the depth of my soul can only be expressed
           among the midst of burning
                                      hearts &
                                               raining
                                             eyes.
the maze of my thoughts can only be
                                                                spoken
         through              br  o  k e n,
                                         ink-
                                              -d-i-p-p-e-d   hearts.
only when my mind is
                                                 bent &
                                          curled &
                                   swirled &
                                         l o s t
can my words begin to mean something.

only when my head is                  light &             hazy

& my perception compares to that of some
drug-
        -fueled
                 frenzy,
can my words be
                                                  beautiful.

but i am happy,
                                 for the most part.

& so my words fall
                                                  off
                                                                                      the                    pag-

                                                                                                            -es.


& they mean nothing.
just some
simple
empty
ramblings.

of a newly
normal
girl.

There was younce a ong man named Billy
He knew his brilly was so srain
He went to the docblem
And they told him his protor
Was heartbreak.

His wuddled were now mords
And young Boubled was trilly
Because love would never be the same.

Life Is Weird,
How it tends to sips deep into you,
Sometimes even when there is this doubt,
You just stay strong,
Because somewhere in you,
There is something saying it will be fine.
And tomorrow will never ends
Life is truly weird,
On how it makes you feel
even when many surrounds you,
as a friend nor lover,
You still feel a sense of loneliness
within your soul,
Life is Weird,
Sometimes even when you tried your best,
It end up in failure,
But only when you desire a true change
Will the star falls on your laps,
making you think is life truly a slaps?
Just another words passing by?
Life is weird,
So is Love,
When you say everything will be alright,
without her beside you,
You will started to miss her,
You will started to hear mumbles
from the air,
Maybe just maybe
Those words that sometimes looses your heart
Life is truly weird doesn't it?
A wind of change blew right true me
Alone under the moon
Just enjoying the scenery of the woods
As if the Trees are whistling in the distance
Whatever it is,
Deep in me still saying
I'll sway together away with this life,
Even if this journey does end up weird,
I Love it,
This Life

"hello, my love" a dark Gothic woman cooed.
" ah, at last, i can see my sweet beautiful woman"  a Gothic man with black hair replied.
you could see it in their eyes, they love each other, with all they have.

" WELL! son what are you doing over there come here" my mother and father called

tonight the sky died a little.
baked us in a soup thick as roux
           ****** lips,
                        loitering less,
                                meditations rests your head on my shoulder.

psychic fever functions as an embryo

                                             EAT. EAT. EAT.

you were amniotic happy! stifled great! pushing jelly feeding the joyous ooze!

Cautionary visions visit in viciously vivid fashion
I'm dead and my head is missing
Everyone is laughing
        
                     But me

And the sky is sorta dreary but I don't know
With no eyes you don't see too clearly

      Sew me a new one on,
Attached at the neck
Plastic instead of brittle skin and maybe then
     I can exist in some form above the normally gray and grim

    I pray to a faceless facade
            I made a "God" in my head
An eternal alternative to turn to and blame
   And claim to strangers that he works in mysterious ways
        My lips are chafed from singing unheard praises
  
        I'm tasteless and it has me thinking that maybe my mouth was only a product of my imagination
     Food for thought I chew and stop
           Its too **** hot for contemplation

      Still, I used to think my hands belonged to someone else
     Right up until I used them both to **** myself

it's weird that sometimes
when you study books
so hard
and so long
you discover
how every little thing
everyday
has a meaning too

some historical allusion
or literary illusion
that tells you exactly how someone feels about you
or how you feel about them too.

so maybe all those studies
weren't always a waste
maybe the real meaning behind all of it is that
they want you to give you a taste
of all the symbolism of things
before you're too late