I am a vase.
I sit alone,
on a flimsy shelf,
my vibrant colors smothered
under a layer of protective dust.

Look closely,
There are cracks in my gently rounding curves,
almost invisible,
where pieces once fit.
All made by the hands of mirrored friends.
Where blossoms of entrancing beauty once stood
there is nothing.

I am empty.

I am a dandelion,
standing alone in a naked field.
My white fluff threatening to leave
at the breath of greener pastures.
I whisper for the gusts not to blow,
but they do not hear.

I am alone.

I am a mirror.
There I hang for all to gaze into
with agonizing vanity.
I am a result
of their deep-set hubris
and ever-present pride.
I am a window to their souls,
reflecting their imagined qualities
as the naked truth of their cruelty.

They smash my candor
into a thousand lacerating pieces.

And I am broken.

Energy,
Swirling tendrils reaching out,
sparkling, shimmering gold
meet glittering emerald green,
bright and shining.
The wall comes down.

Searching minds and asking questions,
silent conversations,
all the while surrounded in
energy.

wrapping, blanketing,
soothing the loneliness.
Seeing through each others eyes,
thoughts exchanged.

Mellow tone and warming timbre,
all through softly glowing
energy.

Heart beats are racing.
My aching thoughts crave calm
from the gravity.

Paralyzing cold,
You have suffered for so long,
I love you, don't go.

I am too selfish,
I am selfish in this world,
This cold, cold, cold world.

Your quit breathing,
I still need you, please don't leave.
I'm begging, pleading.

I am too selfish,
I am selfish in this world,
This cold, cold, cold world.

Through silent screaming,
I see the soft stillness come,
and then, your last breath.

Anger, grief, relief!

Dear Johnny, Dear Jane,

We never really got along,
I never like you from the start,
so here's a little song I wrote
about your ******, ****** heart.

You have a ****** way,
you're a psychopath with pride.
The things you do to those around you
show your shittiness inside.

It's really a pity
that you're so ******,
you're ****** to the core.
You never feel love,
your ****** fits like a glove,
and each day you get ******* more and more.

All you'll ever be is ******,
you'd steal from the poor and the blind,
you'd poison the food of your neighbors kitty
and you wouldn't even mind.

You're a terrible, mean  person,
you lie and cheat and steal.
You take what you want and leave nothing behind,
you probably don't even feel.

It's really a pity
that you're so ******,
you're ****** to the core.
You never feel love,
your ****** fits like a glove,
and each day you get ******* more and more.

Your just a big, steamy, smelly, reeking, ****** pile of ****!

Sincerely, Me

Some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.

They come out wrinkled and cold,
their verdant skins hardened and crisp.

One crushing bite reveals
a soft yellow center,
soured cells seeping embalming vinegar.

Feathery dill disintegrates,
bringing biting flavor
to our cryogenic sandwich toppers

But, some people say cucumbers taste better pickled.

Wind rustled leaves kiss
softly in the morning sun,
whispering wishes.

Good mornings, hellos,
Tranquility in my days,
sun filled warm greetings.

Smoke wafting gently
through the crisp, early sunlight.
Steam come from my cup.

Flutters, feathered wings,
some covered in bright sky blue,
some brown and some red.

Brightly, singing songs
to me from their wooden homes.
Today will be good.

In my pink swimsuit,
getting ready for a day
at the beach, I hear

news so confusing.
Suddenly, my mother gone.
I sit down and cry.

My grandpa holds me,
I've only aged seven years.
Heavily sobbing.

My father takes me
later, we go to the beach
anyway, but then

see a waterspout
and a rainbow overhead,
Think of sand dollars.

I know she is safe,
I can feel it in my heart,
suffering no more.

Why did I drink
excessively? I have put
myself in danger.

Hands held from the back,
unwilling *******,
from you, a stranger.

Pleading and confused,
violating ecstasy,
forcing sweet release.

And then there were two.
Forwards and backwards, blackout,
lost is my control.

Remembering parts.
Painful, and the counter top,
hair ripped out harshly.

Murmuring, "please, no,
stop." All through quiet sobbing,
"It hurts, please... stop."

Barely, I can't move.
All full, and being taunted,
I can't fight back.

Saying, "You like it,
take it like the ***** you are."
No one comes to help.

Mother Mary, now be wary
and watch as my power grows
over sickly Sarah

(who couldn't bear the cross of her fears and woes)

Rattle rattle lost the battle
Death -  
the sinking doggy paddle
and a single shotgun blast.

streaming moonlight wakes me from demented dreams
of green staring eyes
and blood on the bathroom walls
and shoeless hallways
and blindless windows

they took my purse they took my wallet they took my
clothes earrings phone sunshine air leaves and grass

they took my blood

the north winds cookie crumbles constellations
and wafts her sultry glares through my eyelids

heres your cocktail go home

you are an oak tree. once strong and powerful, you touched the skies with your rustling sun-kissed leaves and could see all the world. your roots ran deep. no wind could topple your indomitable branches, and the birds found haven in them. the people and creatures of the world would sit in your cool dappled shade while your leaves whispered incredible tales from the east wind, soothing lullabies from the south. when night came, you would reach for the waxing moon, pondering the glittering stories in the sky. you were strong.

now, you are weak and withering, struggling to find respite from the fiery sun and heavy oppressive heat. your naked limbs see nothing and your thirsting roots lie just above the bedrock. life has fled your blighted branches, which crumble at the breath of death. the east wind whistles by you, barely a taunting memory of your life. you turn to the south, but unconsoling silence meets your skeletal branches. night comes. the waning moon stares down mockingly, silencing the glittering stories that once guided your life.

the cold had caused much restlessness
within our people's heart
the vengeful hand guiding their hate
would tear our lives apart.

the sun was setting on our reign
and night was closing in
worried visions peirced our sleep
and burrowed deep within.

the verdent hues of spring were near
but just beyond our reach
for on the ides they took us too
a land of snowy beasts

so there we stayed until the sun
rose dizzyingly high
and when the ****** snows did melt,
they brought us back to die

Imprisoned in a gilded cage
with summer drawing near
the revolutionists appraoched
injecting us with fear

we had our frozen dew drops royal
stitched around our waists
a final effort to release
our family from this fate

then when the moon was high at night
when evil things do crawl
they took us down below the house
lined up against a wall

their bullets pierced our fathers heart
murdered our brother too
and diamond corsets failed to stop
royal blood from running blue

it poured out over all the ground
the watchmaker had won
the royal lineage was dead
our priviledged lives undone

the vessels we had once possessed
endured the desecration
of acid baths and deep mine shafts
and burning mutilation

and so about two weeks inside
the seventh month, july
the last of russia's royalty
would bid their lives goodbye.

i am drowning. strangling pressure cups my frightened face, caresses my flailing limbs. its cold clenching hands grasping, pulling, beckoning me, boasting safety and security within its undulating abyss.

breath

numbing and chilled, it creeps inside me, flooding my body with sedating venom, the hopeful light above fading as my chaosed mind is pinned under crushing power.

breath

my aching thoughts crave respite, my salty tears mingle unseen in the murky depths. i meekly surrender to its tearing clutches, searching vainly for that glimmering spot of hope, reaching out and finding nothing.

breath

my eyes snap open. i watch hopelessly, my placid surface frozen, hiding the tumultuous currents beneath. my protection and comfort lie comatose before me, living only through each slow, steady

breath

fear wraps his hindering fingers around my throat, slips in, his tightening grip seizing my voice, the unspoken words lingering behind silent lips: i love you.

rattle.

there once was this guy named oedipus
of whom it was prophesied
that his mother he'd marry, his father he'd ****
at a place where three roads were tied.

his mother and father discovered their fate
and tried to dispose of their son
but he ended up in corinthian lands
and their efforts were all undone.

then a drunk guy ruined his happy facade
and to an oracle oedipus went
who repeated to him the dank prophesy;
he fled corinth, not taking a cent.

while on his sojourn away from his home
he encountered a party royale
which rudely pushed him off of the road,
and angered he slaughtered them all.

then from that blood soaked three-way path
he nonchalantly flew
not knowing that his father was
the man that he just slew.

he continued his journey until he reached thebes
where a sphinx held the city hostage
so oedipus solved the bird-cat's lame rhyme
and released thebes from its *******.

as a reward, the people of thebes
gave oedipus their widowed queen,
unknowingly joining mother and son
in a marriage that was unclean.

after they ruled for twenty good years,
during which four children came,
a plague was induced by the sheltering of
the man by whom was slain

in searching him out, oedipus found
that the murderer was really he,
so long ago. the man he had killed
at the place where were joined roads of three.

but by finding this out, he also discovered
that his wife and his mother were one.
he gouged out his eyes after her suicide;
in her own bedroom she was hung.

as it turned out, oeddy exiled himself
but the seeds of his misery were sewn.
so he went to colonus and wandered around
and this is the end.

i am leading an undefined life
on a kite string
full of fake faces, staged greetings,
and smiles
that don't quite extend to the eyes.

it is as full as a predated diary kept until now.

my childhood went missing in rose gardens
and the space between
the goals.

i had a chalkboard that wouldn't erase.

i have read between the lines of love notes
i have read emotion in only seven letters
i have read passion in fourteen keys

i thought i was untouchable
              ...and i was...
                         but not unwillingly.

i got caught writing nursery rhymes
on my desk
           in the middle of an exam.

and now, at eighteen, i have seen
the carriage stop, and slowly drive away.

i have heard the beauty
in john cage's
four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

i don't know why, but i have chopin's
nocturne in E-flat major
stuck in my head.

i hate not being able to say the right words
          when i need them
instead of when
                i find them.

i love the woven metal
embracing my finger;
       that makes us almost sisters.

i've lost a heavy golden crucifix
     with an anchor as its back,
and a tiny bundle that tore me up inside.

i'm looking for a fireman
named greg
just to see how he's doing
since 1997.

i wish that everything i wrote would become truth,
    because then
          i could make people come back.

and my heart is strong.