That you take my old bones
often clinging like wind-chimes
at the old Kansas windows,
will always be a sadness

A sadness that stretches somewhere above and beyond all the colors in the sky

Something that consumes me
Starting with a lump in my throat
I wish I could spit, I wish little by little
it could leave my insides and end up on the pavement like third generation gum

But instead Im left with a feeling of dread
that casts away into the ugly orange sky
of a day dying

Time is the ugliest thing of all
it will see you and let you fall
cracked staircase after cracked staircase of soon to be
demolished houses
paint chipping off walls like leaves scattering in the fall

Tooth decaying
world greying

And you take my old bones
often, clinging like wind chimes
and you watch them dance in the dusty sky

I'll love you through the night
After you made the couch a bed
And the tv light is still on even though the movie is playing in your head  

Whether you're dreaming or speaking
Or just sitting there thinking
And even when you get to shrieking

I'll love you.

They say the stars rarely come out in New York
But have you been over it, while sitting in an airplane?
New Yawks a galaxy
A galactic city named atrocity
Urging people to find themselves, and learn about themselves
Narcissistic like astrology  

New York rushes me
And brushes me
OFF
New York is so inspiring
But yet
My thoughts are stuck in traffic
And trust me
We have writers on every block

*** holes
That mock

The tapping of your shoe
As you try and try to hush a crowd
Just so that you could get through

We got news anchors talking about how somebody got shot
and sometimes you feel your spirit beggining to rot
Because you can't stop
Imagining bullets
Shooting In every angle
Just dipping into your wakefullness like lullabies
Once in the heart
Twice in the eyes

And three in each ear
It's like **** what you think, feel, see and hear

But It's next year and your still here
In the city where the sound of an ambulance
Can be your alarm
and with a stranger you'll sit arm to arm

So come camp out in Brooklyn under the bridge because your heart will know exactly where those lost ideas now live

Come take the subway and study the map
It'll let you know where to go to get all your inspiration back

And if all fails head to the flea market somewhere sorta creepy downtown
And get yourself a muse
She'll show you around.

I see
I taste
Wasteland of emotion
I feel but yet I am still void
What do I have to offer?

He takes a drink when nothing's going well
He forgot we had a good thing, no one could ever sell

Empty out the bottle baby
Ill be home, let me be comfort....maybe?

I lost his number
He still has mine, but he's busy
trying to become number

I buried my feelings in him.
He just
wants to be in her
And she can only
sometimes let him
            In

So I finally understand how the bottle could win

I finally understand dysfunction, the glory of all sin


And I am utterly familier

With pain,

In the tide of its reign  

Sindi

The ones who should be forgotten are those who let you shift away from their memories like tectonic  plates in the earth

are those whom never placed you in their hearts, not even a single place even though the chambers are boundless and love is known to drop fast.

Face it, you weren't rooted in their cores
and when you floated into space, their gravitational pull wasn't strong enough...
because they didn't even try to pull you back.

It didn't matter how funny you were. How original your thoughts could have been.

They didn't know you were so out of your element because they didn't know your element.  

They lost sight of your ghost thinking it was all of you.

You're lost forever now and like a body lost at sea, they will never cross the bay.

They wouldn't even think about making a time machine
your existence was bound to be forgotten anyway

The only thing natural about your friendship was the disaster

You were the scarce soil that was only good that one time, the empty battlefield where blood shed was covered by the wrong victories.

-Sindi

Every so often I wake up on top of my own blood
It seeps into the bed sheets where I usually count sheep
It causes a mess
But it comforts me

Because every so often I'm reminded that I am a woman and I have a woman's touch
I'm gentle but fierce
And blood, I've seen so much


Blood is the reason for a motherly touch on a child's scraped knees
A bandage infused with love engrained into the very fibers so deep

And Every so often someone's fingers touch and a bond is formed when one drop of blood kisses the other

And even when a baby leaves it's mother

It it covered in the sweetest pink tint of blood