People are utterly filthy.
Rags besmirched black and undertone red in blood, and ****,
and tears, and thrown up alcohol bought cheaper than a
***** on Seventh.
Oh, tell me about it.
I saw a dead person once.
Grime under fingernails and teeth carved in gingivitis--
filth of a body really; but still I cry for this begotten soul
until my own hands grow
disheveled in the hue of
Women are always sobbing.
My good friend with fishnet tights cries and
cries when the bottle breaks and
glass becomes embedded in those brown
fingertips of hers.
What is worse?
The stench of rotting flesh mixed with Persian White
dripping from a needle three years defective,
or the scent of sobbing women soaked
lily-livered in sweat.
With an honest tongue, politely I exclaim:
I’d rather sit with the flesh of the dead man whose filth is rotting
away with the mist of dawn,
then the crying pupils of thou who breathe in
white wind from the heavens
and exhale clouds coated thick
in a thousand vile songs.
My mother loves me like she loves the
rain when it pours and
curl ‘round their suppor-
-ting bones mercilessly.
And the pebble in her shoe
that makes blistering wounds;
She loves me like she loves my
Lack of Drive.
Determining how much the woman
is but a test untaken.
As without the rain
green drys black.
she only shows
When I press broken fingernails deep inside the
fleshy surface that is an anemic palm,
I am reminded-
I am real.
This is real.
Fourteen years old.
I remember the first time I got high
like it was yesterday,
but I can’t for the life of me
remember who am I.
Close-set eyes like brown almond paste-
(no my eyes are blue.)
This ****** body stripped of sin
only to mess it up again.
But I'm fine-
Everyone says so.
Fine like the wind in summer
blowing round and round cotton fairies.
And I press broken nails sharp like glass
into frail skin
if only to feel something.
But it never lasts long enough
Every time the sirens scream,
the blood in my hands grows colder the usual.
My chest aches in such a way I must hold myself
back from clutching it.
I breathe steadily- or as steadily as I can
as to not create a fit of panic.
But it’s terrifying.
Send a prayer to anyone whose
willing to listen and it goes:
Heavy brown eyes and a glinting smile saying hello
in a way that makes me want to cry tears of
Memories- innocent and pure with the wind in your hair.
And the siren continues to wail.
Being terrified that those firetrucks and ambulances are for the dangerous people you know and love.
Tall ones are the best.
Don’t cry when they don’t
talk to you- don’t cry when they do.
Read 10 minutes ago
Pretend you're asleep.
I’m asleep I’m asleep I’m-
too tired to see you today, but soon.
Read 6 minutes ago
-I wouldn’t I swear I like you
a lot I would never even think to-
(Tell him- tell him I’m down.)
Seen 20 minutes ago
“Don’t drink the water after schools out;
it’ll make you live forever.”
Love is like a dream
where everyone wakes up melancholy;
only lasting a small while.
I miss your face.
I can’t feel my hands.
They're tingling and,
my feet are sinking
into the carpet.
Red and scratchy carpet that spins over
But my heart is smiling.
it has been a good day
I used to have this dream about white umbrellas with red dots and red umbrellas with white dots, and there was a beach with nice sand-- the soft kind that doesn’t feel scratchy on bare thighs.
Maybe a blue woven blanket and a transit radio with rusted edges. But there were never any people.
Except for me.
I was there walking along the too soft sand- barefoot and jubilant.
The waves crashed horizontally- you could see them, but came quickly to the realization that you would never feel them- they only traveled left and right.
And the sun and clouds and very much blue sky would be extremely beautiful-- until a sort of smoke like thought would enter your head. The thought
none of this is real.
I used to have a lot of dreams. But now I’m not so sure when I dream- when exactly I stop dreaming.
It’s like someone pushed a pause button on my ability to sense reality as it is.
It’s a terrible tribulation to attempt to hold focus- my head is a daydream.
Like I'm living in an upside down daydream where nothing is real, yet my actions do in fact have consequences.
Like I am nothing more than a person made up by another mind sent to play poker on the 50" flat screen you just had to buy.
My head is attached to my body but my mind is not. And this body-- my body- is not actually so.
Every memory is disfigured and foggy and seems to make no real connection.
Who am I?
I don’t know and I don’t think I’ll ever know again.
It’s too complex a thought.
Am I saying I like something because I like it- do I truly enjoy it?
Or am I just saying so-
I mean, what do I really like?
Who is this person behind my eyes?
I’m not sure anymore.
Is this actually a poem?
Feel the bare mattress scratch against your thighs
and moan in self-pity ‘cause it hurts like a-
Rub broken knuckle stubs into your temples.
Stretch out one two three toes and pretend not to taste ashes on your tongue.
(Forget to brush the cancer out of your mouth again?)
OPEN YOUR ******* EYES
Oh don't be so ******* self-righteous.
Use scarlet nails to probe Scarlett pupils,
wipe away the morning slime and marijuana high, because
quite frankly, no-one wants to see that.
The carpet has another puke stain.
Walk around Carpet’s new addition.
Choose to be Superman- leave lights off.
You're not Superman.
Bump in T.V. stand, dressing table, fan.
Jesus Kid. How many more bruises do you want to acquire?
‘Sal right though. They’ll fit in just fine.
Violet fluorescent bulb-ly lights that nobody likes.
Come on now- when’s the last time you’ve changed them?
Yellow ****- not surprising.
Wow. You have not gotten any better looking.
The poetically inclined ****** with knotty curls
and a brazen face your mother likes to call
is staring from that cracked up mirror
into your pink, anemic eyes.
Even your ******* reflection wants to jump ship.
Where are your shoes?
High school really is Hell, huh?
Keep your head up Kid; or down…
Last night’s hurrah is still evident
in those washed out, glazed eyes rolling
around in your head.
But don’t worry-
you’ve got a small token of the American Dream
in your back pocket!
You didn’t forget did you?!
Ah- Happy Birthday Kid;
enjoy your ******* oxy-
and try to stop shaking.
You look a mother ******* drug addict.
sugar coat it thank you.
Your hearts a mess-
so skillfully trying
to weave its way
But I’ve already began
cutting the ties.
I don’t want your love.
I won’t lie; not to you.
She crawls around in white
like a dream.
Fluent only In Miss-
The eyes have made
an exception it seems
her diminishing alongside
them; like the dreamscape
The only see the ecstasy-
lodged between her teeth.
I bet your lips taste like ashes.
Cyanide flavored poison-
sweet like candy floss but
Deadly; burning from the inside,
Hands hot- the back burner of
your sister in law’s cast iron stove.
The flame of desire ravaging
your skin in your past lover’s
Press flesh too hard; the best way-
It leaves violet marks of recycled love.
And I’d dream of a future,
while you thought out tonight’s dance.
And I’d listen to the rain
hit each brick wall,
while you turned out the light
and felt nothing at all.
Put your cigarette out on my soul.
If it keeps you safe,
It’ll keep me sane.
No matter the sensation
of nicotine flame
pressed to my heart
I’ll love it if it means
I can love you as well.
He’ll play you like a violin;
hands softly grasp hips-
Tap so light the beat of an anxious heart.
Caress strings until melody
coats your tongue in ecstasy.
Plays songs gently-
until he wants more,
and maybe you do too.
Snowflakes fall each larger than the last
causing the night sky to illuminate grey.
Pale toxins swirl around insomnia ridden air
and find themselves lodged behind cream cuticles.
Joker cuts and peels and peels.
Purgatory in powder-
dreams and reality have finally combined as one
“Run! Come on their gonna catch us!”
We really messed up this time.
Whose idea was it to smash
the mailboxes? Deface the school
parking lot? Jesus Ch-
“Is that mom’s car?”
“Three for seventy or five for seventy-five. Best deal in town.”
We really messed up this time.
Who forgot the lighter and
and cash? Where’s the hell
are the papers? What the f-
“Are these sugar?”
WHAT THE FU-
“Shut up! He’s gonna see us!”
We really messed up this time.
Who thought throwing popcorn
at the cute movie theater boy
was a good idea” Oh sh-
“He’s looking over here!”
“***** tastes better straight.”
We really messed up this time.
Who bought Smirnoff? We
wanted UV. Where are the
shot glasses? Son of a-
“I think this stuff is expired…”
SON OF A B-
“We had a test?!”
I really messed up this time.
When did we even take notes?
I don't remember the what
we even went over. God da-
“Yeah, he said its worth 20% of our grade.”
“What is going on?!”
We really messed up this time.
The room smells like substance.
Curtains closed- eyes closed.
Broken orange bottles- Bu-
“He took too many!”
“He’s not waking up!”
“This is the best day of my life.”
We are okay this time.
Let's pretend I’m false realist living in a country house painted white-
-er than my skin. Taking one part milk two parts tea with my antipsychosis-
red or blue? It doesn't matter the color it's what’s inside. Cyanide or morphine? It could be either or neither but the color will never say. Shade has no lips to speak. Coffee- black- at noon.
Read the paper:
God Save The Queen! Why does god only save the Queen?
Perhaps my windows are stained glass portraits of F. Fitzgerald
and Rosa Parks. Another sip of coffee- black- as societal
issues sink my lungs in defeat, a horrendous ache in my
temples is reincarnated.
Glints of red window glass catch my attention from the corner of a
wandering eye- reminding me instantly that I’ve taken
the wrong pill.
Paintbrush; tarnished by tetanus and
rage. Clutching to the handle, so
Desperate, are hands of the most
Tainted so in the deepest shade of sin.
Fingertips to broken knuckles
to wrist- flick. Violet stains
canvas; pre-medicated strokes
dance shy upon.
Lips part; breathe resigns quiet within.
Every night spent tasting the sweet
poison of insomnia- tears
gone unseen- are replenished here.
Each stroke weeps
silent hymns of the saddest kinds to be.
Soft watercolor dreams drip down his chin.
Public schooling houses dangerous and
the most delicate beings to walk shy
or stomp upon the dirt. Thou whom love
to hate, yet hate to love; teenagers. They
take their pill if good mannered, but hide it
behind false grins, if not, to find later
in a tin box dusted in carcinogens.
The golf boy doesn't hide his pill- never.
Swallowed with a glass of social simi-
-larity, he melts away but likes it.
He feels safe and warmed by the flame of
fake. And then she comes along taking a
psychedelic too many- red eyes of
their own fire. Taste the skin of ana-
-ther on her lips; sweet like cyanide tang.
She takes her own kind of pill named CANTSTOP.
She is named crack ***** by more than a-
-lot of head down murmured voices coated
in curiosity. They're not afraid of
her anymore- he is though. Slightly but
he doesn't say it. **** up- They know it.
Golf boy knows it. Crack ***** knows it. He knows
it. Small town ******- no future- can't even stay
in school long enough to see a paper.
But can play a chord like a rose in the
barrel of steel- a voice of nostog-
-ia. He makes people feel things too deep yet
barely scratches the surface of himself.
He used to hide his pill. Not anymore.
She dreams of running away with a bottle
of pennies. He drinks champagne and dreams black.
She writes melodramatic spells above
her collarbone- he spends the night alone
thinking dark things about a girl who now lacks
a soul- she used to light up. Not now though.
And they all take their pill like good little
The stars shine brighter than I've ever seen,
evergreen veins tangling ‘round the skyline-
the gravel dust like
breath of the travelers.
And turning around to face the world,
I saw a glimpse of the stairway
painted black with the sins of those said wanderers.
Collected behind my eyes;
overflowing down my sullen cheeks,
is the sweetest emotion I've ever felt.
The bittersweet taste of nostalgia crawls
in anguish upon my tongue;
burning in such a way,
I only think of us.
is the auburn fire etched across fall
skyline- spiraling downward with every tantalizing shake
of the wind.
Every angel's breath sending dying wishing weeds
to fly across; under noses; tangled wildly in hair.
And when the pink sun kisses the horizon farewell.
Not with that of passion, but with mismatched lies,
as being soon she finds her way
to next ground far and even farther away.
It is the color of eyes.
Primary shades of astrological star hunted eloquence sewn together
sideways with whitewash prescription pills.
Beautiful is the way
cancer bleeds grey ribbons curled
around winter ravished lips.
Black mascara rivers flow down the highest peaks of glossy cheeks,
flowing in a downward spiral towards a pointed chin and protruding white collarbone.
As toxins billow out of her mouth, a narrow stream escapes her nose.
The cigarette smoke painting lungs in cancerous shades,
creating a soft smiled Mona Lisa on her throat.
Sometimes I can't sleep.
Spidery shadows named Regret creep
Around myself, camouflaging with the night.
Nobody whispers sinful dark deeds into my ears;
No voices howl in echoing patterns.
It's just me.
And me alone.
Caught awake in the dead of the night.
It's kind of peculiar that they would call it that-
“The dead of the night”
Because it is actually quite alive.
As am I
What an interesting thought.
“Black like cigar ashes” thought.
Pills can taste like candy if you imagine hard enough.
Sad is a penny word.
A “too vague and distantly grey” word.
It’s edges don't shine.
They are cracked and dusted over
in silk space dust.
Depressed is a dollar word.
“Milk and honey on our throats” word.
It sizzles people's lips
everytime it dances in their mouths.
Everyone is depressed.
While they sit beside their open glass
windows and write tasteless poetry about
Depressed and how they feel it.
How it courses through and through their
Everyone is depressed.
But I think maybe I am just sad.
Sad like pain and tears that don’t fall.
Maybe I am Depressed.
I want to inject sweet tangerine sunsets into my veins
and let the warmth fill my body
To spin Saturn's rings around my pinky
and dance hopscotch behind reality
My lungs painted pastel
In cancer and soft robin egg blue
I want to see the colors of psychedelic
Sound waves that crash guitar solos onto beaches
Mostly I just want to be happy.
I do not know where I am from.
One-hundred and forty-seven hours of contemplation,
Yet still I am stuck in a strange situation.
Am I from the gold corn stocks
that build a wall around me?
Their weeping silk threads caught around my fingers, and
that strange fresh dirt smell that always lingers
in the depths of my sweater.
Am I from the constellations painted on my cheeks?
Their upsetting color like paint
splattered on a canvas in uneven spirals;
claiming rule over my pale round face.
Am I from John Lennon?
His weeping Guitar and yellow sunshine
shining into me in sweet melodic tunes.
Am I from Atlantic, Iowa?
Home of the trojans and simple
minded people who are yet to accept
Am I from a hateful world where black and white
Is the only thing we ever see?
Where body parts are to pave the path of one's
Am I from a nation,
whose officials pledge vacation,
while those in need sit hungry, brazen, on the streets?
Where the only thing they feel is the hate
they’ve been tasting?
I am from drawing patterns on the fogged over
emerald-tinted window glass.
From the shiny grey floor of a retro skate rink.
From the laces of black converse shoes; torn and *****.
I am from laughing as loud as I can
at midnight, 1am, two thirty.
But most of all,
I am from soul.
And from the one hundred classic rock songs we always sung.
I am from youth and aspiration.
I am from smoke curling through my hair.
I am from the chalk dust,
settled rosy pink in my lungs.
The way his fingers trace the straight
metal strings laid tightly over
the sunset wood instrument.
It's almost as tall as him
or maybe it's taller.
I remember the way his eyes would close:
Body slowly, subtlety, swaying.
You looked beautiful.
Extremely beautiful in all of your wild glory
and small-town fame.
I guess it’s sort of strange that
In all honestly,
I hated you.
I still don't fully appreciate your presence.
But watching you from the back rows
Of a high school auditorium,
From your hands coming forth a
Euphoric noise that seemed to coruscate
Atop the bodies sitting stiff in the audience.
Time always slowed down when you
But not my breath.
You made my breath rigid.
Aesthetic cigarette smoke weaves through and through the air
Sinking into the threads of jean jackets
That already smell like night time chills and rain.
I hate smoking.
It looks pretty cool.
It started in the seventh grade.
You were young and I was young and I think
we can both completely agree that we were
pretty dumb and ignorant.
It was your voice I think,
that really brought me in.
Sweeping me up until
I was hopelessly and mindlessly
wrapped around your finger.
It wasn’t like honey.
and it most definitely wasn't like
“Sunshine on a cloudy day.”
It was dark.
Dark like midnight skies twinkling with starlight
and warm cinnamon that stings pale
It was quiet like mysterious city alleys littered with
brazen homeless people,
sleeping in fetal positions on the streets.
Like hurt and joy and youth and indifference from the rest of our peers.
But that's the catch.
You were different.
You were beautiful in all your youthful glory and wildness.
Adrenaline spilling from your presence; sweeping everyone up along the way.
Taking them with you.
Smiling and laughing and dark eyes twinkling
Like that of the stars nestled deep in your voice.
And then there was I.
The shy, extremely indifferent, and mostly awkward
middle school girl with too many freckles
and too big glasses that filled her face full.
Your name passed the coven that was my lips
like a sacred secret
too many times to be sane yet,
did mine ever pass yours?
I aspired for you.
Yet you never did for me.
Unrequited love, my Dear.
My teardrops don't flow from bloodshot eyes
down angry red cheeks
staining yellowed pillowcases
black with sorrow.
Collected in a leaky pen
with rusty metal cap,
they form words on
crumpled notebook paper.
build T’s that don't cross
and from the womb of weeping winds
come forth Y’s that curve at their tail.
bleeding heart, whose
tears dissipate with that of a child's day time fury.
But bleeding scripture,
is quick to injure
as it weeps its words
forever and eternity.
nobody ever “got it”
they didn’t seem to understand
that it was never about the drugs
they saw a waste of space
a low life teen
surfing on neon hallucinations
they saw angry decisions
blackened by ash
and a years destruction of a
pill bottle’s attach
said we should have listened
harder to those programs
the cunningham family ones
they show at school
the ones that showed us
drugs were “bad”
but those **** things
failed to inform us on the “noise”
the “noise” that would soon fill
the space of every broken
dream, promise, or heart.
the “noise” that weighed
down on us kids
that didn't end once it had
they failed to mention
the pain and the stress
they lied and never told us how
life, school, parents, everything
was forever one big unsolved mess.
like a knife it slit into our souls
bleeding tears and dignity
we leaned over bridges to try and catch
our childhood memories
but we kept bleeding
losing ourselves in a void of darkness
deeper into a blackened abist
and so we kept falling,
trying desperately to cling on to any branch
until our shaky blue fingertips kissed
softly against an ecstasy.
and finally for the first time sense as
long as we could remember,
the noise was no more.
You like to draw.
To make art.
I could be your paper.
Make me into art.
Sketch your every feeling,
Into my blue hands,
and rose cheeks.
I wouldn’t mind.
I strive to be your
It's like this strange wiry sensation that taps the nerves just below my skin
Starting in the awkward curve of my temples, running down my spine, settling in my toes
like a sudden burst of uncontrollable rage that plays dormite in my head
And for a second, just a mire second, I completely lose my mind.
My nails dig deep into the frail flesh of my palms.
It’s called anger management I suppose.
— The End —