Welcome to my broken home,
There's nobody here I'm all alone.

The walls they scream of things once said,
They constantly echo in my head.

The door in front it never closes as people never stay,
The hatred and guilt always drives them away.

So welcome to my broken home I don't have anything to offer you,
No love, no face I'm out of place and there's not much I can do.

I sit in here and do nothing at all,
But stare at these empty walls.

It portrays the life of hurt and hate,
My destiny, my anguish, my solitaire fate.

It's like a projection screen playing a never ending show,
It's like it's in slow motion, so painfully slow.

So run now from my broken home, keep the door open as you leave,
Because being trapped in here I still need air to breathe.

Tell now about my broken home of all things heard and said,
Because even as a woman that house still lives in my head.

That little girl trapped inside, well that little girl is me,
Even though I'm older now the horrible thoughts won't me be.

I live with many diseases, my life is not simple
I don't know which is worse the physical or the mental
It depends on the day
As to what I will say
And on very bad day's it is both
Those day's I loathe
I stay in my bed
And pull the covers over my head
And wish that I was dead
That being said
I just trudge along
Wishing I was strong
Strong enough to at lest kick one diseases ***
Strong enough that I don't relive the past
But that is impossible when the past visits you
He comes by every year or two
And if your wondering how I am today
Well ....in my bed I stayed

science tells you
growing into a woman
means a fuller chest and
hips just beginning to smile.
it's the new smell of blood.
it's thoughts fermenting
from grapes to wine.

art shows you
becoming a woman
is a series of quiet
revolutions.
a blessing to bear.
taking a little girl's hand.
leading her into
a great Somewhere.
wiping her tears
because she is afraid.

but logic and art are two
halves of one fruit.
we as humans are living proof.
with rational minds.
with paint on our hands.

so listen to yourself.

you will realize
becoming a woman
is a miracle.
a gift. a grace.
a poem dedicated to all
the little girls
and the women that screamed
for them.

The future has become uncertain,
A mist that weaves around my fingers;
What if that mist does not exit upon morning,
But instead settles itself and lingers?

Of course I fear the men of your future,
The ones of your past have disturbed my soul;
If that misty fear settles and proves sensible,
What things will follow, oh so reprehensible?

It seemed a long, tedious, yet clear run to freedom,
But you have wrote one more troublesome twist;
We shall see if it results in atrocity,
Terrible things to add to my list.

Do you believe
You can transfer disease?
Without actually catching
Anything?

More mental than physical
Either way this is difficult
This pain, or lack of it,
Driving me hysterical

For example, a normal bullet
Hiding in a clip, store it,
Load it, chamber it,
Point and shoot it

You've got hollow points
Like the hollow pain in my joints
At the base of my neck,
In my head, no drug anoints.

Then you've got Full Metal Jacket
The shots causing such a racket
Disorientating pain, all over again,
Sticking to you like a magnet.

No matter what I do, it won't go
Hollow points in my chest, as time goes slow
I just wish my hidden gunman
Would take his bullets to a cliff and over they go.

It's
disgusting
that I crave
it.
I want it to
stop the
emotional
pain
and replace
it with
physical.
I crave
the feeling.
I'm sick.

Tracing shapes
My hands
Feel cold
Car seats
Rides
Outside
My makeup is
Too thick
And your
Mind
Is choking
Your sense
Mutual desire
But singular
Pleasure
Depression
On both ends