I used to dream of romance
A musical, a trance
Hand holding hand
Sounds of a band
An old fashioned sway
The 50's way
A blouse and a skirt
An innocent flirt
A bid farewell
I'm under your spell

But reality hits like a slap to the face
It's really a club with the bump of a bass
Its really a see- through low cut crop
Less of a dance hall and more of a shop
A drink is my price, or so you think
But you're kinda cute so I give you a wink
I turn around to see, but it's already gone
Romance has left the building and I start to yawn
You barely know my name and already want more
What will they call me tonight, a "*****" or a "*****"?

The cab beeps
and I yell "Peace!"
"What's up?!" you yell
I think, " my lease"

Some people cut
Other people burn
When I'm stuck in a rut
It's the bottle I yearn
I could just as easily smash it then bleed
But that 's not how my demon likes to feed
I like to suffer by getting out of my head
Forgetting my identity and falling in bed
I get low by feeling real high
A mask of myself
My night is a lie
I have a little flashlight
Sometimes I search for truth
But my battery is dead
and my sight left with my youth

There once lived a fair maiden,
skin white as snow,
for ivory was too filthy for her.
Her hair was dark as night,
for other colors were not pure enough,
especially not enough for her.
Suitors came from far and wide,
but oh, they came for naught,
as none of them could suit her needs,
could not ever be enough.
So one day she begged and pled,
to anyone who would hear her call,
for finally someone who would be hers,
and likewise once and for all.
Before she knew it,
someone did respond,
red tail wrapped around her soul,
dragged her down to hell forever,
to be his and his alone,
he smirked and accepted her offer,
bond sealed by vocal contract made,
then welcomed her to his humble abode,
surrounded by rock, and firey flame.
It was now she wept,
trying to take back what was said,
but it was far too late for her,
as they were already wed.
The poor maiden was slave to her pride,
now slave to a demon much worse,
her pitiful woes that were not to complain of,
though now of course, too late, she knows.

Well, you’ve got yourself a problem,
Don’t you?
When the days rush by and;
You cannot tell where you are,
Who you are,
Or even when you are.
When you move like a zombie,
No thoughts, no feelings,
Ah, you can’t feel at all.
I see, I see,
Let’s throw you on pretty pills,
Answer nice questions,
Play comforting music,
That will help, right?
Oh, you can’t feel that either?
I wonder why.
Here, peel this potato,
With another potato!
That’ll solve the problem.
It won’t?
Oh well.

With purest wings and thoughts divine,
the soul, so pure, gazes down and smiles,
for humans are peculiar creatures indeed,
what would it be like to live like that,
if only she knew.

Day after day she watched them play,
at war with each other and themselves.
Day after day she watched them love,
themselves, each other, and everything else.
Their emotions so strong and clearly shown,
yet changing at the blink of an eye.
How? Why?

Little did she realize, cracks were forming fast,
her halo slowly becoming rusted as she smiled,
beginning to feel as they feel and know as they know,
from simple, innocent observance.

One day it finally shattered and underneath her,
her world of heavenly delight,
the highest beings were angry at her change,
tainted by humanity's thoughts,
wings ripped off and in a ****** mess,
she was kicked down to the world she so loved to watch.

Tears escaped her as the drop commenced,
betrayed by her now-felt emotions,
down she plummeted, but much too far,
now chained and slaved to the demons of her new nature,
lashed with pain and feelings unwanted,
though it was far too late to return,
so with screams of regret, words of rage,
she slowly sank to the level of the creatures,
only envied for their happiness,
which is sadly only found in innocence and ignorance,
neither of which is to be had anymore.

sitting in the dark long enough, your eyes adjust u

ntil shadows and outlines, the edges of things, be

come tangible. hard as metal, cold as ice. a body f

rozen in a lake. this is the edge of things. a photo

graph in gray. a sigh. a pen drawing circles until t

he page rips. ink bleeding through everything. an

abyss. abysmal. looking at a reflection, seeing thro

ugh it instead. hollow still has a shell at least. this

is the edge of things, where it stops. it stops…….

The crumbs of my bones
Get scattered on the waves
And they come washing home
On the cold back of gray foam
   Surfing the tide

You stood on the beach and waited
Waited and waited
And the crest of that wave
Folded and crashed like a grave
    Taking one last breath

Before it struck the cliff face at your feet
Like my throat opening
To let out your name
This poetry is the same
   Smashed to pieces by the wind

As it has always been the same
The same as it has always been
While you hope for salt air
While you tie your ribbons to driftwood
   While you watch shells break against the shore

I know, I’m still disappointing you
I may not be able to conquer
I might be lost at sea forever
   But I will be throwing open my sails

That I could yet float into your arms again
I’ll be pouring my apology until you say when

And if I become the captain I promised to be
I will leave all the sadness at the bottom of the sea
Until there is nothing left
   And there is nothing coming back but me

I want you to destroy me
because I know you'd enjoy it.

Rip me to shreds because that's what
I'll be if it means you loving me back together again.

And again.

And again.

What we've got is so horrible,
so painful, so honest, such a raw,
destructive, quality to what we call
"us" that it would almost be masochistic to go back.

Our brand of senselessness,
so alluring, and irresistibly passionate.

I cannot fathom the blandness of sanity.

how could You know
as You are walking down the sidewalk
           around a corner       wherever You want
that the world is not assembling itself
atom by sticky atom
from the blueprints
piled in piles (like so many piles of newspaper)
in (the rooms in) the back rooms of Your mind
particles rushing and streaming, fluttering
together with the ebb of Your consciousness?
-
the World blurs fuzzily into shape
before snapping
(snappily)
into focus

just as You enter the room
blending pixilated reality smoothly
into an orchestrated Existence
-
the next time You      reach
for the doorknob on
the door to
the waiting room
-
give
pause
listen            
carefully
-
can’t You hear the anxious atoms
           scraping
sliding
           shoving past each other?
-
they                jockey
       jumping into
the eye of
       the image of
the woman on
       the screen of
the television in
       the corner of
the ceiling where
       it hangs
-
she wants to know
why we divide
Them              from Us
-
so clearly
so readily
-
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
by an indifference to equality
by a contempt for disillusionment
-
A dispute broke out between two
atoms on the table this morning;
a tiny china teapot was broken.
-
how would You know?
people are no more
then elaborate pieces of Your own mind
now once You hang up the phone
e v a p o r a t e d  
                        into no more than
                                           an afterthought
                                                    ­     of empty space
                                                           ­         -
                                             the smell of burnt matches
                             -                                      -
                You think that
everything You imagine is beautiful
                    even death
                             -
               but in an ugly way
-                            -
the man on the
                                edge
of the third chair
from the door
has no face
(none of Them do)
all of Them don’t
(have faces)
-
until They speak or You look Them in the eye
-
until They do something       Wrong
which is why They look                  down
when They walk down the sidewalk
-
They are afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-
where a pillar of
angry
           energy
                       falling
failing
           the
                       pessimistic
sky
might strike
Them
(older than You
yet born
just this moment)
making the ground
around
Them steam
with the sweat
of a silent room
waiting
for the
            door to
                        swing open
                                      and tell
                                                   him
                             -               -
                she’s going to be all right
              it was close there for a while
                        but she’s strong
                      she pulled through
                                      -
                              in the end
-                                     -
the pressure
of the years
of the rings
(which promise to
grow tighter
as time leaves us)
is heated
squeezed
left sitting in
flesh
turned to char
ash and smoke gently
cradling a tiny newborn
diamond
-
perfect           (silence)
-
broken
down the middle-
                      aged
                             flawed
-                                -
You should be perfect by now
You should have a face by now
-
speak           look Yourself in the eye
-
see Your own          Face
stop looking                down
when You walk down the sidewalk
-
don’t be afraid
-
to live
  as a tree
    in the park
-          -
They say don’t talk             to strangers
and You’re a strange one            indeed
how can You see the glamour
where Others            cannot
see that laughing quietly to themselves
can (You) set the expressions on their faces
to joy
     to pain
           to fear
                to apathy
                     to peace?
                              -
              yeah, she likes him
                and she likes him
                        to know
               that she likes him
                              -
                      in the end
-                             -
she wants to know
why our countries
are bordered
-
to keep Them      out
and Us       in
-                                   -
           this is Mine                  and that is Yours
-                                   -
You see
what You want to see (without)
-
(knowing what You want)
the sticker
       on the bumper
              of the car
                     rolling past reads:
                           “jesus is coming,
                                  hide the ****”
-                                          -
in its green lettering
and its largely silent voice
-
if You listen             carefully
You can almost hear Them
-                  -
              giggling
                ­   -                       -
              please do not think about green elephants
-                                          -
(a student just snuck in
and sat down as
the professor was writing
on the board)
-                                       -
             please do not feed the green elephants
-                                       -
I
Myself
have a strong suspicion
that Your mind is
as You read this
(hidden in a carefully cupped notebook)
spilling
black ink particles into
existence
on the very next          page
-                              -
             ­       You write that
You imagine everything is beautiful
                    except for death
                                 -
                   it is an ugly thing
                                    -
               yet still the chisel gouges
                  -               -
  “i whistle a catcall
at my blushing bride”
      llac ot eltsihw i”
  “edis ym ot god ym
                  -        -
        through the crumbling protests
         of the reluctant stone
                               -    -
                     ­               each new line
                                    tampers with space
                                    holds suspect time
                                    postpones the end
                                    and evades death
-                                  -
You breathe
               You write
You sing
                You live
                       -
You casually craft causality
         -             -
         yet craft on
         surely You are not yet done
         You may never be
         at this rate but
         but
         STOP
-        -
the World reblurs then blows away
listen closely here I say
all things must come to end one day
-                                       -
You
Yourself

have tasted the                     hunger
                        of Greed
seen the                                 wealth
                       of Hatred
heard the                               stories
          ­             of Genocide
felt the                                    loss
                     ­  of War
and smelled the                    decay
                       of Truth
-                      -
                      this        ­     is Mine
                                 what’s Mine, is Yours...