Motel room, U.S. map made of license plates
everything I need for a week is here, king-
size bed, microwave, fridge, tv, hot plate
the carpet's pretty clean, the bathroom baptized
and there are two mirrors in which to imagine
myself, to analyze and idolize.
WiFi, no Elizabethan inn,
in a century when we fear nuclear war
and we're warned against the shock of fast changes,
the door sports three locks though nothing dangerous
could happen in a town like this, named for spring
water found by thirsty desert travelers.
My home for a week living alone, contained
safe from the elements, roar of airplanes.
Left, right, left again
both ways before crossing the street
a ritual engrained in our minds since before
we could walk and yet
today I stepped off the curb with hardly a glance in any direction but
The cars on the road lurching forward,
wheels churning over debris and loose gravel,
the crunch speeding down the street to
meet my ears at the crosswalk
a last ditch attempt to bring me back,
make me care where I was placing my feet,
positioning my body.
I dragged myself lightly over the painted lines
on 32nd, a hitch in my step from the brace constricting
my ankle, looking up once steadily atop
the next curb.
Right, left, right again.
All danger passed and I continued on
step after step until
looking danger straight in the eyes
feeling the rush of adreneline as you see the tempting orange flames burn behind stone cold pupils shrunk so small you wonder if danger has ever seen anything it truly liked
do I follow danger down his path of mass destruction, I mean it'd be one hell of a ride and I'm sure in time it'd mean, something
or do I stay safe and leave danger at the corner where the streetlights illuminate the darkened world with orange light, the same colour as danger's firey eyes
he looks so heavenly, like an angel in disguise
as if he could never hurt a soul or even tell a lie
and in that moment, I know what choice must be made
I wish danger goodbye, for I know pretty boys with pretty eyes who tell you that everything's going to be fine and he'll never hurt you and most of all that he loves you
He could see that my heart was in distress.
There was no need to second guess.
"It wasn't my fault." he would say.
"It wasn't my fault you would disobey."
Constrained, I tried to flee someplace distant.
Underestimating the level he was persistent.
Pointing the barrel at him, he let out a plea.
It was pointless though... Pointless to try and convince me.
I could see that his life was finally put to rest.
There was no need to second guess.
Hands brush the tears from my cheeks.
Hollow hands with hollow bones
that are supposed to belong to me.
My hands can create works of art
so beautiful that my eyes can’t keep up,
they can play the piano and dance
and run themselves through someone’s hair
when my heart is too afraid to speak.
My hands hold a pen like it’s life support,
they revel in the words flowing from beneath
sharp fingertips, they rejoice in the silence
of those who hear me speak my poetry
the way it’s supposed to be spoken: aloud.
My hands are works of art and yet I feel nothing
when they touch my body. They are cold
and numb and I feel nothing.
It only feels good when they hold sharp objects.
Not to my arm or my throat, just between my fingers.
I enjoy the fear of pain it instils in me.
My hands hold a knife the same way
they hold a pen. It keeps them alive.
The only thing that warms them up
is the danger of blood
pumping through my veins. Naive I may be
but I dance like the seductress
with blood draping itself over my skin
and desire burning behind my eyes.
I know what I want when I look at him,
dancing to the music,
inhaling and exhaling smoke like perfume.
I know what I want when his leg touches mine
and I feel the anger blazing inside me,
the anger blazing bright and wild
that I never want to let go.
I know what it feels like to burn alive
when I see his eyes looking elsewhere
and my hollow hands reach desperately
towards the darkness, reach desperately
towards his hollow face.
I find myself swaying to the music of the shadows,
my hips tracing the ocean’s waves,
my eyes glancing upwards with erotic charm
through lowered eyelashes.
I know what you want when I look you.
I see the lust behind those umber eyes,
it drips from you and you bite your lip
as I approach you.
You bite your lip
as I hold your face in my hands.
You bite your lip
as I allow your arms
to trace the waves with me
until I’m the one biting you.
Biting you so you can’t get away,
so that you’ll never want to,
because the feeling of my teeth on your skin
is one you’ll never forget
or get again. Because no one knows how to use blood
as a weapon or sex as a tool quite like I do.
No one knows how to bite you quite like I do.
I know what you want when you look at me,
you want my hollow hands which come alive
on paper, music, paint, to touch your skin
and taint your soul. You want me
to coat you with oil and destroy
your feathers, to pluck the beak
from your mouth. You want me
to make you human
and trust me, I will.
Just you wait.
When it comes to most things in Life
I tend to "jump the gun"
And New Years Resolutions are no exception.
So, for 2018,
The Year of the Earth Dog,
I'm going to make my New Years Resolution early,
And vow to stop criticizing, insulting, denigrating and protesting
President Donald Trump.
"Why?" you might ask me.
"You're so good at it!" you might say.
Some people might think
That all my ranting and raving
Might force Trump to resign or get impeached or resign
Much more rapidly,
But guess what?
I'm gonna' shut up right now.
'Cause the "Hillary Clinton Bitch Feminists"
Are much more of a real threat to me
Than President Donald Trump and the Alt Right.
The Nazis might ask me for a light
To light their Tiki Torches,
But they aren't gonna' DESTROY me.
Women who are too heavily on the Yang Side
Might kill me.
I've decided to give President Donald Trump
A "Free Pass" from now on
No matter what he does.
Ah, how perilous!
How tenuous is the hair which holds the Sword of Damocles!
How terrible it must be to lie in the seat of power,
To be cradled in her bosom of lust, ambition, and greed--
To turn endlessly over one's shoulder,
To have one eye forwards, and one eye back,
Never at ease.
When the throne becomes a death knell
A holding cell
A hotbed of restlessness,
Look up! Look up!
See the mighty sword above your head,
How it sways to and fro,
And on the hair of a mare rests your soul, your sole lifeline's thread!
You find yourself in the pit
With the pendulum swaying to and fro,
To and fro,
Closer and closer,
Closer and closer.
How terribly loathsome your position has become--
What painful prostration must you now display in self-effacing humility,
An abomination to your pride and claim of invincibility.
Ah, but what respite!
To live no longer in the shadow of fear
With the threat of death removed from above thine head
Like the unshackled chain of a man excused from the gallows
You are free!
But do not forget,
For the torment of power is a great responsibility,
And you'd be wise to remember that the favor of your king can change at a moment's notice--
He is a paranoid man, after all.
The Sword of Damocles!
I walk down the street, my hair messy
My makeup sliding off
My sweatpants riding low on my hips, dragging on the ground, collecting dirt
And a low cut tank top.
Tired, exhausted, worn out. Unattractive. And that's okay.
What's not okay is when a car slows down and yells
"Hey pretty girl! Where you off to?"
Attention is not something I'm looking for
It's a bed that I'm seeking
A good night's sleep
But instead of a bed I find
Yelling unwanted compliments out of his car window as I walk back home.
Should I answer? What would I say?
Should I be honest? "I'm going home. Off to bed."
I know what the response would be. "Can I come too?"
Or maybe I can say "I'm going to see my girlfriend."
I don't have a girlfriend, but for the next five minutes,
She's right up that hill, waiting in her room to see me.
No, his response would be "That's hot! Can I come too?"
Or maybe I have a boyfriend instead.
More dangerous. More of a threat than a girlfriend would be.
No, to that he'd say "He's letting you walk by yourself?
Must not be much of a man. I bet I could take him in a fight."
Which brings up many more issues
(i can walk by myself if he were real he would respect me so thats more than you do if he were real he wouldnt fight some random asshole over me treat me like a PERSON god dammit)
That I would not want to address with someone as dangerous
As a man telling me I'm pretty out of the window of his car.
Maybe I can say "Please leave me alone." Being direct is always the best option.
Unless he continues to follow me.
Or gets upset.
Or refuses to leave me alone.
Or gets out of his car or pulls me into his car or or or
I don't know. I don't want to think about it.
Or maybe I can just keep walking.
Ignore him, act like nobody said anything
Act like there isn't someone I have never met in my whole life
Yelling out of the drivers window of his car
Telling me I'm pretty.
There is no way out of the dangerous thing that is the male gaze
Once it begins
There is no easy way out.
Fairy Tales end with happy endings,
Not bad memories and a drug problem.
I see the world as a sad fairy tale
With teens wishing upon a star,
Wanting a happy ending.
I wanna DIE!
They scream as they drag
a blade across their perfect skin
With an abusive father
and alcoholic mother.
I want you to LOVE me.
She cries because he left
Her for a better version
Of barbie, with bleach blonde
Hair and sunkissed skin.
I want this all to end
He slurs while finishing
The empty bottle of jack
He kept hidden under his bed
Away from his toxic grandparents
And runaway sister.
I have no place on earth
He laughs while placing a colorful
Sticker on his tongue
Starving because his house is broke
And his mother is addicted to meth.
I know stories
That are not mine to tell,
Stories that are told without words
But actions that speak
There’s a girl overfilled with
Pills and drama.
She reminds me of a bubble
Light, and fun to play with
But get to rough and she’ll explode.
There’s a boy with a mind of a girl,
Filled with unhappy thoughts
And bad memories sent away
For eight months because of
The rope tied to the ceiling.
There’s an eighteen year old who
Writes music to escape
The feeling of being messed over
By a girl with unhealthy habits
And a way with tricks.
I know a boy who chose
A better life in the marines,
then a jealous stepbrother,
And suicidal father.
Today, i spoke of these stories
I was told to show you how life
Is not always given a happy ending
For those who deserve it.
But you, have the decision to change it all now.