Where do you see yourself in fifty years? I have absolutely no ******* idea. I don’t. I really don’t and for the longest time I thought that was something to be ashamed of. It probably still is but I certainly am no longer on that boat. I can tell you where I would want to be, if that makes it any better…
The proper or more common way to answer this would probably be to describe my future employment of choice or the amount of little Julie’s and Tommy’s I plan on having around the kitchen table. Yeah, that would be ideal but then again, there is no substance in that. There is no honesty in that type of answer, only social norm. Or our need to go against it.
In fifty years, I hope to be sane. I hope to have developed the capability of living with my sins and not let my anger and poor decision crowd my mind. I hope to see that behind every stupid act I’d done in the past, were hidden good intentions and not just a broken window where the frigid wind of teen rebellion would flow through. I hope to be able to sit on my front porch, watch my grand-Julie’s and Tommy’s run around freely, knowing that the life they have is much better than the one I wanted.  
In fifty years, hopefully, I’ll have learned that grey hairs don’t mean wisdom but experience. That instead of guidelines to live by, I’ll have stories to share. I hope that my skin will have become creased with tall tales like a vase molded by life’s hands.
In fifty years, I hope to be young. To be filled with vibrant energy and to resonate love. I hope not to be the answer to problems, but a set of hands that’ll hold a loved-one when nothing can be done because that is when we truly need saving.
In fifty years, oh, how I will have lived. I will have fulfilled my most wanted wish from childhood.

In fifty years…I will have lived.

One question remains under the cover of this night
Will I bow down or will I fight?
Submission garuntees a place to stay
But rebellion lets me live my own way

Once you told me that I was like an Ice queen.
When I pointed out to you
that ice queens were usually blonde
you said, "Okay then. You look like a wax doll.
The kind your mother puts up on a shelf in your room
and tells you not to touch. One that stares out at you,
with imperious, unsentimental eyes
and an air of unpredictability.
One that you take down off of the shelf
when your mom isn't home
and hide in the basement in the back of a closet
and have nightmares about.
Is that better?"
It was.

This is for the cell phone renegades
Those who use post its like grenades

This is for the average mavericks
Those who live in defiance of cruel cliques

This is for the subway gladiators
Those who live love over hate even in an elevator

This is for the commuter warriors
Those who ignore the bigots and barriers

To all of you out there , wherever you are
Let's create a better world, both near and far

I hope that the
Bread
Tastes good,
Because I’ve left my
Bones
In “it.”

I’ve left the bones born
Man
And bones born
Woman,
Bones once a baby
And bones now broken,
Bones bitter,
Bones bled,
And soon bits baked
Only by dust,
In “it.”

I hope that it
All
Tastes great,
Because we’ve all chained our
Souls
To “it;”

And “it” will continue to feast,
Come the hours we’d ‘ever starve,
“It” will continue to oppress
And until we say “no!”
So say, "NO!"

She marched forward
In her feline gait
Four ears laid back
Wings slightly unfurling
Tail curling and relaxing like a wave
As she shone beneath the moonlight and cameras
Dark skin and white curls making her seem like a star in her own right
Like those reflected in her sterling pupils

And, before the crowd
Of militaresi and the police
She raised her head to the skies
And sung in the manner
That a wolf howls
Or a jay chirps:
Without cessation
Letting her spirit out
Moving as the song dictated
Not giving a **** that she
(Given that she lyricized for two hours)
Looked like a madwoman
As she sung
About love and heartbreak
About loyalty and betrayal
About friends and enemies
Nature and nurture
Justice and crime
Monsters and men

She sung with no era
No race
No species
No planet
She sung as a person
Dangerously close to the edge
The same place she had been all of her life

And when she stopped
The universe was dead silent
With awe and confusion
As she slipped into the sea
Of a slave revolt

I know that I look different,
But here’s the paradox you see-
Maybe I don’t seem like me to you,
But I seem more like me to me.

"We are dealing with oppressors who, while standing on our necks, will label us the aggressors if we spit blood upon their boots."

It is a strange feeling, wanting to die but not being selfish enough to **** yourself. It is not a good feeling and it is not a bad feeling. Just strange. Like wanting to step out of a moving vehicle but the door is locked, and you're the one who locked it.

It's liberating, in a sense. To sever those stringy limbs that are clutching on to life and all its irrelevant attachments. Unbinded by society. The friendly release of death, all the familiarities of living still in tact. Immortality stolen directly from the suicide note. Shot through the heart, but still very much full of life.

Some pathetic hermaphrodite of irony and despair.

I think it stems from this futile awareness of a futile existence. I could live with a futile existence, but by some divine cosmic punishment am forced to be aware of my place within society. My place being an insignificant cell in a cell. And no body cares about a single cell within it. If one cell dies, it won't even notice it's gone, but simply continue as it was. But I refuse to give it the power to ignore my death. To stay alive is rebellion. To love and to live, in spite of life, is pure anarchy.