What broke me?
Why did it feel so ******* righteous?
I swear, as long as my *** is round,
I'm probably in a better place,
some sort of better state of mind.

My 85-year-old neighbor once
told me, if she didn't laugh,
she'd cry about her deceased husband.
So, I often wonder, with all this laughing
I do, does it cover me well?
Does it warm my broken heart?

I stuck a pencil in my ear once,
because I had a little itch.
Mind you, I was 7.
But I kept this secret from
everyone, I didn't want to be screamed
at. Two weeks later, my friend ratted on me
and I ended up in the doctor's office,
screaming my head off.
This was the day I almost went deaf.

I wear glasses for my nearsighted vision,
and it's nice to choose when I feel like seeing.
It's hard for me to believe if I'm looking at whatever
it is that everyone is usually looking at.
And no one will ever be too sure, if we all see or hear
the same thing. But, I'll tell you what, seeing is
believing. And if I could begin to explain,
some of the things I thought I'd seen,
maybe it would begin to make sense-
Why I laugh all the time.

A droid statue, mechanical failure,
a deepened depression no one ever saw
forever ago. color-blinded green eye,
a real big joke, a decent lie.
I race myself through my blue-blooded veins,
the alter-ego, dead-deafened twin that lives within.

She lives, and she loves for no reason,
but simply just because.
Because if it wasn't love, it'd be a hate
pool that I'd drown in.

every morning,
i'll eat the same old,
boring, bran or wheat cereal.
Daydream of the *** schemed,
pretty scandal, leather-materialed,
***** houses.  
to be a compared to a lesser-valued human being,
born to be used, born to learn the meaning
of the word abuse.
and it feels nice, to have my hair pulled,
to be ignored, to be reminded of the the
***** deeds, done for cheaper than you were
willing to pay.
Suave, sweet, sickening,
hit me, & you upper lip bit me.
feed my animosity, I was born
an angry child. the daughter of
****-****** carpenter.
but you, you're catching on.
and for all the learning that I have
left to learn, I hope you knock some
real sense into me.
Something that makes me gasp to
breathe, a feeling more real than
ever before.

the clustered up foggy breath,
my molded basement, my solid
brain teased me.
I ran, I ran further than
I thought I'd ever be found.
The worst part, I turned
myself in. I know it won't be long,
until i fight this feeling once again.
This is a Hell's Winter.
Remember, tip-toe and watch your back.
Speak less, and you'll remember the
name of the game.

In my dream, the Nike Corporation
set flame and fire to the development,
cookie cutter, ****** houses.
I raced away in car full of hopeful and
***** kids, who knew a better place to
call home.

And even home can feel like a smothering
mess, so what then?
Will there be a day that this paranoia will
resist the simmer setting?
Pick up your swords, don't forget your guns,
and please wake me up.

These dreams scream for a louder life.
school-books, normality, sobriety,
gravel underneath my skin.
And just when you thought
puking until you were thin was enough,
you're kicked in the gut.
Bleach-blonded bombshells, breaking
barriers, crossing borders, barring resistance
to breeze through your body.
When I die, please bury me
with my brighter side.

Sweet baby,
split-pea soup.
croissant carbs,
sliced tomato,
onion crisp, and
spinach greens-
ooh avocado,
please!

look out the
kitchen window,
my dog's head in
the compost pit!
"LIBBBBBYY!"
homemade soup on the back-burner

******, scratch it,
there ain't even any
tomatos or onion to
throw on this french
bread!
ohh, but mama,
let's get real,
since when was
there ever any
money for all these
S.Pellegrinos!?

I'm not complaining,
and I know ain't
isn't a word,
but for Christ Sake!
Being home is always
wild.

To sit by the fire,
or to be a free-running
child?

I can't even make lunch
without getting excited,
and documenting my odd
life.

Could have made that Bumble-Bee-
solid white albacore,
or Skippy,
squeeze that Skippy-
it's the skippy you squeeze!
Figured I'd go a little
more home-made today.

How long will it be
'till Mama starts asking
for rent?

All those Doctor bills,
wild insurance-
you slay me!
Mental health,
Hunterdon and Rutland,
you really did me deep.
And to keep paying those
Doctor's with those degrees,
sheesh!

Rode my bike to the TDBank,
to take out the last of what I
had, for Mama.
Talk about hell on two wheels!

So now my choices can be narrowed-
Do I hit the restaurants and do
the night shifts, waitressing in
that filthy grease?
Do I get a portfolio and try to model,
without Mama's approval?
I sure do have one impressive
resume, but this state wants to
take my license away.

My student loans are
in over my head, here
at least there's a futon
and a warm bed.
Chicago means an air mattress and
Vegas screams something I can't really
be too sure about.

I guess it's true, home
is where the heart is.
Home is where my toes
are warm and where my lunch date,
Libby, never leaves my side.

This U-turn situation,
it's not so bad. Yeah, sure,
I was supposed to be in Utah,
canyoneering. And this New Year's,
I would have, should be, could have been
backpacking through Nepal-
a dream.
Sometime I just get a little sad.

So I'll read some books,
watch some films,
give Libby her beef-flavored
pain-killer pills,
and pray for a pretty little
white-christmas miracle.

snow drift,
ride the busy street.
many windows,
and far too many wonders.
i put boots on,
ready to take off,
and in that instant
a knot in my heel.
is this a sign to slow
down? stay put  
in my old town?
but the old town
brings back old
stories, truth,
and fables.
to start fresh,
I guess so.
so travel west-
as west as Chicago
gets.
to see my Katherine smile,
it's warms my soul,
it brings me back home-
even when I'm far
from home.
To hear the blunder
from outside,
it's great.
Things I'd miss most
are shooting stars
and constellations
near the moon.
But who am I kidding,
you can't see shooting
star in New Jersey anyway.
To throw the Newports in
the freezer, to replace them
with fudge-pops could be a
start.
Starting fresh could mean
starting over.
I cannot help but
hurt from wanting
what the heart
wants.
And who knows,
a year or two later
my heart could be
closer to the Sun and
the Moon-
floating in Space,
or dead on the floor.
I can not help but follow
what the heart wants
right now.
to sip tea and coffee,
not knowing what I really
prefer, not hearing from
my Mother, knowing that
she really does not
approve- how can
I not just want
anything more
than just some
personal space?
to sit on the couch
and read every book
or magazine that comes
my way?
how can I tell the people
that I love that I had
a breakdown? I lost
control of myself?
I screamed, I kicked,
I spit, I swore?
To throw it all away.
how many times
will I wash my mouth out
and learn to watch
what I say, when this
breath down my
neck has never
been more cold?

I read the writing,
30 years old, or older.
My Grandmother wrote,
left handed,
after a stroke.
Funny how,
it read just like
mine.
Now, what was written,
was a copy.
But 5 pages deep,
I was deeply
impressed.
What a woman.
Pictures only show
me who you used to be.
Your husband used
to call me his girlfriend,
even on his deathbed.

I wanted to quit smoking,
in honor of you.
I cried a bit
at the library,
and just for an hour
I was taken away.

To touch the same paper
you put your pen to,
it truly was an honor.

Reality hits,
your daughter is
here, to collect me.
Because that is all
I am.
It's rough,
it bites,
it truly ***** me
dry.

And when I look at your
pretty pill bottle,
and try to make sense
of a cancer that made you
ill, how to glorify
a gust of sickly
pills, I am confused
by the nurse,
the doctor,
the pastor,
the preacher,
the passer-by
and the master.

I wish your subtle
messages could
be a bit more clear.
I'm confused by the
new neighbors,
and saddened to see
myself to be just so
naive. Some tell me
that I'm 20,
a birthday tells me
I'm 19.
Who bears the truth,
the truth within,
is you.
So please,
come out and say
hello, born to die,
don't you hide,
my hair is growing
old lengths once
again-
it's a sign.

pancakes started my rugged day,
I quit hittin' the hay,
roughly around 10am.

I refused High Focus,
and wondered why
the medication the
prescribed was so
blah.

I know why,
but we keep these
things to ourselves.

Once I took my headphones
out, I began to hear
the blasphemy
around me.

The man at the library,
talking business,
taking business.
Telecon, christmas shopping,
Mr. Walker dead too
young.

And as I sit in these
seats once again,
the same I sat in when
the SAT's were the only
importance to me,
I wonder where I was.

So I took off on
Mama's crossroads
road bicycle.
It felt good,
gosh it felt great.

One stop on the narrow's
at a waterfall to fly back to
a blackout and memory lane.

Over the Delaware,
away from NJ,
take me to PA.

One stop at the homestead
for a buck-fifty coffee
fix and a few chapters
from On the Road.
Thanks, Jack.
I needed those laughs.

So I carry on,
on the toe-path
along the canal.
Some circles
and squares to remind
me of hopscotch,
or maybe a sign.

A light up of an American
Spirit, and I can never
seem to escape everyone
when I'm on the run.

Passer-by's,
a woman and her Labradors,
a handsome man with shades,
a blonde, gelled, comb-over,
and a cell phone to the ear in one
hand.
oh, and ME, the smoker
on the cycle.

I know I said those packs
were my last, but really,
I've hit rock bottom,
a broke rock bottom,
and this pack is
surely my last.

So I made it over the
Delaware, searching for
a treasure hunt.
The Frenchtown Market,
was beat, so I peddled
on Rt.12 and made it
to Chris's Citgo-
if you care to know.

Made it to the center
of great-gasoline
smells, and found my
treasure hunt.
In fact, the generous man
gave me two.

Pedal to the metal,
click-clack the sound of
metal banging from
something, hitting
something, on a bike
I can't call my own.

I continue on Rt.12
and pass by the dead
deer, a water break,
here and there.
Hot sweat, cold sweat,
de-layer, zipper up.

The fake flowers,
a compliment,
a pretty hint,
that some one maybe
loves me.
And I keep my eyes
fixated on what is
in front of me-
a car passes,
I LOVE YOU
writes the handwriting
on a white vehicle.

So, pedal to the metal,
I carry on towards
the library,
to a place I feel
safest.

No intentions of even
renting a thing-
except maybe ******.
However, finish what I start,
can't seem to do that so
easily these days.
Ohh, but I'd like to.

That's a start.
A quick stop,
for a quick slice,
and the time to skim the
Treasure Hunt.

Oh  a beautiful day,
I made it from start
to finish.
I'm sorry I can't
seem to do as you say,
and the options,
and choices,
they really do slay.