They said you cant put a period in the middle of a sentence.
Can't start a thought with an and or a but.
But I did.
And I think the best place to put a period is wherever it belongs.
Because life has taught me that not all thoughts have a subject and a predicate.
Sometimes  an incomplete sentence ends in a period.
Or an exclamation mark!
And I've known too many people who's voices have been quieted midsentence.
Punctured by others who have punctuated their thoughts with a small and deliberate mark of ink.
Black ink.
Charcoal, the ashes of fire.
And I've known people who have ended their story with a period before having completed their thoughts.
For their energy ran out  before their thoughts had run through.
and a period seemed to them like the only way out.
For they imagined they had run out of paper.
But I put a period in the middle of a sentence because sometimes a sentence is complete when it's imperfect.
Like I am.
and sometimes I put a period in the middle of a sentence because sometimes a sentence is complete even if others can't understand it.
Like God is.

If perfect had a face it would be beautiful.
With eyes that were scared to love but changed as quickly as the colors in them.
With lips that kissed as soft as the heart underneath them.
Holding a smile that stretched for years, inviting, and waiting for the right person to come along.
If perfect had a personality it would be endearing. Always giving more than it receives.
Always finding a new way to make me happy.
Taking life's **** and creating a master peice. If perfect had a name it would be....

Captain America
Every time I swoon when I see that shield
And not just because the actor is hot
Because his heroics stop my heart
I’ve taken the quizzes
Taken every test
Researched the blogs, the books, the films
Determined he is my guardian angel
My soul
My mind
Follow his footsteps
Little man taking the hits
Rolling with the punches
Making those around me feel lit
Mingling with demons and metal men for lunches
I want to be everything that represents him
But he does not represent his name
Not america, roger
But what america is meant to represent, roger
He is not the original 13 colonies, roger
Or north america, roger
Zarahemla, roger
Nephi lehi, roger
But he is Steve, roger
Holding the torch passed by a martyr, roger
Wearing stripes and stars like a crown, roger
Surrounding all those who draw breath with an ancient shield, roger
He is almost a modern Christ in a mortal mind, roger
He is what I wish to be
But sadly I’m not an allegory
I’m not God
But I want to be

She woke up sick.
Her wooden limbs drenched with bound torment.
Her eyes merely mirrors of dubiety, marked by soft insecurity encased.
Her skin now bleached.
Her mind framed by Cassiopeia.

Contrails of vanity laced with discontent on her skin
An evanescence of admirers taunts her,
Yet only if her veil is worn too thin.
She knows.
Only an ethereal countenance will please them.

Obsession linked by 4 shattering chains,
5 imaginary bonds.
Unbeknownst to her, imaginary until she
Boasts of her infatuation.
Her lips are thin.

Then her bones sag heavy
Still sat on her mordant throne.
She is once again asleep.
Appeased by dreamy seas
littered with artificial palm leaves.

Yelling from my peers
I shouldn't be here
But it wasn't my choice
Its that small little voice,
Yelling
Screaming
Perfection is what I strive for
Pain stabbing to the core
But really I just can't handle this
It's reality I miss
To close to the edge
Nightmares of jumping off the ledge
I'm tired of eveyone's fake kindness
I'm a mess.

i
dreamt of love
my whole life.

boys, barbies, and all of me :
.
tiny cuts in the system,
tiny wishes
and
perfection

where
i thought love was
creation;

pink cutout cardboard and
subtraction of all
flaws .

but love is just kinetics ,
warmth and
confusion .

love is when it’s
cold
and your cheeks sting and
you look up at the sky
and
you smile ,

knowing
you can dream of love
and still
live.

So many plans have been ruined by wrenches
that we should rid the earth of them all:
wrest them from metal workers and stonemasons,
pile them up, burn them.
A crowd gathers in the firelight,
cheering the flames on, warmed by
dreams of perfection.