mad world

sad world

bad world with a cigareete in your hand

and a gun down your throat, pop off that cap

of that coke, let it slide down your throat

pooling in the pit of your coat

pocket it, lock it up and throw away the anecdote

that moves you from one being to another and

rides your waves into the next lover

loving every moment of your ten second fame

frame it and loathe it

because it grows upward and outward

branching out, limiting the route that you take

and moving you at a high speed rate

speed ball faster than a super nova,

from over the rainbow and down to the pit

with witch you write your wit and your lick

which sit like whips in the hand of someone more fit

for your position, transition forward and for warn those before you

that the cap in your lip and the trick you can’t flip

exist from things we don’t get

like this mad world

this sad world

this undying, full-flying bad world

that we create

from anger

from love

from up above we put our fate

when its down on the ground that preaches hate

and fear

hear the dawn coming fourth

the sun will come up, and the world will spin

until then keep running your pace

save face

lay waste to this earth, blame it on race

then look back and remember

one feather makes one part of a whole wing

and two wings make a bird take flight

a flight that moves mountains, making height their plight

the tallest leaf of the tallest tree

must be the happiest

stretched to the sun, with only clouds as blocks

reach forward and stretch to the ends of this earth

this world

this mad, sad, bad world

pull the trigger, flip the cap

and bloom out of the dust

up to the sun

fill your lungs with the rust of aged earth

and breathe

I never thought it was my fault
Until everyone started telling me it wasn’t.
I was a little girl with two left feet and a
Right hand that shot up before everyone else’s
In class.
Now, I keep it in my lap,
Tucked safely beneath my left.
This is what you left.
This is why on Christmas, I get an email,
And you don’t get a response.
This is why, when I talk to boys,
I don’t see love until I know
Where their hands go during a fight.
I never thought I was damaged until I saw
How the other girls lay their heads casually
Down on warm chests, and
I realize my neck does not bend that direction.
This wasn’t an issue while I was strong,
But time is too long, and there are no
Body-sized indentions for me to lean against
On the walls that I stand inside.
I never thought you would be gone for seven whole years
Until each day, you didn’t come back.

You pluck at the stems of grass,
Unwinding the world one strand at a time,
Forcing them into alignment,
Making a pattern, making it fit.
But it always unravels, doesn’t it.
The continents spin and the
Tectonic plates will not remain still
Enough for us to get a firm grip.
We reach towards the centerfolds
But our hands always slip.

But that doesn’t cancel out what I feel right now and all the space floating around with nowhere to go but deeper down inside of me, waiting for the right words someone inflicts upon my sensitive eardrums to bring it out again. And the words will come and the pain will return and I’ll think back on this moment with a different perspective than the one I’ll have tomorrow.

And I don’t look forward to tomorrow’s smile because this right now feels more real than anything and I don’t want to forgive them even if they deserve it and I don’t want to cancel out everything I feel now as a distant memory because it’s so strong and it belongs here. And it is justified, even if that’s just in my own mind, and I don’t want them to go on believing that
I
am
indestructible.

Missing you; it came as a shock.
I was knocked onto the sofa, out of the
Conversation, down with the drops of confetti,
Stepped over and under before the screams started.
But I should have seen this coming.
Before, it had always been you
Letting me down, standing me up,
Calling me closer, beckoning with your
Finger by your lips and then
Shoving my head down right where you wanted it.
This time, it was me.
I told myself that there was a chance.
I knocked myself from the world.
Expectations had wound themselves inside of
My pockets and I couldn’t shake them off,
And there was no friendly boy with eyes glued to mine
That could come slip them out of my jeans.
I was alone and unprepared, without adequate supplies,
Without the veracity to watch myself unwind.
And so I was the one that lit the match,
Unbeknownst to even my own mind, wanting to
Rekindle our past, but only burning
Down and down; - I tried to drown it out,
Until the alcohol added fight to the flame.
Water was not on my radar and I was
Lonely and lost, fenced off from a savior.
I disembarked. I was the captain that does not
Sink with the ship. I left myself in a pile of ashes
And was briefly resurrected on a blank kitchen tile.
This is my fault, and I will not be rescued.
This was my fault, and I am the only one who can go back
To salvage the pieces of my shoulder, liver, aortas,
That I left behind. I will stitch myself unto myself
And I will leave you out
(This time)

You wormed your way into my room through tendrils
Of smoke curling through my hair
You sat on my bed as if you belonged there, and
Who was I to tell you any different?
This is not a hate poem; this is a coming-to-terms with my own emotions.
We kept the lights off, a deliberate foreshadowing.
I could feel you sinking lower into my sheets,
The conversation didn’t bother itself to become memorable.
You said you were six feet tall, I’m still not sure if that’s true.
I made you stand up to compare, but didn’t garner much,
Other than what it feels like to have your breath gently flow towards
My perked face, to have your hands withering at your sides before
Stretching out, over my torso. We sat back down. Conversational squares
Emerged. You kissed me, like I knew you would, without hesitancy or
Any questions at all. I had a few, but your lips stemmed them, and I figured
Your body was answer enough. It was. At least the first time.
It felt good. You were good. Especially to me.
You wound your way throughout my body and stroked my worries
Into oblivion. Don’t get me wrong, I wanted it. We both did.
But looking back, I wish there had been questions.
I wish you hadn’t known that I would give myself to you.
Just like all the other girls before, just like all the ones after and during.
Nothing that happened was wrong. I came away from the night with
A new sort of tingling and a spreading smile and endorphins that
Seemed to bounce from side to side within me.
But I still wish I had been special. – Not what happened, but me.
This is my greatest downfall.

The cannibal is thirsty
for a flesh martini
Dabs of salt here and there
On tongue and ocean groin
The ******* is hungry
To be the tender olive
Eaten very slowly
Lick the ****** pleasures
Of each other's
knife
kiss
Maternal affections
pouring open by God's rage
They are
shelter
Ignition
To each other's
demons
wonderfully delicious
as frosting or
whipped
cream
They are rare fruit, indeed
What are the odds of them finding each other?
Just goes to show, my lonely lovers
There's someone for everyone
You too
Will find
Your soul mate
Someday
just as the blood
Will eventually
Drip
from
the cannibal's
smiling
mouth
Oh my love,
you are my
yummy chicken bone
dipped in
your
sauce
"Ahhhhh...." he says
"This must be love."

1.
it’s a monday night when your ma first tells you
that she never wanted to raise you catholic
and she’s sorry you had a breakdown
at the soft-mouthed age of twelve
but you have to understand
life is more complicated
than crooked teeth
and even tones

2.
on this day, in 2008: the sky was red
and you were very lonely

3.
your uncle smells of sweat and scotch and little secrets
the sun is shining and your blood swirls
a sea of brown, bubbling, tense
you cut your meat quietly
and
later,
throw up in the bathroom
with everything golden
everything burnt

4.
“you’re kidding,” she says,
ashy and freckled and too good to last,
and outside the rain falls
static in your chest
you say “no, really;”
her teeth have a gap
and you can feel
the smoke
stitched
into her breath
and

5.
“what?”

6.
there are flowers on your windowsill
in medias res: dying, never dead
and your bed is always cold
and your shoes don’t fit
and it’s alright to miss
the tears, if you want
but you don’t

7.
“oh.”