Anxious,
It's new, it's vibrant,
It's so me!
Must have it.

Anxious,
It's cheap, it's art,
Won't fit!
Can't have it.

Anxiety born of greed,
Selfishness, social need.
Not one or two but all!
A bag, a coat, some plaid!

Obsessed beyond capability
Want all over budget,
"It's human nature!"
It's a sickness
A disease, born of riches.
Tired of wishes.

Photos, bookmarks,
Catalogues, webstores.
I am a victim.

Victim of need
Obsessive wish lists
To compensate
For a lack of attention with years
To go back.

-Kathia M. Landeros

Here's a story about how she's gone:

Once she said she doesn't fit anymore
Again she said she had been trying for too long
Thought someone would understand her but there was none
So she run, run, run and found herself running alone
She's wondering about her friends and parents and all
Her thoughts started to fill her mind and making herself drown
Drowning her down, down, and down

Anger and rage started to consume
Making herself looks like a fool
Realising she's just a burden
For her friends, parents, and all

She started to run, run, run and found an empty room
Inside there's a desk, chair, knife, and writing tools
She then begin to sit down
And tried to remember all her misfortunes
All her problems and insecurities
She's never going to fit in this huge world with perfect people
That was what's on her mind

Her trembling hands began to write
She was feeling more free and light
After what she had done

Looking at her body from above
She smiles so bright
She had write what needs to be written
Only a straight line on her skin
Straight through her vein
With red ink, leaving stain everywhere
And that was what she write; her own death

And that's the story about how she had gone.

The Problem with breaking your heart
is that you can't let it heal to someone else's frame.

I don't know
If I'm the problem
Of all my problems
I want to go away
From myself
And sometimes hug myself tightly
And tell myself
'You can do it,
You can take all the agony
Because you're stronger than ever!'

Recently,
her mind is
debating
with her heart
resenting
every word
she wasted
on this paper
and all the metaphors
you haven't even decipher
but how
can she stop it
you have brought her up
to the top
then pushed her
to this
bottomless pit
now
she's stuck
in this drop
and it's growing
big
like
a bad habit
running
like
a mad rabbit
munching
on her thoughts
of you
while trying to
remove your face
off the view
like grime
on her tiled walls
made by
endless waterfalls
of whys and what ifs
and all her selfish beliefs
like
how you will read
her poetry
and chew the words
like sticky pastry
but her mind said
"you're wasting your ink"
she should stop writing
poems about you
and let her
memories
sink
in the letters
of your name
that are scattered
in her head
all printed
in heavy lead
therefore now,
she concluded,
the real dilemma,
to wake her up
in this coma
of dreams of you
and
find
a paper
that will reach miles
across the equator



-I Should Stop Writing Poems About You, Margaret Austin Go

As if you knew,
in the slightest what others went through?
who is to say his smile is not a mask,
her life is not a cry?

He, he goes home everyday to a broken home
where he tends to broken bones
up till four every night
doing homework, going to work
but in school the smile is the only thing in sight

and she, she is the captain of the soccer team
a never wavering laugh
but when she goes home,
her arm is patterned in complex lattice
an intricate pattern of pain and sorrow

her laugh never fails to light a room
his smile lifts people from their gloom