I'm that girl,
whom everybody seems to rely on.
They know they have me,
where they want,
because I'm a puppy.
They know I'm not letting,
their,
***** little secrets,
out.
They know the can count on me.

''It's our little secret,''
they say,
with a grin on their faces,
showing the attention seeker side,
of them.
They wanna be heard,
and listened to,
so they come to me.

But what about,
when,
I need to be heard,
and listened to?
Who can I tell my own,
little secrets to?

(e.k.j.)

In the beauty of the moonlight
The sea I see sleep in tranquility and delight

I wish to be a sea without any mind
and that never knows tribulations of outside

It comes back home victorious after the day is done
And we bring cups of failure that must be broken

(To be read while listening to Thelonious Monk's "I Didn't Know That About You")

I might wake up
tomorrow
I might get dressed
and attend classes
I might even finish the work
that is due, and
I might graduate
in a few months and then
I might get a good job, you know
and make enough to be comfortable, then
I might meet a nice girl
and take her out a few times, yeah
I might get up the courage to kiss
that girl and make love to her, well
I might stick around a while
and see where it goes, but
I might ***** it up some how
and send her crying and
I might get low down at a bar
up the street
I might have a few drinks and
try to forget her, and
I might have a hard time coping
without her but
I might get along anyway and
start writing again
I might let the years go by rather
quickly and
I might get old before I do anything
about it and, well
I might get sick and die in an apartment
alone with the heat on, yeah
I might do a lot of things and
I might just sit and let the record play
a little longer

Waited up all
Night for a
Bloodmoon
But the clouds
Cauterized the
Gaping sky

Your ***
Which I have never seen
Remains
A thought a guess
A sacred cow
The Unattainable
Mandela wrapped in denim and lace
Your ***
Which I have never seen
The Grail the Moslim War
The True Keats True Plato
A sign of Heaven the Way
Your ***
Which I have never seen
Parker Davis Monk
And Choir,
Oh the Choir never
Sang so Sweet!
And angels in black
Triumphant Angst
And jesus with smirk
And god all giddy with
Satisfaction
Your ***
Which I have never seen

have you ever had those days
when you miss that feeling
of the blade touching your skin
and barely missing a vein?
the excitement you feel
when blood pours out
and the manic grin that
spreads across your face
as the pain subsides?'

i'll be honest,
it is what i have thought about
all day long.
i want the blood
and the pain and the
momental joy.

but, that is all it is.
the feeling flees the second
i am done, the high is gone
and all i am left with is
a ripped up wrist.

hopefully, love isn't the same way.
but, all great addictions usually are.

just let that ******* bass drop.

and throw in those lights as well.
definitley some smoke.
lasers too.
maybe a few LED screens.
or ten.
or twenty.
or just one that fills the entire stage.
that's cool i guess.
paid a **** ton of money.
i want a ******* trip.

i want my ears to ring.
her *** to bounce.
fifty thousand fists to pump.
in perfect unison.
like it means something.
those girls with fake flowers adorning their heads.
all of the bright, like a feast for the night.
the glitter. the paint.
the airborne cake.
.
.
like it means something.

this scene will continue to grow
because nobody knows
what it set out to do in the first place.
big lights and pop hooks.
small pills and good looks.
now you're one of us.
no knowledge required.
the music plays
without you
on stage.
deafen me.
defeat me.
alive.
this is what it means to be.

I hate sleep.
I hate dreaming.
I hate wanting things I shouldn't and I hate the word hate.

I hate sleeping and missing so much that goes on.
I hate dreaming and waking up in the same situation.
I hate wanting to sew my mouth shut and never speak again.

I hate hot summers and I hate damp springs.
I hate being nervous and I hate being unsure.
I hate the color yellow and I hate not crying when I need to.

I hate making decisions.
I hate white walls you can't paint.
I hate being alone and I hate having people know.

I hate that people don't know how great they are.
I hate that I miss my mom, even when she hates me.
I hate walking in the dark and I hate using an umbrella.

I hate hearing people sleep and I hate cold fries.
I hate falling asleep holding a pillow, wishing it was a person.
I hate the sound of chewing and the smell of melted ice-cream.

I hate the color my skin gets when I tan.
I hate not being able to help anyone, ever, at all.
I hate having to act like I know what I'm talking about.

I hate when there are people on my early morning walks.
I hate that my best friend is so much better than me and I don't want her to realize.
I hate how quiet the room gets when I walk in, because, what do you say to that weird kid?

I hate not writing stories and I hate not sharing them.
I hate that I hate so **** much and I hate that I write poetry.
I hate when my head itches and I hate when it doesn't rain for a long time.

I hate losing people.
I hate being left behind.
I hate that I deserve it, all the time.

I hate my inconsistent style and I hate rhyming.
I hate getting my nails painted and I hate wearing makeup.
I hate not being enough for anyone other than me and feeling like I owe them.

I hate being lost in a boring town.
I hate not having internet.
I hate me.

     "Sit in my hand."
I'm ten.
I can't see him,
but I hear him breathing
in the dark.
It's after dinner playtime.
We're outside,
hidden by trees and shrubbery.
He calls it hide-and-seek,
but only my little sister seeks us
as we hide
and she can't find us,
as grandfather picks me up
and rubs his hands between my legs.
I only feel a vague stirring
at the edge of my consciousness.
I don't know what it is,
but I like it.
It gives me pleasure
that I can't identify.
It's not like eating candy,
but it's just as bad,
because I had to lie to grandmother
when she asked,
"What do you do out there?"
"Where?" I answered.
Then I said, "Oh, play hide-and-seek."
She looked hard at me,
then she said, "That was the last time.
I'm stopping that game."
So it ended and I forgot.
Ten years passed, thirtyfive,
when I began to reconstruct the past.
When I asked myself
why I was attracted to men who disgusted me
I traveled back through time
to the dark and heavy breathing part of my life
I thought was gone,
but it had only sunk from view
into the quicksand of my mind.
It was pulling me down
and there I found grandfather waiting,
his hand outstretched to lift me up,
naked and wet
where he rubbed me.
"I'll do anything for you," he whispered,
"but let you go."
And I cried, "Yes," then "No."
"I don't understand how you can do this to me.
I'm only ten years old,"
and he said, "That's old enough to know."