you were
always too
busy writing
about things
like life
and love
while it was all
happening

history repeats
itself
but you were still
too busy writing to be
a part of it

with keys and
a screen,
ink and paper;
knife and skin

the places that were
meant for you
to be in
only exist now
as the spaces
between your words

and you could have
learned that people
could write
with you or write you
and that they too
can be written

now you are
legend; a myth
written in the
wrong words, writing
for the wrong
world

you were the best
story you could
have ever written

but you will never
know any of this
because
you're too busy
writing

Which of your tired angels, or stone-faced prophets, write the epitaphs for those dreams that we sacrificed so tenderly? Is there a meadow
in your heaven, a quiet place apart from the ceaseless rejoicing, where the beauties of what might have been may go to forget the slow
decay of remorse? I ask this of you, without pity for myself, but rather, sadness for what has become of those feelings and hopes and
loves that weren't permitted to die a natural death; the hearts that were silenced by betrayals. I haven't forgotten that first
entrance to your cathedral in the woods; I felt in that moment that I could change the world with nothing but a pen and your love to guide me.
The world it seems, has seen fit to punish my vanity, and rightly so. Or have I finally come to understand that I don't live in a legend or
an epic, have I woken from a fairy tale to understand my own weakness? I wish I had known how green the world was in my youth; perchance
I would not have taken those quiet moments with you for granted. I don't believe in myself, how can I when I have thrown away so much,
spoiled so much beauty with my ignorance, my need to ask questions of the dreams rather than accept them as blessings from your soul.

A hollow stippling of a soul in the breeze
    hiding in the bushes of perilous vexing
there are days when the wind howls
    whispers darkly  at the ominous night
feel the chill that passes through
           dances coolly on pressed eyelids
                   floats tepid beyond the senses
             know it's the emptiness that comes
        right before realities' disenchantment

Not all of us hear the melodys that can be described by punctuation marks,
most are blind to the music.
Who are these people to hear the greatness of all instruments,
but who are these people that can not feel.

Lets pretend to hear voices that talk about every word we hear,
or is that madness for the close minded soul.
I feel like i know something,  something  more.

The vibrations
The feelings
The beats of our ear drums
The solos of our heart

Lets put a word, a simple one,
the people who know about the little voices running away inside

Its passion.
Love.
Darkness.
Meaning.
Its about the rythim
Simple songs that talk

Every song is different to your type of heart

you're a cns depressant i
knew from the moment i met you cause
i remember tasting you before:
the bottle of white
***
i stole from my mother like
fire and bitterness and
damp cloth across my mouth
drank you dry and
felt a little less volatile
fire fighting fire no room for hurt when i can just
lie here
and count every eye as it closes i
am argus:
all-seeing, hundred-eye
and everything i try to protect
is stolen when my eyes
close
{scatter my eyes on feathers
and never let them shut again}
deep draughts of you i
remember
your taste
and the way my skin buzzes and mind numbs
when you burn my throat.
you're a cns depressant and i,
the loneliest child on the west coast you thought
the california scene
was supposed to be
brighter than this
but i've lived here all my life and let me tell you:
every morning is
chill grey skies
and fog
that tastes tonic
without the gin, or
to put it differently:
everything i don't need not
fire just
damp chill
{i'm starting to think that
every california love story
is set in death valley because here
the ocean is cold in the height of summer
and the streets are empty at 5 am when i decide maybe
i should stop
writing
and make sure the world is still there}
and for me,
a child
with an empty bottle
and an empty room,
you were a monster
that i prayed i would find beneath my bed
you are a fugue state i dropped into willingly you
let me forget
that the water is cold
let me forget that this life
is the least compelling plot I’ve ever read
and i’m tempted to skip to the end
golden state fugue state in death valley sunburn girls
shed their skins like snakes and i
lust after empty husks
but i grew gills when i tried to drown in the bay i could
never be as hollow as that i
bite my lip and hope i'll bleed this time
instead of just aching
{no more aches just fire and fog if
i bleed
catch it in an inkwell you know
black ink
is worth more than my blood
send my letters to the red cross and spill red across the pages}
no more aches just fire and fog i
always liked myself more when i was on a stage
hope this story will skip to the end
cause i don’t think I can take another apathetic word i wish
this narrator
had drowned before her gills could form
but i feel a little less alone with my hand around your neck
you’re a cns depressant you  
held my hand as i burned
you made me a chain of four leaf clovers and i swallowed every one i think
you made a bad decision
when you chose to help me survive

I've only written poems about love.
Most of them-
filled with angst, overflowing
not unlike
a flooded river,
maybe the Nile
in spring.

I don't really use lipstick,
or mascara for that matter,
because makeup,
is just something to hide behind
a shield that people are trying to cast off
every day.

writing a poem without inspration is like
trying to describe a chocolate eclair
without taste buds.
Maybe that's why
this is so hard to write.

But I had pleaded for another wish,
on a birthday candle, one day in May
Blowing the little flame out,
I rode my hopes on that little spark,
making sure that there were no embers left in the ashes.
Maybe I missed one,
I'm not sure-
because that wish still hadn't come true, to today.

The voice of an aucostic guitar strums into my ear
my only comfort
against this dismal highway.
And my earbuds are unbalanced
the right one louder then the left
and no matter how much I tilt my head
it's still uneven

Someone once told me
"Tears taste like the ocean"
that same person wiped away those tears, brusquely saying,
"Don't cry. I don't want you falling asleep tomorrow."
I held that as an act of kindness,
one of the few close to my heart.

The taste of coffee is too **** bitter.
Yet I crave it,
holding its warmth against my hands
and blowing the excess steam off.
Starbucks, in winter.

When flipping through paintings of angles and demons, I wondered
do angles really have halos?
do devils really have horns?
Who created the idea of supernatural creatures, at all?
"Superstitious freak" I mutter, slamming the book shut
and getting up to get another book
called
Lord of the Flies

The blinking crusor and the white screen that's staring at me right now
4:45 a.m in the morning
I couldn't sleep.
So I check my email-
it says
You have no messages.
For some strange reason, that's always the time when I feel the most alone.

I wonder
if people these days would ever write something,
just for their own benifit, and not for the lust of getting reviews
or compliments
of others.
I'm a filthy hypocrite, and I embrace that fact,
writing pointless stories just for the sake of getting compliments,
telling me
"You're worth it"
and
*"amazing."