Everything I attempt to write
  seems as if I'm forcing the words from underneath my tongue.
I am one, among many,
          and there are plenty more where I came from.

My DNA is shared and swapped.
I am a drop in the sea of infinite combinations... but here I am.

I suppose it'd be nice to believe that my life is planned.
That I am heaven sent, and I should spend each day paving my way
  in hopes of reaching some sort of divine ending,
  but I'm still mending, from what my past has lent me,
  and I bet everything I have that this will take a while.

I am a child,
  a horse running wild, carrying my baggage behind me.
But don't remind me,
  'cause that's what the whisky is for.

And yet, no matter how depressed,
    or blue, or just like you I become,
    I somehow find a reason for opening my eyes tomorrow.
I am a swallow.
Far too free to ever
                                be
                                      with
                                            anything.
I am medicine.
I will heal, and hold, and mend your cold, but I will soon be gone, as will you.
And this is the only truth that I am aware of
  aside from bugs, and trees, and creeks, and dreams.

We can try to hold onto something and make it our own.
We can attempt to lock it away for days and days,
    and wait for a place that will eventually become the word forever.
But I know; this is impossible.
Not probable.

Everything is a countdown.
      Three. Two. One...
                NOW.

I think I'm okay.
My eyes are wide awake,
  as I lay in the place in which I chose to end my yesterday.

I feel as if I should be anxious,
  but I'm not, 'cause if I stop long enough to worry
  I may just leap from the ledge of this apartment building.

It sounds sorta thrilling...
  but I bet a million that my blood, and my teeth, and my bones on the street,
  are all very far from filling...
And if I made it alive,
  I wouldn't survive the outlandish hospital billing.

They keep telling me that everything will be alright.
I just wish that all rights didn't eventually turn into a left,
  because I'm sick of leaving things behind.

My two-sided mind is always changing.
I'm constantly re-arranging the furniture that is my thought process,
  and the room's a manic mess.

I step in shallow passion puddles.
I don’t swim in love-filled lakes.
I dive straight into scarlet sin,
  and drown in my mistakes.
So many men I’ve left astray,
  and led into dismay.
I’m a pretty, pouting, predator,
  pouncing on her prey.

In the past my heart was glass,
  shattering many times.
But soon I got through the shades of blue,
  and resorted to a life of crime.
Stealing hearts without regard,
  even if they were occupied,
  ‘cause they can’t resist a green-eyed kiss,
  with lips that taste like wine.

In due time I’ll make you mine
  until I’m through with you.
Then toss you away when I feel it’s the day,
  just like a man would do.

When in which I gain control
  you’ll do just what you’re told.
‘Cause I don’t fit the old school mold
  of that  “typical woman” role.

It’s not my fault you sold your soul too soon,
  it’s not that serious.
I just wanted to test the waters,
  **** a cat for being curious?

Humungous pupils.
Little girl.
Attempting to realize the ways of the world.
Sinning and spinning,
  she twists and she twirls,
Through the tornado that fate seems to whirl.

So sure of herself,
  yet quite the mess.
Eager to learn and quickly progress.
She lays awake in constant distress,
  pondering humanity's stress to impress.

How on Earth are we all alive?
Buzzing around this big beehive.
Working for life then turning to dust.
Just for the honey, our bodies we bust.

Investing our trust in invented ideals.
Shunning away what's important and real.
What ever happened to "see, touch, and feel?"
We're worshipping paper, and mountians of steel.

Our slates were clean the day we were born.
From magazine pages, our knowledge was torn.
We were taught by Barbies and trucks to conform.
And we learned about love through movies and ****.

But imagine a life without fiction and wealth.
We'd all be forced to act as ourselves.
Without influence or image to compare and contrast,
  we'd have less confusion about how we should act.

A society raised on make believe.
Injected with ***, diamonds, and greed.
Living our lives on borrowed time,
  and filling the spaces with Marlboros and wine.
But then again, I'm just a girl,
  with humungous pupils in a made up world.

I'm something like a storm;
  an unexpected downpour of water droplets, and pent up emotion,
  that begins so calmly, and ends in a path of destruction.

Leaves flip.
The smell of condensation is so distinct,
  yet the clouds hold back their fury
    until they can no longer withstand the weight of their sorrows.

Tomorrow.
Sunshine;
  as if everything has cleared from the mind of the sky.
Arid and dry;
  and everything is thriving and far more alive.

I recently read that in order to flourish,
    one must build a proper foundation.
So, I painted my bathroom...
    and I'm still not peaceful.

I buy things, and arrange them in a certain way.
I work for six days, and sleep on the seventh,
  and since I can't bring these things into heaven,
  I should just burn it all down and face the elements.
Know what I'm sayin'?

I don't see much of a point to any of this.
  Buying **** and keeping it.
  Dusting it, adjusting it.
  Fixing it, fussing it.
          **** it.

I'd be far more productive if I were free of these luxuries
  that we all hold so dearly.
I'd see more clearly with nothing interfering.
          Severe healing.
Myself, reappearing.

****, and hips, and hair, and lips
  are what little girls are made of.
And if you give us the chance,
  we'll smile and dance;
Just the canvas to our make-up.

Pen to paper;
Ink, and leaves, and blue, and pink,
  sinking and seeping through fiber
  as I attempt to repent and release what my mind holds captive.

I used to trip on acid  
  and wonder why my fingerprints curved in such a pattern,
  and for days after,
  I'd wanna jump from skyscrapers just to get the answer faster.

I'm flattered as hell to have you waking up with me,
  but I'd rather know exactly how it's gonna be in an hour,
  so I read horoscopes religiously, and hope they give me a hint
  as to where the **** I should be going with my life.

We've all got a factory price.
The lowest marked dollar sign of attention, or respect, or ***
  that we'll accept just to make us feel as if
  we are worth the energy it takes for us
  to walk around on this rotting earth.

Therefore, we all reherse a bunch of charming one liners,
  with hopes that we'll aquire someone
  who will finally save us from our past.

My poetry has gone to ****.
I've been sitting here sulking over sheets of notebook paper
  with thoughts in my head about boys and their beds.
I'm a spool of thread, tightly wound, until you pull the right end,
  and the entire amount unravels and rolls to the ground.

I am confused as to why I choose to continue wrapping myself in illusion.
I know the conclusion.
It's as if I've been reading the same book for days and days,
  but its cover changed,
  and I still pick it up anyway, as if the ending won't be the same.

Sheets and sweat and morning *** are highly overrated,
    unless we're sedated, or our hearts are somehow related to our bodies.
But they all want me,
      and its getting quite redundant
      'cause I can't find it in me to love them.
Even when I do, it's too good to be true
  and I'm back with a pen in my hand rewriting the same poem I wrote before,
  and the time before that.

Everybody knows that love poems are just corny, boring, complicated stories,
  so spare us the glory and get to the gory, 'cause it all ends in war.
Skip the detour, and forward to the part where we're bleeding on the floor,
  or to when you're calling me a *****, 'cause I'm bored with your facade,
  and wont ******* anymore.

It's so **** bleak and predictable,
  and I'm far too intelligent to fall into such drama.
But I do.
And that is something no amount of rhyming couplets can change or explain.
So I'll stop trying to.