable, and I laugh because although I know its definition,
the D.O.C. made it a little more difficult to relate to.
So silly, the concept of a duck and a rabbit fighting over diversion of attention.
Always fighting over something, these old cartoon characters.
My generation’s cartoon characters.
When I woke up today, the colors were lifeless.
My mother and her relentless tone. I’ll go back to bed now.
Should I while he’s asleep? To be alive, alone?
I had breakfast in bed. Herbally speaking, delicious.
The colors of the cartoons are melting off the screen and into my world.
Beautiful. Each aspect about my life blending together to create such delicate blotches.
Then there is he, sleeping sound but not always.
The brightest color of all.
It parades around him making his silhouette the most mysterious thing in view.
I want to wake him. I’ll want him to see it.
I’ll make him breakfast in bed and we can watch cartoons.

Breathing's easy and it must
be the familiarity or the contentment,
but I can't help to feel at home.
I walk pass the buildings and I
greet each one with a smile.
They know me, I know them.
An officer used to sit outside,
people restricted from the little bit of peace
it has to offer.
The fields are bare, empty even.
The benches reach for your legs as you pass.
Cling to human life, full of appreciation.
I go because we both need it,
company and conversation.

Some days I wake up and the world doesn’t seem as vivid as it did the day before.
The colors aren’t as bright and my optimism is half dead.
These are mostly the days after coming down from the happiness you had while killing the pain.
Watching the worst version of ****** Tunes. You’re despicable.
I’m despicable, and I laugh because although I know its definition,
the D.O.C. made it a little more difficult to relate to.
So silly, the concept of a duck and a rabbit fighting over diversion of attention.
Always fighting over something, these old cartoon characters.
My generation’s cartoon characters.
When I woke up today, the colors were lifeless.
My mother and her relentless tone. I’ll go back to bed now.
Should I while he’s asleep? To be alive, alone?
I had breakfast in bed. Herbally speaking, delicious.
The colors of the cartoons are melting off the screen and into my world.
Beautiful. Each aspect about my life blending together to create such delicate blotches.
Then there is he, sleeping sound but not always.
The brightest color of all.
It parades around him making his silhouette the most mysterious thing in view.
I want to wake him. I’ll want him to see it.
I’ll make him breakfast in bed and we can watch cartoons.

There are mornings I think the world to be such a sickly place.
The people with their selfishness and constant need to pretend to care for others.
A society of scorn.
So many people and so many possibilities but we are all dropped into the filters so many times.
Wrung dry of our individualities that by the time we are kicked off the conveyor belt,
we are not ourselves.

Everyone stood in line.
They waited for hours,
as I watched them dissolve into the tiniest particles.
The train comes late this time of night
and it isn't worth the time.
You could say it patiently,
whisper it, scream it till it bleeds dry.
Beg them to give up, go home,
they can save themselves,
they can be fine.
The roads are closed and
walking is never what we had in mind.
When you wait in vain for memory lane,
you won't see it till you're blind.

Does a girl who gives herself to someone who really shows her he cares have a different view about love than a girl who wastes that very influential moment? And if so, how do we change it. How do we fill the emptiness that we alone created? I learned two very important things from something that lasted roughly 15 minutes. I learned that *** was enjoyable and love wasn’t required.

I’ve been noticing that we’re all so lost. Everyone is wandering and everyone is wanting. We all want, everyday, every second, never fulfillment. It’s always different, until it’s the same.

Until you are vacuumed into the circles of those who are sharing the same desires, many different circles, many different groups, many different desires; yet grouped.

We need the many different circles to make us feel satisfied. We need the circle of people we love. Like family members that answer your messages and can have an honest conversation with you. You have the circle of old best friends, the childhood best friend that you continue to confide in. The one that makes everything better because their presence has always been a constant.

When you move out of your parent’s house,
it’s always a bittersweet feeling to return.
Although the house itself it usually unchanged,
besides your room which is now filled with things that don’t belong to you,
you can’t help but feel like a stranger.
In all of its comfort and familiarity,
you aren’t as welcome as you were before.

Sometimes it’s the voice of a male.
Just hearing the depth is enough to make me cringe.
Instantly hating the source and the evil it’s capable of spilling out into the world.
Plaguing my mind with cynicism.

Legs entangled, still utterly confused.
Hard pill to swallow, wash the pride down too.
It’s not just the idea of commitment, it’s the idea of you.

It’s the demeanor.
It’s the tone, or rather the silence.
Sometimes the silence is comfortable and yet sometimes it lingers in the air.
I can’t tell.
Tonight will go as planned except not and it isn’t as painful as I would expect it to be.
Numbing almost.
The morning is plagued, and the sunshine is worthless.
It never really makes a difference.

I wonder about equals though.

As if they actually existed, not saying it isn’t completely possible.

Just saying, I don’t believe that I believe in them.

I do question him though. His whole half being the whole to my own.

Do you understand? I think myself mad sometimes.

I think it not possible for the missing share to care.

Oh whatever.

I wonder about equals though…

All to often I find myself wondering if I’m being told the truth.
I question the impossible possibility that nothing may be as it seems.
I can see it fading from green to gray and I’m between your thumb and your forefinger.

We hold up our heads, pointed in the direction of the wind.
Chalk outlines, we wear them till we’re frail and thin.  
Your lies are deep but your voice makes it hard cover up the sin.
It doesn’t change a thing, your eyes are the happiest place I’ve ever been.

So send me your signals so I can write them in the sand,
I’ve been dead for weeks among the shadows of our plans.
Cast me in direction that you want me stand
I’d walk for miles just to crawl for days,
I do it to avoid the end.

So linger in the spaces where the comfort isn’t close,
and whisper that you love me among everyone the most,
I’ll try to keep from drowning, keep my head aboard the boat,

Could life have been different for us?
We should have tallied up the votes.
Wouldn’t make a difference, shouldn’t waste the hope.
Some kids are handed the world,
Some kids are handed a rope.