Poetry by Pablo Neruda is something I was just forced to read,
for english class,
and maybe I could enjoy his poem,
called Poetry,
if the soul less bodies around,
could mindlessly stop! saying;
"this is pointless,"
"his poem is about poetry because of the title,"
"his poem has no meaning,"
and If I could focus,
I would of known the meaning,
or at least found meaning in it,
besides the one my stupid classmates found,
"just another ****** forced assignment"
"we will never get the meaning of"
but I know the meaning of his poem now,
"It was about the struggle to write,
and understand poetry to start with,"
and in a room full of people,
who don't get poetry,
maybe they could of gotten something from this lesson,
but, "we will never get the meaning of a forced assignment,"

The mirror looking back at her
screams compliments over the loud music
coming from the stereo behind.
With artfully smudged eyeliner,
she slips into the little black dress
purchased from the cheap lingerie shop
down the street from her apartment complex.
Six inches above the concrete sidewalk
clicking with every step,
a lit cigarette dangling at her teeth,
she walks proudly to the ball
twenty minutes past midnight.

The morning after;
spiked hot coffee in hand
to cure mistakes of the previous night
and a knock on the door
greets a worsening headache.
The door opens to a well dressed man
and a tiny glass slipper
atop a diamond-studded throne.
He holds the delicate shoe to her foot,
toe nails painted black,
and patiently waits for a response.

“Those aren’t my red stilettos.”

The path to a mind of insanity
can be seen as a gaping hole,
the one inside left hollow and empty.

Running from all signs of conformity
the truth is we are the ones who are full
of things only thought of as insanity.

Running from our own form of what we see
through the eyes which sit inside the skull
and wishing to be anything but empty.

“Don’t get caught up in the world’s vanity
or you will end up as nothing but cold”
are the words driving us towards insanity.

If the ones only filled with shallow glee
could understand our minds were carved from gold
and they will be the ones left aged and empty,

they would be forced to politely agree
upon the ones who have always been whole.
They are the jury and we plead insanity
while their minds and the prison cells stay empty.

THREE THINGS YOU WOULD DO IF YOU WEREN'T SO AFRAID.**

-talk to him again

-love him again

-finally forget him

The room feels heavy,
sleepy morning smiles
and satiate English words
clinging to to air.
They reach out,
trying to pinch me,
as insistent as
the professor's smile.

Some of us still feel
as we do at 7 a.m.,
though our minds are
overflowing fountains
of new knowledge
as we try to hold
and scoop it back in.
they're drowning me,
the letters are drowning
and too tired
to swim.

It's the feeling I get
of a stomach ache
and not being able to tell
whether it's because
I'm actually sick,
or just overwhelmed
with possibilities.
*What will I do?
What will I be?
Maybe I should
just try to focus
on what's in front
of me.

Oranges you make my hands sticky.

You make my knife sticky.

my clothes, my mouth, everything sticky.

i wonder if it is worth it just to be healthy.

i wonder if it is worth it to eat the tasty insides.

i wonder about the worth in anything when i eat you oh orange you.

You remind me of outcome - effort = worth and how i hate that about you.

Don't make me think, don't make me sad and angsty.

For God's sake your supposed to just be a fruit.

I don't remember the part of my job application that said i'd be bored out of mind.

I don't remember being asked to be born in a town where things to do were so hard to find.

I don't remember telling anyone to make the fuel of my escape what can only be presumed to be unicorn blood.

I don't remember exactly when i stopped being a stud.

I don't remember when my bank account shrank.

I don't remember when i started to care about what was in the bank.

I don't remember what i wanted to forget.

I don't remember if I'm lying to keep from getting too upset.

I don't remember becoming this much of a cynic.

I don't remember turning into the crotchety folks i used to mimic.

I don't member what Dante said about Hell.

I don't remember quotes too well.

I don't remember getting this sad, mad.

I don't remember when being this angsty became so bad.

I don't remember so why then i can't stop?

"I remember, I remember everything" says quintessential action hero Jason Bourne. Personally I say he could have been better off.

I remember the out of the ordinary, a nonbeliever that I'll ever get enough.

I remember the feeling of take off on a Jet airliner, the happy clench of my hands.

I remember this year seeing some of my favorite bands.

I remember the summers of love, the winters of hate.

I remeber having far too much on my plate (last week, yesterday, this second).

I remember also the comforts of an average day.

I remember the listeneing to my record player play.

I remember the warmth of a fire on a chilly night.

I remember being okay with feeling just alright.

I remember driving around this holey town.

I remember just hanging around.

I remember the basements where so little happened so much of the time.

I remember all the friends that I could call mine.

I remember many things and yet so little.