i did not feel pretty
but he said
i was?

there could be a worm in my head
gnawing away,
like mice do through cords, and then one day
you realize
oh! the toaster doesn't work anymore!;
my mercy doesn't work anymore!
and my patience went dry like acrylic paint does
when you brush it on the canvas, and want so badly
to blend it
but it can't blend
because it's dried already, so
you should probably try oil paint or something -
I'm losing my mind
picking all the weeds out,
standing tall with peaceful pride and then realizing,
they were beautiful flowers;
I uprooted them and then chucked them in a naughty pile

I'm awful! loud in my head
stop being awful! I'm hurting people
again
and
again
and
again

find a better gardener, please never
ever
ever
ask me to tend to your soil
or your fruit
or your flowers
or anything that has to do with
nurturing
your growth
or heart health
or emotional stability
- I pull roots
like a robot; I don't even look at what I'm pulling
until after
it's been pulled out.

Why is it hard sometimes,
feeling so different and so
capable
yet your lips barely speak above a whisper.
Where your spiraling eyes see
through the disguises we play our lives behind.
And yet you hang your head
all the same, as if starlight
wasn't shining from within it all.
Your life,
as broken shards of
smiles trying.
As voices clash and
messages spiral out of sync like
two blades
spiting the screws that hold them tight.
And rust they will,
your eyes if closing them
feels better.
For a bitter taste settles on
tongues that hope to dance
yet barely dare to step
beyond their teeth, they quiver.
And these footsteps that find you
lost amongst the promise
of empty bottles you have found.
I wish to hear them,
your hidden breaths from under
what slender cheeks you turn,
to the ground.
From what pages your
lashes spark
and spring from as the world
whispers wonders in your ear.
The trickling words
that tickle you
to smile.

I bet it’s been a long day
It’s too dark at five o’clock.
You did some things the wrong way
The snow. You’re cold. It’s hard to talk

But it’s only the deep.
It’s only the trees.
It’s only the rustles
Of animal feet.

If your demon is here,
would you want to know?
Just look in the places
you go that you don’t want to go.

But they look you in the eye
Tell you there’s nothing to fear.
But they don’t know what lingers
When you look in the mirror.

One curse under your breath
One curse, one worse upon your head
One curse that mangles the silence
When you lay down in your bed.

They don’t know what you are
Some crooked silhouette
They’ve seen your face, and they’ve heard your voice,
But you have never met.

Soul is never more certain,
Than bare skin in the rain,
But you know something darker still,
There is no doubt in pain.

The infernal machines loudly portray their thoughts
When all culminates they taunt me.

Hysterically laughing at my blunders
No machine can make a mistake
Banging at the doors of the psychological house
Of my nature; my brain

The infernal machines, steam spewing; combustion fumes fill the air
Choking only me to my breaking point
The unforgiving hardness of the machines
Touches my skin with severity.

The infernal machines broken…
With no more fumes or steam lay torn;
For machines cannot feel the security of warm blooded touch
Beating; bludgeoning
I weep at the hardiness of their steel in that cold basement in which I dwell.
I smash them with my emotion (now I taunt them)
Watching the deprecation of the beasts’ rusty metal.

But…
With a sputter,
The infernal machines awake,
Building their factory over my rose lilacs
Where you and I once laid.

Those machines of my psyche
No longer allow the good in me
To be released out of this bubble of depression
That consumes me when I am secluded.

But humming below my feet,
Droning on, they heat the floor.
My path always leads back to the machines.
Believing the lies, they whisper to me.
Beckoning my ******* self to the bottom,
of that basement where the floor is no longer,
a grate, but a slab of concrete.

As I approach the stair, a figure stops me,
“Head my warning. What you seek, or feel you should be seeking isn’t there.”
I repressed this.

As I walk, the sound of the machines slowly haunts its way to my ear.
I strain to hear and when I arrive the machines are off.

I sprint through the basement, but it seems they have abandoned me.
In a mad dash, I frantically search for a working machine.

But to my demise have forgotten,
That machines cannot give nor receive warm blooded love,
And for this reason I sit waiting for the next sputter of the evil machines,
For it is all I know.

love it is a nature and it lies within
when you meet that special one your love it will begin
you will feel emotions and a beating in your heart
to let you know that love is just about to start
its such a lovely feeling and there to let you know
something that you feel when love begins to grow.

When I first thought of typing these words
The message I sought to convey,
Was that without knowing the problem,
"I'm hurting" isn't easy to say.
Upon some further reflection,
I probably could articulate my upset,
But that would leave too much open for inspection.
I don't want to be told that I am mistaken,
or even that I am correct.
What if my dream is left shaken?
Instead I'll suffer without going on trial.
I'll keep my fear to myself.
Let us hope I'm not in denial.

I found a bottle in the attic
Beneath a film of dust it read
"Liquid Dreams" and "Do not consume if
you have a history of broken hearts"

A gray-green light shone
Through the tired glass

I popped the cork and drank deep of others' desires
And here I am

Raised up in honey.
Now an angel in glue.
I never worked out.
What happened to you.

Bruised in this world.
A walking red eye.
I used to think about,
this, and I'd cry.

External, eternal.
And nothing to do.
Circles on circles.
Whiter than you.

Scored up in sanity.
Cut up in pain.
Metal and things.
A runaway train.

White lines and distance.
Your journeys end.
A crushed up nonsense.
No receive, just send.

This verse is so cheap.
It's all just the strands.
Of a much bigger thing.
I just sit on my hands.

Lost.