The word feels foreign on my tongue
Actions make me run and hide
As if no one could ever love someone
As hideous and ***** as me
That's what you want me to believe
That no one will ever love me for the way I am.

So you sit there and whisper in my ear
It's okay, he can touch you like that, this isn't wrong
But it is
He should treat me better.

For a while,
I told myself that I would figure you out
I would understand why you are the way that you are
I would fix you
But it was never that simple
Sometimes, people hurt people just to hurt them
As if they find pleasure in it
You loved to watch me squirm under your knife.

I always thought you loved me
But now the fog has cleared
And I see that it was lust.

Life is so hard sometimes.

It pulls, taking the table cloth
along with it.
It strengthens, taking the tide
along with it.
It chides
talking the moon
out of its misery
wishing it were daybreak
but when day arrives,
the moon wishes it were night.
Round and round we go
on this roller coaster called life.
Hanging on is so difficult
with responsibilities tugging
at the mainframe
about to crumble apart like
break pads crumbling under
the weight of it all.
A pressurized catapult or
catalog explaining the width
it takes to squeeze through
the trash chute without
crushing anything of importance.
Holding our breath
as the bumps become clear
afraid of the coaster
slipping off the tracks
and plummeting into
the frigid unknown.
Luck is only heresy
in this world of uncertainty.
But cars can be fixed,
jobs can be taken,
and bodies can be satisfied
in ways unheard of in reality.

Life is so hard sometimes.

But looking at it with new eyes,
with a combative, stubborn grip
on the cold steel handle,
a roller coaster can be both exhausting and exhilarating

if you know what to look for.

Heavy is the heart that carries him.
Drowning are the lungs that swim in his beauty.
Fragile are the fingers through which time slips fast.
Silent is the horizon.
Blue tinted and red stricken in the sky.
Purple is the drink.
Somber slumber overtakes her weary bones.
Dangerous are her dreams, for they do one of two things.
Deadly are her nightmares, of bullets and back lash.
Tainted is the beauty of her deepest desires, displayed in her subconscious.
Fractal is the universe, of which she is a speck of star dust.
Drawing near is the end of her dealing.

How I precipitate within and around
trash to steam factory's super chimneys
Ideas *******
amongst rising glow of cantaloupe colored sky
And why am I?

Beholden to a notion
of fanciful or foolish, concept of nuptials
puffing pother  
or why bother to effuse such ******* encumbrance
Trouble sweats unease

Cold feet, that can't afford proper socks
know the sludging embankments
of Camden Crick (colloquialism of creek)
As it were, a driving force of elopement
An eschewal of plastic bottle heap

Knowing fictile landscapes
with condensations murky in skies,
chance entices
Grasping for refuge
from refuse

There was a vine
A flowered vine
Growing on a fence
Poking out the cracks

Someone cut them down
Wrangled them together
And tossed them
In the trash next to mine

Days later
In the middle of the night
Our garbage cans contents
Were pulled out
And scattered next to the ally

Night owl me,
Brought another bag
Found the mess outside
And put the 'waste'
Back in its place

The lid says "NO YARD WASTE"
So I left the abused plant
Where it fell
On the cold concrete sidewalk

With no sleep to show for
The sun rises
The tangled, cut,
Unwanted fence ****
Lay there in the light
Smiling purple blooms
In all their glory

They told me to tell their story

"you're trash"
you would say
as you smiled my way
with a look in your eye
that said
"boy, what a guy"
a wonderful look that said
"you're wonderful" instead
a look that froze time
and stopped my heart on a dime

"you're dumb"
you would mutter
and cause my heartbeat to stutter
with a look in your peeper
that said
"my, what a keeper"
a stupendous look that said
"i want you" instead
a look as powerful as it felt
that caused my cold heart to melt

My friends and I
are forlorn fabrics
haphazardly stitched into a quilt.

Comprised of different textures and fabrics,
frayed at the ends,
rejected pieces meant for the trash,
not good enough for made-to-wear mall clothes.

My friends and I
fit like a puzzle
consisting of pieces from various other puzzles--
found under coffee tables,
between couch cushions,
tossed into the bowels of forlorn toy bins--
forming a collage of something
disoriented and ambiguous.

Crammed together,
smashing our appendages,
leaving crooked gaps,
wrinkled, torn, ****** up,
but feeling better here
than in our small contribution
to the bland image of our factory's design.

My friends and I,
outcasts, rejects, punks,
convening in the junkyard heap
where we dance and laugh among trash
that makes us feel clean.
Pure when we're filthy.

Quilts and puzzles,
to instill and befuddle;
****** treasures.

Hello, you
Yes, you
Go to hell
In there you're well
Here's a finger
hope this lingers
For a person like you
destroying mood, all you do
Talk behind
like a coward blind
say small talks
trashing and stalks
Have you seen the trash can?
Oh, over there you stand
Say it one more time
Your breathe smells like swine
Go to hell
In there you're well
Goodbye to you
Yes, you