chilled sheets touch white skin
inner turmoil leaks out
staining cold with fear

washing machines can't
remove the stains of the past
but they can sure try

stains tell the story
of each person's midnight horrors
who says where stains lie?

splattered across sheets
are the stains of my nightmares
strange; they look like tears

who am I kidding?
one night I will cry non-stop
and it will be good

tonight's are good tears
I am so happy to weep
they don't look like stains

my sheets are pretty
scattered patterns lie
they are beautiful

no more stains for me
I see them as beauty marks
on my sleep canvas

What is the meaning of life?
What is the answer.
No, not a complicated equation,
no, not the so called "science" of humanity.
I just want a simple, simple answer.
Maybe life is so the air feels important,
or maybe life is for the sky to feel beautiful.
Maybe life is for the grass to feel warm.
Maybe life is for humans to accomplish.
Maybe life is for animals to feel joy.
Maybe life is for music to be heard,
for food to be tasted.
Maybe life is just...
life

Worthless
That word always seemed to have stuck to me,
It was the word I scribbled in my notebook,
It was who I though I was; who'd I always be.

I lived by that word for almost four years,
Four years filled with regret sadness and hate,
Four ******, starving years.

That word was part of my being,
It was my virtue,
My rhythm and my rhyme.

There was a time when I did the silliest thing,
I let words cut me deep,
Worthless was a gaping cut into me.

That word I've always resented; but somehow respected,
I fed it power and let it host on me,
I gave the word life and it destroyed me.

I went along with life and the Worthless never faded,
It left me with a life that was jaded,
All I saw was grey.

I look back at myself, then back here again.
Now look at me I've lost all my friends.
All I have is a string, with no knot at the end.

I suppose worthless will never leave me,
It'll always stick around in the silence as company.
I just remind myself that I can do much; but I can surely try.

I'll wipe my own tears when I'm alone to cry,
I'll scrape myself off the ***** ground,
I'll always keep moving; no matter what's stopping me.

I'm Rosalind, and I'm ******* proud.
I won't have a word **** me from the inside out.
I've come so far to give up now.

So come worthless; feast on me.
**** the marrow out of my bones.
I wont go down easy.

I feel like I am trapped,
Inside my head,
As if I'm watching everything,
That happens,
But have absolutely no,
Control over any of it,
The lies just keep coming,
The smiles just keep flashing,
And no sees through it,

Help me please,
I am prisoner in my own body,
I'm trying to signal to you,
Trying to show you how broken 
I am,
I wave to you with my eyes,
But you see nothing,
You don't hear the cry for help 
Hidden within my words,
Please help me escape,
From the prison of myself.

You know less when you think you know more

A block from the office
the city is tearing down an overpass.
Today they're beating the **** out of it
with a pneumatic hammer
the size of a freight train.
Its pounding
in time with my heartbeat
like the worlds largest metronome
suspended from the end of a crane.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

I keep wondering
what’s going to happen
to all those buskers and hookers
who peddle their wares under that bridge.
I'm not seeing it though and
no observation means no poetry.
No poetry means no catharsis, and
my guts are full of hornets.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

It’s the great whisky **** of the spirit,
the all-encompassing lack of passion;
the longing for old friends;
the desire to lean on old habits
the chinks in something resembling old armor.
the crease, the seam, the fold.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
Misfire on eight.
There’s this pain in my head;
behind the left eye
where the secrets live.
driving and grief stricken.
(misfire on eight.)
The headache has no name, but
it sings a song.

Bang – Bang – Bang – Bang

The timing has to be right between a man and a woman
Otherwise even something with potential cannot materialise

Tired
and bloated.
-filled
to the brim
with *******
that isn't
yours,
or theirs
-nobody's-
but
the patterns
that refuse
to cease.

point blank,
a tweaze,
small enough
for a
particle
you swore
to have seen
but didn't.
unravelling
thread on
pants, that,
at one time,
belonged to you.

pulling up
a shirt,
showing skin,
marked
with beauty
and growth
blue and pale,
shown to
everything,
but
the sun.

naked
in the
dark.

a brief
illumination
of life,
for a second
that is too
short
to be
a second,
leading
to a
momentary
darkness
that is
too long
to be
a moment.

Timeless
fragments
of life
splattered
across the
walls,
floor,
ceiling,
-non-representational-
like the
emotions
they once felt.