I remember the days when my world was pure & innocent.
Those were the days when I could always feel the sun embracing my ebony flavored skin.
The days when I knew no matter what, there will always be a happy ending.

But now..
My life is anything but pure & innocent..
Those days are nothing but a distant memory..

I've seen too much that no one should ever witness.
I've said too many things that no one should ever express.
I've experienced too much that no one should ever deal with.

Continual darkness confines her to this world with no chance of escaping.
The moon used to visit daily but just like everyone else, he left without saying a word.
They all commit suicide once they get a taste of what lays inside of her dark & twisted world.

She patiently waits for the day that glimmer of hope will come back into her life.
But little does she know, that shimmer of sunshine is waiting for her to realize that he hasn't left yet.
When will the day come for her to open her eyes to see the light she craves for is right in front of her?

I believe in music.*
I believe that
when words fail,
music speaks.
It lives as a part of us,
giving an internal fight.
A fight to live, to be remembered
as something more
than just another drop in the sea.

Our world spins around
as a symphony,
a thousand different songs
coming together in a harmony.
Every incoherent thought
becomes a lyric.
Every tear shed
strums a chord.
Every individual
a beat.
Every voice
a song.

i write about what i know because
ive got nothing better to say
and i try to fit the length of a thought
onto a single page
because i just hate it when
ive got an entire poem or whatever
almost finished,
only a few words left,
and  they just wont fit

and plus who am i to waste
a slip of paper
on a phrase or two
that doesnt make sense alone
and that (who
am i kidding)
no one is going to read anyway?

unless there is someone
out there
that has always wanted to know
about what its like
to watch a person

transform from
water to ice crystals
in a matter of minutes

or how it feels to hate your
father and then weep at the thought
and then hate yourself for weeping

to blindly step with
bare feet
on a baby bird
and feel its naked skull crumble beneath
your heel      

to dance alone, throwing yourself
into frenzied spirals, smashing
against the walls and breaking
apart like a tired old star
to collapse then
letting the light drain from you

letting the               light
drain
from you
and reaching up to touch it with quiet hands...

The photo reminded her of bruised fruit. Well first and foremost:fruit.
Her body, curled around itself, sheltering the fibrous crunchy pit of her, her body white and frayed looking, rounded buttock, calf gently sloping, feet modest, willowy toes toenails like shale
face blurred, questionable dark spots where her eyes could have been. they closed as the shudder buckled, her mouth sagged open, lip lolling to one side, brow ancient furrowed like folds of sand nudged by a lazy tide.  None of it concise, only guessing. Her knees brought up, squeezed against small  
crunch-able chest. Full, heavy with pulp (stringy sweet, what snags on the teeth) but what if it were to fall from an appreciable height? Filmy is the flesh. Daring the looker to look closer, see what mite be hidden there.
Ripe:questionable. Sweet like nothing, pouring from the corners of a mouth: what a bite it would be.
That first bite.
The bruising comes in when she thinks of the brain beneath, that open, limitless figure so pale and forefront and brimming with intent, so crush-able with careless fist, so lovable with thirsty mouth. But what of the mind that put her before you, that turned her vulnerable, shameless, open for discussion?
Put her before you. naked.

The pit of my stomach
won't let me forget you.
Every other fiber of my body
can't even remember your name,
but my stomach--
****** stomach--
sinks and reminds me all day
that my lips once felt your kisses,
my hand once held onto yours,
my cotton heart
once wrapped itself around
your chilly brain
and loved it.

But now I want you gone.
Out of my dreams,
my thoughts,
my stomach (****** stomach)
knowing full well
it's all out of my hands.
Most of all
I want you out of my poetry--
how dare you intrude
on this most sacred utterance,
this holy expression of myself.

What a shame--a ****** shame--
that since I once loved you,
you're now a part of me.