My soul is a vacant lot
filled with weeds,
lacking fragrance and vibrance.

It's not weighty
nor worthy
of your attention
or affection

It's roots grow out of appreciation
for the few weeds you pulled, leaving spaces
for some new seeds to be planted

Maybe someday this will all look more like fertilizer
and less like ****

flying laser concept
shooting down airplane
flashlights for cops
getting dissacsciative
instantly distroying
dazers on your car
weird sound things
warning warning
hit the brakes
it's not a deer
good ****
have you ever seen him?
Star wars kid?
The good 'ol days.
Before there was any kind of like...
I bet he's huge.
There he is.
**** can happen.
Expandable pole.
Destructive laser.
All talk, no walk.
Death rays.
Forget my blowtorch.
Let there be fire.
Let it rain.
Targeting him.
That's stupid.
**** this spider.
Did he?
Huge ******* spider.
Brightest spotlight ever.
Can't escape it.
Pretty good shot.
It's gonna die.
Choke it out.
Go to the end.
Sad.
**** a dog.
Hot in here.
People like motherhood.
Is that a ferret?
Don't drip on me.
Pennies on the floor.
Are you jealous?
I had a bad case.
Gotta get rockin'.
Something we both like.
Look at Harold.
I might be goin' down.
I've been goin' down.
People do the work.
Enable it.
Consume battery.
Bring it to a nine.
Should be easy.
Catchy and fitted.
Going viral.
Pyramid scheme.
I'm on the top.
The fastest.
The most accurate.
A community project.
It's a contest.
Easter eggs.
Enable fun times.
Enable opportunities.
Making it happen.
Shocking update.
It's getting there.
Few more sips.
Wooowww Wowww Wow.
Got 'em.
Sad day.
Pack up everything.
Say hi.
Bring her chocolate.
They like attention.
That **** ferret.
Sorry I got somber.
We got to be heroes.
Might be a good idea.
Nice seeing you.
Goodbye.
Au revoise.
Hard to say goodbye.
Concept of sleep.
Three all nighters.
One more thing.
Sweet dreams.
Bye.
Thanks.

I go outside and I scream at the clouds
"Oh Dear God, please help me this once."
Then I go inside because I've been denied
and say under my breath
"God ******* **** it."

I wonder why this is,
Maybe I just don't care
and that should be enough.
Life is tough
buy a sheild
Don't ask for favors
from anyone.

If there's one thing I've learned in life
It's that
Although high pitches have purity
The low grumble has got the soul
And all through the years
of itches and puberty
(two words I hate; I cringe)
the ******* can still have humility
and modesty is over-rated
because I wish I wasn't so modest
and I wish I wasn't so honest
and I wish I wasn't so jealous
because everything that's looked up upon
I tend to grab a hold of on accident
and I can't let it go
it's branded on the surface
and virginity is over-rated
because maybe the sexies
just know how to show love
and to be loved
Or maybe I'm just too modest
and too honest
and too jealous
And although I scream
a really high pitch
it never seems to be pure
But purity is over-rated
So when I'm feeling anything
I'll grumble
because the grumblers have the soul
and soldiers know how to fight

Beautiful eyes were wasted on you
because you use them for all of the wrong reasons

You don't use them to see
You only use them to ******

Your eyes **** lovers
But somehow their beauty is never reduced

You already cut me open
now peel away my skin
and take a good look at my heart.

What a waste of time
This was the longest day of my life
There's only a few seconds left on the microwave
Count to sixty
Ready or not, here I come
Another year
Seems like yesterday
what time is it?
What's today's date?
three hundred and sixy five days
I remember when
I wished I was a big girl
I want to go back in time
This is the longest year of my life
Life is short.

That smell isn't around anymore.
I didn't even realize it until I could barely remember it.

It's the smell of the old place I used to live
alone.
The smell of the doors at night
and the corn patties in the cupboard
and the leather sofa
and my old cat.

It's the smell of the doubt.
The lack of the light.
Being stuck in the middle of the tunnel.
The smell of the tunnel vision.
The smell of the fact that it was
midnight after the journey through the tunnel.

The smell of my heavy chest,
that I smelled with my head hung,
nose close to my heart.

Straight ahead, it doesn't have that heavy smell.
Now it smells of ethnic food.
And breath always on the side of my neck.
It's warm.

The smell of trying and failing.
I only smell success from effortlessness.

Examining the accuracy.
Exploring the brightness.
Hunting for certainty.
Inquiring the directness.
Inspecting the lucidity.
Investigating the precision.
Pursuing purity.
On a quest for simplicity.
Researching transparency.
Chasing articulateness.
Frisking comprehensibility.
Going over conspicuousness.
Inquesting a definition.
Rummaging for distinctness.
Scrutinizing the evidence.
Shaking down the exactitude.
On an expedition for explicitness.
Working the legs towards intelligibility.
A perquisition for legibility.
A wild-goose chase for limpidity.
A witch hunt for obviousness.
Interrogating openness.
Probing the palpability.
Prosecuting the penetrability.
Racing perceptibility.
Raiding perspicuity.
Coursing the plainness.
Following the prominence.
Hounding the salience.
Meddling in the tangibility.
Prying into the unambiguity.
Reconnaissance in the cognizability.
Seeking decipherability.
Snooping for explicability.
Sporting limpidness.
On a steeplechase for manifestness.
Studying the overness.
Tracing unmistakability.

Water balloon organs make up my shape
Swelling with emotional fluids
forever amplifying, squishing together
My emotions are no longer separate

My maudlin heart rests its head
on the shoulder of my claustrophobic lungs
They breathe heavily in the intimacy
of such a dangerous seduction
They're panting like a canine in heat
it's such a perilous defeat

All of these water balloons
Swelling with emotional fluids
Lose their shape when stabbed
by your dagger fingers
by your dagger teeth
by your dagger tongue
by your dagger words
They're so filled with holes
and my fluids flow freely
mixing together in a scarlett sea
a potion of swelling emotion
You and your daggers
are attracted to deformation
which is why you think my swaying back
that keeps me from standing upright
is so ****
At least my suffering is ****
Not that I have anyone to be **** for anymore

I've talked about things before that people consider to be dark

I've never thought of them that way
I guess I would consider them gray
before any other color though
but when I think about beautiful hues, I remember heather
and when I see clouds in the sky
and I scrunch up my face real small while the rain flies
I think it's beautiful weather.

So while everybody puts on their protection:
raincoats and galoshes
umbrellas that sheild washes

I'll put on a cardigan and get covered in shivers
and I'll lay in the middle of the road
and pretend I'm floating in rivers

Goosebumps will be my second layer
They'll make my skin thicker
and the rain will wash the tears off of my face
and nobody will be able to tell that I was crying in the first place
and I'll laugh all boisterously
and hardiness will fill my diaphragm
and I'll scream for no reason at all

I'll scream that I would rather love that I hate how I am
than to hate that I love how I am

I will look at everyone around me
staring at me
arms folded and crunched
hidden under their plastic cape
afraid of being cold
okay with being weak
and reliant on umbrellas for protection;
shadowing faces that are disgruntled and meek

I'll realize they have no idea
how it feels to grow thick skin of goose pimples
and to have agony washed away
and to float in rivers in the road
and to be the only thing in a world of complexity
that is lowly and simple

They probably think that they know how it feels to laugh
because they do it at parties and gatherings
But those are only chuckles
Because they never release their knuckles
They're always clenching them in restraint or force

Everybody should laugh in the rain
and not be afraid of tears in the eyes of the sun
because they'll only get washed away
nobody will know
I promise.

I can recite this speech in a different way
but it won't change what I have to say
I'll just be saying it in a foreign language
(But there's still that slight hope you find my accent attractive)

Sifting through poetic phrases
digging for pronouns.

I don't know why it makes me sick to my stomach everytime I look at you. You're beautiful and cunning and interesting and I hate you because you're so different than me and yet I'm fascinated by everything you can be that I can't, and I'm in awe of everything you can do that I can't. God you have so much talent.

Yet everytime I look at you I get sick to my stomach. You're perfect because you know that you aren't. And you're so wrong sometimes, but I can't even know this because I hardly know you and just writing about you and ranting about you makes me feel so weird because you would feel so weird if you knew that I was writing about you and ranting about you. This must mean I care about you, but I don't know why. I care so much about someone I've never even met.

Everytime I look at you I get sick to my stomach. I guess this means we should meet. "Hi, I'm Peyton." Oh, wait. You don't know this is about you or who I am for that matter.

So I guess all I can do is keep getting sick to my stomach everytime I look at you. And all I can do is be jealous of you for some reason that I still can't figure out, because there's no way that I'd ever want to be you. You're so ******* fascinating. I wish you knew how fascinated I am by you. Wait, no I don't. If you knew then you would know that I know who you are and that I'm writing and ranting about you and I would get embarrassed about how creepy I am.

So I'll just keep looking at you and getting sick to my stomach, because no matter how hard I try not to, I still can see you everywhere.

I don't know why I get sick to my stomach everytime I look at you.

Oh wait. I guess I just told you why.

manual laborers all present

ready to begin

heart, liver, lungs, stomach

all here

ready to begin



each piling up bricks one by one

stacking them on top of each other

manual labor taking

seconds

          minutes

                    days

                          years



time flying by as the bricks keep piling up

held tightly by violet veins

squeezing the bricks close and tense



finally

after a decade of organic construction

a wall stands as tall as china's

visible by extra terrestrials on a distant world



but what was not visible was the familiar natural disaster

that stormed in from behind

coming in from the blind spot



this friendly natural disaster shook down the wall

it cut the veins with violent blades

and left to continue with its destruction of construction



the heart, liver, lungs, and stomach

watched their masterpiece crumble

down

into the earth.

I'm releasing a magnitude of attention because
we can't always control what we take into our bodies.
We can't control what's struggling internally when
the technology thing is speeding up.
It's contradictory and ruining us.
Steel buildings look like people now,
and are swept away in a moment of stillness.
In that moment you have hands and eyes.
We're free falling in dichotomy and
are hyper-physicalized on the outside.
It's hard to escape while having a phone and
checking the literal on your phone.
I can't abstract my routine.

I'm the self-deprecating monster you brought
back to life. Mouth sewn shut and my
brain is only programmed to survive.

I had a dream last night. It was one of those dreams where you can't tell if you're awake, or even alive. But actually, I had a nightmare last night. It was one of those nightmares where you can't tell if the darkness lives inside of you, eating away at your organs, or if the darkness is surrounding you and eating away at you. But if I'm being honest with you, last night was a tragedy. It was one of those tragedies where you can't tell if everyone actually dies in the end or if we've all just been dead the whole time.

In my dream I was sleeping with the stars, high up in a nest that I made from all of the sticks from eyes and the branches from my brain and the leaves filling up my heart like taxidermy; making it look like it was never stomped on and kicked to the curb like road ****. Making it look like it wasn't shot at for sport because it would look nice hung up above the mantle.

And suddenly my leaves were running away from me into the current of the wind, and the wind was running too, as if the wind came and swept them away from me, but I knew better. My leaves weren't taken from me. They were leaving me. And the wind was leaving too and I could see the wind holding my stuffed up heart above me, taunting me, "na-na-nanana, I'm not touching you!" until I could feel that there was no more wind left in my heart. I always knew my heart was only felt with dead leaves and sticks but I didn't feel it until that moment.

Suddenly, the wind threw my heart to the ground with a malice that I never knew it had. How could my wind, once a gentle breeze caressing my skin, treat me so harshly? The wind threw my heart to the ground which such a speed that I thought for sure it would make a ****** mess all over the cobblestone pavement. And then, I realized I had fallen too, without even noticing because I was so focused on the potential pain of my heart that I never noticed my own body sprawled upon the ground. And I lay there I watched my heart beating outside of my chest, knocking on the ground. I saw it leaking, as if somebody had poked tiny little holes in it; blood was oozing out of it but not in the gory Tarantino kind of way. My heart was crying crimson tears that flowed through the cobblestone like veins dying to be seen by everybody. And then I watched it stop beating as if it simply ran out batteries and I had to go to the store to buy more but I knew better. Even batteries couldn't revive it this time.

And I was terrified, so I turned away from it because I couldn't look at it anymore. But what I saw behind me, staring me in the face, was far more terrifying.

It was you. And you were watching me like you had been there the whole time and I never noticed because I was so **** distracted by my beating heart like a bird buzzing in my ear, my heart was making intricate rhythms with my eardrums creating a song that I couldn't get out of my head anymore my heart was needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing needing my attention. Pathetic. And as I observed you I noticed... you weren't breathing either. So I started pushing you, shoving you, hitting you, shaking you, trying to wake you up, demanding your unanimated attention... but you were stuck like me. Just dreaming.

It was like the old days, you were alive but not awake. There were no more golden stars in your eyes, they were empty. And your eyes didn't look at me anymore because they were empty. No, there were no more golden stars in your empty eyes when you looked at the golden birds buzzing around my head like a heavy halo crown straining my neck, they were just annoying to you. No, you had some ****** up agenda in a foreign language from a ****** up foreign planet that I couldn't understand. And you knew I couldn't speak like you but you still taunted me with the curl of your tongue and the intonation of your voice. And I saw you slowly drifting away from me... back to that foreign planet of yours; my little ******* prince. And as I watched you leave me I saw delusions leaking from your brain as your eyes rolled back. But all they did was rain down on me.

I'm so lucky.
It was so unlikely.
It's so unlike me.
To think I'm lucky.

I was only lonely.
It made me unlucky.
But I was only bones then.
and only knew
fuckmefuckmefuckme.

And now I'm here.
And now I'm lucky.
And I still remember
the mucky foggy past.

And I knock on wood.
Because I know I should.
I knock on wood.
and hopefully nothing
shocks the lucky good.

And now I'm here.
But the only old me
is in my ADHD.

I hope it doesn't get the best of me.
I hope I can conquer.
But I'm still me.
I'm still ADHD.

Knock knock knock.

Sight of new features
and new heights of new creatures
through the lens of Polaroid cameras
instant
pictures portraying perfect
candid questions
and candid feelings
of sneaky smirks
on a sidewalk
of sneaking peeks at quiet quirks

I picture us as
picturesque
I picture brusque
flawless awkwardness

I only like you because you're my best friend.
If I didn't like you so much,
I'd hate your guts
because everything about you is so unlikeable

but you're my best friend,
so I kind of like you a lot.

I've been driving for three hours now
I've been driving for three minutes
I would say I've been driving for three seconds
But I won't, only because I'm past the driveway
But I might as well have been driving for three seconds
and I should probably drive for three more days
Because it won't make a difference
It won't change the pace
of my day-to-day life.

She always told me not to drink and drive
He always told me too
I'm pretty sure they always say the same thing
But that was bad advice when it comes to this thing
This thing I'm going through

They should have told me not to think and drive
because they never told me not to
Now I'm thinking all the time
And drinking and driving is a crime
and the men with disco cars hunt for the criminals
who drink and drive
but I still manage to do the time
for what is not a crime.
the fact that I think and drive.

I only do this unhealthy thing
because you force me to
You crawl into my ears and make a bed on brain
and cover up my focus with your hands
It's like a game of peek-a-boo in frames
I sometimes take a peek long enough
to see a traffic sign
But I would be lying if I said
I remember staying in the lines.

I'll let you continue sleeping there
tuck yourself into my mind
I'll wish you goodnight and sing you a lullaby
But only if you let me drive
Only if you stop intoxicating me
with thoughts of you
and you
and you
and you
and you and I

Thank you for listening
You are my sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away

Goodnight. Sleep tight.

They say
(and I'm not sure who they are)
but they say this

They say
that it's better to light a candle
than to curse the darkness

Well I am no candle
Because I run off of electricity
and I may not be the brightest bulb
but that only means that if you turn me on
and leave me alone
I will die faster than
flourescents
for instance
I'll flicker with the ticker
that contantly hovers over my head
while the others
will give yellow light to everyone
they know
and everyone
they love
Which is all I can dream of

And what they say is true
It's better to light a candle
than to curse the darkness
So don't leave me to be the curse
and don't leave me to be what everyone curses

And I know
I am not the brightest bulb
so all I ask
is that if you turn me on,
turn me off before you leave
so there is still a little flicker left in me
so somebody else
can turn me on again
and maybe then
I can be the candle that gets lit
rather than darkness that is cursed

gears turning

grinding

screaching

creating

a mechanical me



ingredients fold into a mixing bowl

a pinch

a dash

concocting a potion

poisonous to exposure



this liquidates in the basin of my mind

mixing with machinary

creating a technical malfunction



I will forget what I forgot to remember

I will try to explain

how I can't explain

why the static in my brain

has a constant refrain



but

all of this is hidden

under layers of flesh

disguising the deformity

under my skin.

I painted myself metallic
until I was shining
and shredded myself into fine tinsel
to be your silver lining

And you gave me your cloud to hold
and to mold
I just wish you had told me
you longed for it to be outlined in gold

I'll keep tip-toeing the tar strips
of the residential labyrinths
of this suffocating suburbia
until I'm dancing in a modern field
with flowing pants and forever winds.

George sat down at a table for two

at the local coffee shop.

He is a heavy caffeine consumer,

seventy five years of energy

rushes with his blood



Cynthia is less of a coffee drinker.

George always buys her a small version

of what he is drinking.



He thinks she is beautiful.

One simple adjective

describing a very complex character



Thirty five

was the age he fell in love with

Cynthia



A metamorphosis

of a friendship

into more



They talk

and talk

talk some more

continue talking

about everthing

and nothing at all

all at once.



George has a daily routine:

Coffee with Cynthia,

drive home,

read the newspaper,

water the flowers,

clean the house,



and last



polish the urn above the mantel

containing the ashes

of Cynthia.

Everything always makes everything somber
because when I'm blue it taints even the brightest of stars
Things that shouldn't matter always make me madder
I wish they made me mad like the hatter
But they only make me angry like the bull
And now I'm mixing this blue with my angry red
and purple is the color I live in
I always wanted purple eyes like rain
and now my purple eyes rain out my pain
and this royal world has taken control of its reign
and it orders me to paint these dead roses red
but I'll just paint them purple with my tears instead
and the queen will order, "Off with your head"
But it won't matter to me because my purple rain will help them grow
and it won't matter to me because this isn't Wonderland
because the sky is full of thunder and
it dyes the streets with purple ink
Alice, take my hand and give me your drink
and we will shrink so small, because that's the size I feel anyway
Alice, you have less sense than I
and all the best people do
So while you eat and grow tall, I'll stay so small
because you belong to Wonderland
and I belong in this purple Melancholia

I've been planted awake
with my eyes locked,
awaiting the moment
when my memories revolutionize
into a fantasy.

This clock smokes a cigarette
     that tucks itself into my nest of a jaw
          acting as a memento of my most cherished flaw.
I can hear Fool's Paradise calling to me;
     it's hollow promises idle above me until I fail to remember
          whether this is a wedding or a funeral releasing it's doves to me.
You're a modern desolate suicide
     with your insides filled with fearful and uneasy pesticides.

I'm too exhausted to lose it.
     and too inferior to choose it.
and the restless clock stays awake impassively with your ballad
     like a phantom of my pallid heart which feels eternally invalid.
I pace past pit stops but I never eat
     when I've lasted this long already.
You're a modern romantic suicide
     with a heart that has hung itself out to dry.

Sometimes my heartbreak brakes,
     snarling as it painstakingly falters like the moon at daybreak;
          stumbling across a canvas to its haunted nest
               and sleeping beneath these ten-thousand lakes.  
I won't let the shine blast my shade.
I won't let the darkness begin to fade.
I won't let the sparkle ride my mind.
You're so rustic and piously unkind.

Paramour, you're not abandoned yet.
You're scrutinizing yourself and you're far too unfair.
You've got your crown all tangled up
     and I wish I could make you care.

No Paramour, you haven't been abandoned yet.
It doesn't matter all you've endured.
It doesn't matter all you've observed;
     sentimental daggers still seem to lacerate your brain.
I've acquired my fair share of knives,
     I'll guide you through the pain.
You're not abandoned.

So abandon me when you're not alone.
Let's abandon me so you're not alone.
Give me your fists because you're staggering.
Let me hold you still because you're staggering.

The creases in your forehead
make up the lines of my face
and it's the most disappointing
self-portrait I've ever made.

I've always sensed the scent
coming from down under.
It's the green goo creeping under the door
from my animated adolescent nightmares.

And I'm back to my adolescent ways these days,
yelling in a whisper at my face in the mirror.
Yelling at a the beloved shadow that goes unnoticed.

And if I'm covering up my lies with feelings,
and I'm covering up my organs with skin,
then why am I not covering up my skin?

And I'm covering up my life in a blanket with far too many holes.
but it is still able to protect the boney parts of my body
where my skin is too thin.

In the hours that you hate me,
I'll remember the day
When I was my spirit animal
...back when you would always stay

We are all selfish creatures

shellfish lurking in the depths of the sea

wanting what we know is wrong

lying about the shallow depths of our emotions

signing forged signatures and forged lies

forging these words that come out of our glossy covered up lips

glossing our covered up stories

our tall tales of princesses and fairies

in fantasy land, these are whimsical creatures

in reality land, we are nothing but human beings

that forged signatures say are whimsical.

There are nights like tonight

When the world is ending again,

But this time it's not your fault.

And you wish that the fault was yours,

So as to have a reason to be with everybody else.

And you wish that he wasn't so lonely

And you wish that a different he liked to be lonely like you do

And you wish that you didn't like being lonely like you do

And you wish that another he was lonely

And you wish that she knew that you were lonely, but assumed you were sad.

And you wish that you didn't enjoy brooding

But then you could be happy with something else for a change.

And you wish that you knew what a real smile looked like,

Because you don't believe that you've ever truly seen one

And you wish you were a little meaner so you could seem a little happier

And you wish you were a little different  so you could want to be happier

And he wishes you were a little nicer because he doesn't know what mean is

And a different he wishes you were meaner so you could be somebody else

And a different he doesn't even know that you're nice at all.

And you wish that he thought you to be a sadist.

And you don't know why.

Maybe you just want to feel bad-***.

Maybe you just want to feel something new.

Maybe you know that he wants you to be something new.

Maybe you don't know that he is something new,

and you will be forever the same,

forever alone

an maybe you like it that way.

And nobody knows what the hell she's doing
because she's silent and they know that she
never has anything going on inside her head.

Same time
Same place
Same setting
Same moment
Same dialogue
Same breathing
Same heartbeat
What's different?
Not you
Not me
Not conversations
Not our breathing
Same difference

All I do is try to think of a line to catch someone's breath
Then I realize all I know is the truth
So now all I do
Is hope that a breath is captured
by honesty

Posing upon a pedestal
bare and broken.

See my silhouette
in the spotlight.

Life isn't La Vie En Rose
anymore.

Just a slumber party duet--
naked upon the rock bottom floor.

I just want to write stories:

One about a ******* her honeymoon
that calls her mother from the hotel room.
Her mother dissapproves of her husband
because he's abusive and rude and she doesn't understand how her daughter can love him;
but her daughter can't help but love him unconditionally
because she understands her husbands flaws and they're what she loves about him most.
She gets all this pity about being mistreated, but everyone should pity the man of her dreams
because no one understands him and he's tearing at the seems,
and he feels so lucky to have someone so accepting
and they love each other despite everything.

Or one about a girl perhaps,
that goes on long walks to a stage by a river
where she imagines that everyone claps
and welcomes her with open arms that she can practically feel embracing her
and their arms comfort her and keep her warm and eliminate the shivers
that grow on her own arms like little ant hills with colonies beneath them
and when she looks down at her heart she notices a tiny stem
of a dandelion by her feet, and she admires it
because it holds up a **** and doesn't face defeat
and still holds up this **** even though everyone only views it as a ****
and it breaks a sweat and stands tall and doesn't succumb to greed.
She wishes she could look up to it, but the world only sees it when they're looking down.

And I want to write one about a tiny boy
with many fears that no one understands
and ironically enough,
one of his greatest fears is not being understood by others
why he is so scared.
So he tries and tries and tries to explain why the world seems so evil
but the stutter of his thoughts makes him realize that nobody ever cared.
And he carries on and lives life in silence.
Silently scared of a world can hardly bear.

Or maybe I'll write one about a poet
that dreams of the wildest scenarios
and the most enchanting outlooks on life
and she dreams of words and how they fit together
and she dreams of ideas unimaginable to the average brain
and she wakes up in the morning
and doesn't remember a thing
and she opens her note pad
and scribbles until her ink is working again
and sits with her silent pen,
wondering what to write.

This is an examination

a test of multiple choices

a test that requires long answers



it's an incomplete essay

without a conclusion

an essay with a forgotten thesis statement

a couple of main ideas creating a body



this is a test of right and wrong

this is a test of true and false



this is a test requiring you to fill in the blanks

requiring you to complete the sentence



this is a test of vocabulary

with unknown definitions



this is a test that you can study for

this is a test you can attempt preparation for

but you don't know the questions

until they are asked of you



this is an examination

this is life.

I'm just sneazing out
the powder from my
evenly flawless nose
and I clap my hands
together and let it
snow.

and suddenly my heart doesn't weigh so much anymore

I wish I were a rose
because you love those barbed thorns
Or perhaps I wish I were a carnation
so you could dye me whichever shade you please

But I'm just the frailest flower
that you've let dry out
and pressed in your catacomb
of beautiful things you've murdered.

I hope you find a docile rose
that understands your gangling roots

Existing in a stratosphere full of a familiar twilit breeze,
I reign down on my enemies.
I'll plant them in my sanatorium
and tuck them nicely into bed,
leaving them to gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling.

Because they all say I'm crazy--
but they don't know of all the things
that have died from my hospice embrace.

So they'll gaze mindlessly at a cerebral ceiling
missing everybody they know,
and seeing beauty in the
placid birds floating past their mental window.

I'll still give them the birds.

He called me his darling
with his mouth full of my heart,
I just hope he chews it up well
so it feels nice slithering down his throat,
into the pit of his stomach.

This is the jaunty feeling I've never known
and I anticipated this tepid breeze that has blown
tangling my hair in your face and
tangling my hair in our mouths and
strangling the horrors of past months

And this jaunty feeling sets my chin on your shoulder
and this tepid breeze promises to never get colder
as long as my chin is on your shoulder
Good luck ever moving my boulder chin from your shoulder
I'm not going anywhere and we have the whole summer
to keep the drummer in my chest racing at a steady heavy beat
and this tepid breeze will save us from the steamy summer heat
that will never let us burn and peel

Playlist
Track 1: Intro
Track 2: Fingers Tapping Keys (Creating Words)
Track 3: One Way Conversations From the Driver's Seat
Track 4: Eye Contact
Track 5: Music From a Black Cab
Track 6: Poetry
Track 7: The Feeny Call
Track 8: Foreign Languages
Track 9: Secrets
Track 10: Heavy Breathing
Track 11: Rustling
Track 12: Tickled Laughter
Track 13: I Miss You Already
Track 14: Ambient Musicians
Track 15: Accusations
Track 16: Tears
Track 17: *******
Track 18: Hyperventilation
Track 19: I Miss You
Track 20: Biting Lip
Track 21: ******* (Reprise)
Track 22: Silence
Track 23: Static
Track 24: Wondering

DISC TWO:

I won't dance for life because life dances for me. I'll take its hand and share it's weight though, and together we will dance; I move to the rhythm while life creates the beat.