"You lack a vision for your life,"
"You are drowning in your own ambitions,"
"Do you genuinely believe you will succeed?"
"I cannot see you going that far in this journey,"

"Is this truly your purpose?"

Careful of your words, for I may cast you
As an antagonist in one of my countless stories,
Being a narrative, the WHOLE world shall see –
For I am a Writer!

I am an idol,
For those looking to find fickle peace,
After years of grueling pain.

I am the title,
To a collection of poems,
Featuring the every raw creation.

I am nothing compared to everything else,
But my creations can be something.

Lyin’ on the bed,
dreamin’ of nightmares I’ve never met.
A glittering show of blood,
a scene that surely won’t be done.

Tick-Tackin’ is the clock,
I just don’t care about those eerie sounds beyond the lock,
whispers full of black,
like someone is trying to enchant a cat.

Earin’ knock-knocks on the door,
Death itself is down the hall,
it’s close enough to make me scared,
but far enough I barely care.

Sparkin’ is the future,
even if I already see some ugly failures.
I’m afraid, but I don’t hide,
so why should I even think that despair that’s no longer mine?

Memory garbage dump
Holding everything old
Aged releasing all

I've realized my brain
Swollen from decades of thought
Now, only wants now

Goodbye to the past
Earth quakes releasing the crust
Cliffs of synapse fall

My Nana always said I had good skin.
Fair skin,
littered with freckles ("Angel Kisses")
and soft with baby fat I've yet to grow out of.

I have my Mother's hair,
soft and red like blood spilt.
Strangers always gushed about how pretty it was.

Age has not painted me in a lovely light.

I wobble on tip-toes,
trying to reach the top shelf.
My fingers are stained with ink
                                          with paint
                                          with graphite
                                          with charcoal-

My nails are broken and soft.

This skin binds me to a history
I can't help but hate.
The mourning, the grief
The anger, the ire;
The desperate pleas to go back
                                     to hide away.

I'll listen;
I've always hated confrontation, anyways.

I can't rewrite my history,
nor can I turn back the needles on my watch.
So I'll rewrite myself instead.

I'll dye my hair until it's fit for a museum.
I'll burrow into my flesh and crown the wound with jewels.
I'll make my skin a canvas until you mistake me for art.

I'll do all these things
until I am lovely only to myself-
Until you flee from my presence
from the sight of me alone.

I'll remind myself its better this way,
as I surround my Ruins with those
who will gaze upon the spectacle that is my Self,
and weep-
Love unbound christen their tears and for Once

I am Whole

Don't search for me for where I am,
I'm not searching for where you are.

To that which you "belong."

Don't look for me to the future,
For I learned your histories & they are repulsive.

The records are detailed & long.

Don't give no magnification on my past,
For I have the details of your future.

Wrong is just wrong!