I'm a feral child
and suddenly,
I'm home

eyelids drooping over the unseen pupils

they flicker and flutter as they fight to stay up

but once again

they collapse

too weak to carry on

they take a few seconds to pull themselves together

getting mentally prepared for their next attempt

and then with one more heaving breath

they muster the force within them to flip

revealing for a split second

a sea of green

that was hidden

so well

but the impact of the weight that rested upon them was too much

once again

the eyelids

were defeated

by

the unstoppable force

that was

sleep.

In a tragedy I'm collapsing from a canopy above me
falling onto a cobblestone platform beside you, fatally.
You remain dormant as I shriek at you and shove you
in an attempt to animate and awaken you.
And like before you have no passion for the golden stars
on your agenda that you persist on our own personal Mars.
Your delusions still follow narratives like a script
with fabrications that you wrote, reserving our crypt.

So now I melt into your back until we dream together in a morgue,
forced down by the weight of our cancerous lips in this cancer ward.
Nurses of alabaster and indigo serenade and encompass us
with cumbersome shovels cradling earth meant to bury us.
You tucked us into our tomb a little too soon
and now your blood runs cold as mine runs maroon.
I want to dig you up but you want us buried together beneath the moon.

I'm screaming and swearing and sullen and aching and laughing and sobbing and  apologizing.

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

Squeeze, pull, and twist.
Someday it won't hurt.
You can test me all you want.
But I'll always be unsure
of the pain.

I'm fly by night;
brief, unreliable, and shady.

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.

Life is a foreign language


you can't understand it

you listen to it, dumbstruck

you watch the way the lips curl

you hear the tongue roll on the roof of the mouth

you are confused and frustrated by what's happening around you

However

when surrounded by this language

it slowly becomes familiar

you cannot translate it

but you notice ****** expressions

you feel the mood of the conversation in front of you

you start to recognize certain words

you can speak enough terms to make it through the week

your vocabulary expands, and weeks turn into months

and months turn into years

you begin to coast

ride the waves across the ocean

resting on your back, squinting into the sun

until sand scratches your back

and around you, everybody speaks a common language

a language you have taken in for years

a language you can now speak fluently

a language that suddenly makes sense

because you have become wise in your years

suddenly, everything makes sense.

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.

You have a short
attention span but
that doesn't mean
what happens
minimally
is not beautiful.

Notice the details
as the universe
lays them before you.

You're ****** unless
you do a ton of blow.

Look at the stars
and try to tell me
That a sheep doesn't know
the taste of a rose.

1 Heart:

Gently used,
Never opened
Slightly torn

My fears are on the market,
but all bets are low.

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.

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 feel the warmth of the pool between the underbelly
of my eyeball and the lashes long enough to
graze my cheekbones
It takes all the strength I have left not to force their
sisters to greet them
For if this meeting takes place, my weakness will
be broadcasted
A live performance by the liquid Cirque Du Soleil
As the freaks tumble down my cheeks
So to avoid this showcase
my freaks contort themselves to stay in their
warm bed
And I try my hardest not to blink.

Deserving of a whole heart,

Mine has been trampled by the graceful
and punctured by sinking fangs--
        oozing droplets of romanticism.

Giving out bite-sized samples
one-by-one.

Savor it.

don't cry/you're almost home
I ******* LOVE FRENCH TOAST
almost. almost. almost. home. don'tdon'tdon't cry
stop. crying.
don'tcryyou'realmosthome
IloveyoulikeIlovefrenchtoastwit­hmaplesyrupinthemorning
but I don't know how to make french toast
you just crack some eggs and mix them with milk, you idiot.
Stop crying. You're almost home. French toast is at home.
No it's not. There's no cinnamon. I need cinnamon. I only like my french toast with cinnamon and vanilla.
that's a lie. You love french toast. Any kind of french toast.
You love it because it's french. I love french kissing.
No that's a lie, I love hard kissing.
No you don't.
I love you
Stop. You don't. You love french toast in the morning with maple syrup.
I love my french toast with cherry peppers
That's disgusting. Cherry peppers don't go on french toast. They taste disgusting.
You like french toast more than insecure cherry peppers
No. yesyesyes. NO. YEEESSSS.
Don't cry you're almost home.

I don't deserve love
because I've never given any out
but how can I begin to share love
when nobody is willing to share it with me?

**** this longing and missing and nostalgia for the past
I'm being cruelly punished for the worst of crimes
that I can't seem to figure out how to not commit.

and so I'll wallow and dream those sweet wonderful nightmares
of you and you and you and you and you and you and I.

*******.
Kiss her neck and her ribs and the middle of her chest
and drink wine and lay in her lap and distract her with kisses
while I drink and feel sick to my stomach
and more worthless than those days when my mother tied me to a leash.

*******.
and I'll dream nightmares I can't control
of hard kisses and your cherry pepper voice
while you laugh at the thought of how pathetic I am
and not give a **** about whether or not I'm still alive

Your laughter will haunt me and hold me to the ground.

****/..
I can'teven see anymore throuthg the clouds in my eyes
not that you give a single ****.

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

Danger occurs
beneath the tongue,
where words are drowned
by selfless saliva.

Striving for the fortuity that can never be achieved
and wishing for aristocracy,
they called for open fire upon me
and I see the bullets in every mirror reflecting me.

And with some, I share the care of a creator
who spends all the time they have balancing on a cable
unable to understand how anyone can be frugal as me;
and I ask myself, "Do I need to appreciate all of this?"

They won't let me drown while I'm new and shiny.
They won't let me be a statue in a brochure.
They won't let me sleep in the fog.
They won't let me reclaim my beauty.

I only think about today, not the future.
I only think about the key to the door leading to within my cartilage
that is unable to clench us together.
And so I surrender myself to the promenade.

Everything is a contest.
Everything is a ballad for the Z's.
Everything is a fire bolt.
telling me not to absorb the covers.

I'm not agile anymore
because I just deliver them what they yearn for,
without yearning for anything myself anymore.
But I don't want them to rest absently.

The better bodies walk alone.
The better bodies are lying dead in each other's company.
The better bodies are deteriorating
and heading for the better days.

I used to have faith in something,
but now I live in blasphemy,
repeating "hey," and "yeah" and "sure,"
while never acting honorable.

He only cries for me while he's soaring above me,
shedding tears and calling for bloodshed.
But this isn't war because he's not shedding his own blood,
because he knows how to brand me and string me along.

I signal my phantom friends to join my army,
but they're only a clan of desperate nomads like me.
They're my ghost friends that convulse with me,
giving them strength to drain the vital fluid from my enemies.

I am audacious, I know,
because I am arousing every transmission.
These are the my days extinguished.
Let me show you the couple of claws I have left.

And it's no secret that I have a busted soul.
And it's no secret that I want an acceptable acquaintance.
And it's no secret that I would complete the proper process to be a monarch
if I knew how to drain my body of juice and replace it with a wealthier blood type.  

So move a little closer to me
so I can show you all the days that are deceased.
And I know you think buzzers are bulky and awkward
but time is up and I'm leaving soon.

I wish you could see that we are familiar cats
rather than beardless lumps of charcoal,
and that if we ran this 5, 280 feet it will be a phenomenon.
So drink from this molded mug and forget about it all.

And I'm gripping to growth by the throat, but damaging nothing
because it's made of caramel candy and doesn't know what saltiness is.
Let me take you to the courtyard where the action takes place
and if action takes place, then we'll let the growth be sweet.

I'm seeing framework from my lonely bench made for two,
and I'm throwing timber into a mountain, ready to light a match.
So come to my party and we'll set the place ablaze
and be a beautiful cremation, burning all the better bodies.

I never wanted it all to burn, I just wanted to drive onward with company in the passenger seat,
but this state of the art exhibit will be killer, I promise, even if everyone is dead.
It'll be the first and last stride.
It'll be better than codeine.

But this city is booming and I can't watch the architecture shrivel.
I'm her hostage and though she cares for me through methods of torture,
I can't help but anticipate her friendship in the afterlife
when we're both lonely without another half, because her twin is leaving her soon.

I miss what this country used to be, with it's jewelry on display in Tiffany windows.
I'm not saying I miss the bloodshed, but I miss the sparkle.
I miss the clubs and the parties and the company.
The bustle is gone, and all there is is the hustle of a crowded desolate boulevard.

All that's left behind is the shame
of hanging around someone else.
I wish I was somewhere else…
I wish I was in Stockholm walking uptown on a crowded desolate boulevard.

I wish I didn't live in a cyclone
with arduous people attempting some sort of hawkish raw coolness
asking me about my mood that they don't care about.
I can tell you my mood is not graceful or charming, but I won't.

And if I described my mood in colors it would be a combination of purple, yellow, red, and blue.
A murky brown seeking rehabilitation.
It won't be long until it rehabilitates, just extract all the light from it little by little until it's blind.
Ain't the way it should be?

This is a darling's rebellion.
This is the siren sounding the start of battle.

I'm pretty sure there's a ghost in my house
I hear weird noises
of things that shouldn't happen
when I'm the only one home
And I know that these noises
could be house maintenance malfunctioning
But sometimes it's nice
to believe there's a ghost in my house
Even if it haunts me
because I'd rather be haunted than lonely.

Sometimes I turn my head and pretend someone's there.

Message in a bottle
with a cork plugged into the top

sealing it shut, suction tight

Nothing can penetrate the bond between the cork and the glass

I wrap my hand around it,

my palm pressed against the grooves underneath the cork

which press into my palm,

creating more grooves

However much I heave,

however tight I contract my muscles

until my body quivers as my lungs expand,

until there is nothing left for me to do but release

Release my muscles

Release my lungs

Release my hope

Because your bottle will always stay closed

Nothing will be discovered if its desire is to be a mystery

So I'll set this bottle on the rocks at my feet

I'll leave it there, waiting for a wave to wash up onto the coast

I hope it takes it away with its tide

so it can see the world from inside the glass

All I have left are the grooves on my palm

all I have left are weaker muscles and exhausted lungs

to remember the message I never recieved

That rests somewhere distant

never to be read

protected by a cork.

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

I'm always
turning the wrong nozzle,
looking for heat.

Knowledge and emotions
don't go hand-in-hand

And there's a fine line
between being considerate and selfish

And things never make sense
and I've begun to think that
people shouldn't walk hand-in-hand either.

Everybody is psychotic
in this unbalanced neon creation
some would call the universe

And nobody gives a **** about you


Especially you.

He came over over to my house
Soaked up toxins like a sponge
A drunken drive that took an hour
I love him
for coming back to me.
Muffled "Darling" in the morning through
a mouth full of slanderous deception
He brushed my hand
He held it in mine
I stroked his back and traced his shoulder blades
We behaved like the lovers we are
and misbehaved like the children we are
and it was summer rain
and he told me he liked
just lying next to me
and being in the same room
I love him (whatever the **** that means)

A millisecond later
He told me he has someone else
He told me he hopes I **** myself
"I hope you **** yourself"
"I hope you **** yourself"
"I hope you **** yourself"
"I hope you **** yourself"
Maybe I will
but it won't be because of him
He doesn't deserve the satisfaction
of being the reason
why I hope I **** myself

*"A little encouragement for the morning. I have a feeling you'll need it. [He] has stolen enough of your life and energy. This is the time when you become strong and take charge. No more will you suffer emotional damage spewed from him. You're bigger, and stronger than that, even if you don't know it. You are done. Forever. No more. He's gone; erased. You are free."

You're the Harold to my Maude,

Bad timing...

Except we've both died a few times
and now neither of us is living.

So I guess we're two Harolds
and we both wanted to be Maude.

Life never taught me how to love
but I hate you,
so at least it showed me how to feel

I really hate love poems
I promise to never write one
When I see one I don't read it
because I hate the word "love."
and I hate its non-definition
and I hate how it makes people feel
when it fools them
and I hate how I don't know what it is at all
and I hate how it's never fooled me
and it never occured to me
that I possibly want to feel fooled
on a day that isn't the first of April
and I hate that I think that I might want to be fooled
by something as shallow as love
but how can I be fooled by something that doesn't exist?
because I know that "love" doesn't have a definition
and if it isn't defined then how is it real?
it must be a phantom in the air
and it really isn't fair
that you have to be superstitious
to be fooled
it's too bad that I
believe in ghosts.

Squashing bugs with cigarette butts
and dancing with mannequins.

Finding movement
in a sea of stiff limbed darlin's.

Everyone loves hearts,
but I'm prone to losing things
and to breaking things.
So you probably shouldn't give me yours

I see all kinds of lovers:

The young and the happy

The old and the cold

Ones that don't quite match up

Ones that live to love perfectly

Ones that live to not be lonely

Ones with nothing better to do

Ones with nothing but time

And then some with no time at all

And they all look picturesque and pretty on the outside;

but I can't help feeling sorry for them all.

Then I look away and feel sorry for myself.

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'm not afraid of Hell
because it's where I've always lived

I'm more afraid of Heaven,
and having to return home.

You tried leaning on me
when I was already falling down

I never had an interesting cover
and the title on my spine is old and peeling
and people don't publish reviews about me anymore.

I'm just a piece of straw
Not in the center of a haystack
But off to the right a little
You're the needle
Everyone tries to find the needle in the haystack
But instead of finding you
I just got poked in the back by your pointy tip
But you didn't notice
Because there's a million more of me
But I see you
Because you stand out
and let me tell you
You're quite sharp

I've given up
on good mornings
and now everything
is only a
hello

There's something about
the shift of saccharine eyes
in my mind
that give me false hope
to go along with my
humdrum voice.

His heart hits me like a harsh hush.
His heart hits me like his honest hands.

The clouds cry because people seem much happier without them.
They are lonely

I cry because people seem much happier without me too.
I am lonely.

This is why I hang out with the rain
and catch teardrops with my tongue

We didn't applaud for the performance in front of us
Because that would mean letting go of what we held onto
So we sat in silent appreciation
Not only for the show,
but for the moment we lived in that was real.

Time spent together
was but a hiccup

a short gasp
that made me momentarily breathless.

Love me to pieces
and put me back together

I'll love you to dust
and vacuum you up

It's not modesty
I swear it's only disbelief
If it was modesty
then honesty would always
be make-believe

It makes me a bit skeptical
that you would get critical
of me being all high and mighty
and standing on a pedestal
(that in reality sinks below the surface)
of me having a little dignity
in one aspect of myself
an aspect that I hate a majority of the time

When I stand on a pedestal
it sinks into the ground
and the only people that can see me
are the ones looking down.

I sleep comfortably on
rock bottom
because it's a solid foundation
and I will build castles upon it
until I'm sleeping
...soaking wet in the clouds.