and behind some bitter, white picket fence
actually, she stalled.
Tapped her feet on the pavement, cuddled the curb in her ripped dress.
She wore pink in her hair,
little slivers of an innocent, chapped lip.
a dying pink.
The fence creaked with the interrupting wind.
and she stood, danced across the street.
cracked hands gripping frigid door handles,
come on in.
Torn garments, wisps of pink flying from her head,
she felt pretty in pink,
third grade, mother-just-bought-a-new-bow pretty,
innocent, dad-bought-me-glittery-shoes pretty.
Pink matter that drips onto a glass floor,
everyone can see through it,
What is it, woman?
she gave her hand to a solo cup,
Pink drink, it’s good for you,
good to me.
To the third floor,
and lay down.
do you like the pink?
He always said I looked good with pink.
i'm afraid of being
i'm afraid of eating
i'm afraid of the dark
and what i can't
see in it
i'm afraid of the light
and the people i've
met under it
i do not live in fear
but fear lives
i am not entirely
but that's not to
say anyone else is
What if I lash out
When I'm exhausted
and say things I don't mean,
What if you believe me,
Would those words
Haunt your mind
When you doubt yourself,
When you doubt us?
Maybe, maybe not.
But if that does happen,
If I hurt you,
I'd hurt myself
Twice as hard.
she's searching for god
in all the wrong ways
kissing men and bottles
turning her home into a brothel
staying up till dawn
chanting his name instead of
she's looking for redemption
and a way to let go
she's looking for god to forgive her
but instead she begs for you
to touch her and love her
and make her feel complete
she wants a godly love
you can't compete
she's looking for god
in all the wrong places
in broken homes and
raging fires she's
looking for god in the
ugliness and the daze
something to kill the haze
she's looking to start over
to get rid of the guilt and fear
but she'll run as fast as she can
whenever god comes near
she doesn't realize it but
it's not men or god she needs
it's forgiving herself
which is something so high up on the shelf
she just can't reach
is my breathing as loud to everyone else as it is to me?
is everyone else hearing my heartbeat?
oh my GOD they totally are
that's why they're staring
they know you can't cope
go straight to home. do not pass go. do not collect $200.
can't win them all.
home, comfort, familiarity.
i'll try again another day.
At a towering height it looms o're me
Hiding me within its shadow,
It bears the face of a phantom
with eyes that are dark and shallow.
With one jagged claw around my throat
and the other to my heart pressed
Its voice is a deafening static,
it will never let me rest.
It speaks with empty words that sounds so horribly like truth.
It praises distrust and confusion
while demanding the need for proof.
It feeds off the nervous breath that I breathe,
Its intoxicated by thoughts of gloom,
It sucks the life out from my lungs
and my happiness it consumes.
The shadow overwhelms me,
now my body's growing numb
I wait in mortal terror
for the darkness to overcome.
Then something catches my attention,
is it fear in those empty eyes?
Its grip begins to loosen
and its static sounds more like lies.
There's a whisper moving gently
like cool water upon the sand
He kindly beckons to me
asking that I take His hand.
The jagged claws have lost that grip
which once held me strong
Now I can face it eye to eye
as I should have all along
The shadow fears the Whisper's truth,
and it shudders in trepidation
the battle's won, the foe undone
now in retreat it hastens.
I inhale deeply and then a voice
with no language and no tone
breathes over me, saying lovingly
"You are not alone"
Slipping into nothingness, slowly and quietly,
I realize my worth living would only gain interest when I die
No one understands or care
Nobody wishes to understand or care
I do not understand or care to
This is the manifesto of the walking dead
I am dead inside so I live no more on the outside
It is from within that I speak
Deep within the abyss of my soul
This is the last speech of the living dead
I fear for my soul, my life, my flesh
I fear for what is to become of my essence
I do not speak of decay or of posterity
I fear for my significance
The answer to why I'm here- now
Who will take my place?
Who would continue the crusade, the cry, the plea for sanity?
Who will fight for rationality in my stead?
I am dead within and soon would be just dead
Between now and then, I will fight
This is the cry of the dead
Is it ending now?
I crumble in the corner,
Of my few days left.
Fire swirling in the dusk,
Hard to push on.
I fear I have no second chance,
No room left to breath.
My only light,
Dim in the foreboding night.
Feeling stretched till eternity,
Wanting to run.
Needing breathe for the last stretch.
Passing out into my abysmal lost wretch
Gone are the moments I can’t remember.
In this, my awful mess.
On this sacred day,
they await a Savior:
a light for the shadows,
and warmth for the long nights.
Days and days they sit
in the very same holy spot,
praying for the change.
Winter slowly creeps in,
shaking the zealous to their core.
Faith, a fickle candle,
can't stand the gentle breeze.
The wick becomes chilled,
the flame extinguished,
and the weak begin to flee.
Those faithful to the Sun
scorn those who leave the holy site.
Even as the light dies
and the world grows cold,
here they sit patiently.
Unfortunately for them,
darkness still comes to those
loyal to the day.