Do I need permission
To just simply...

... BE?


I need each and every
One else to be OK...

... With ME.


I don't need a permit to live...

... you'll agree!


I'm cutting the strings.

I set myself FREE.


Soul Survivor

And love is really important,
even if just for one night.
It can chase away your biggest fears,
it can get your through your toughest fight.

Don't let society make you feel cheap
for only needing love in small, temporary amounts.
Your value as a person
isn't derived from your *** partner count.

Don't let them make you feel ***** or small,
because some of us need this to survive.
The night of love we get from strangers,
we use just to stay alive.

Because relationships can be messy,
and hearts are so easily broken.
But through nights of whisky and hotel rooms,
we find words of peace that were never spoken.

And some of us don't have hearts,
as they were stolen long ago.
From men called "Dad"
and men in suits,
and men who we've never known.

And maybe the word "****" makes the people feel okay.
This type of labeling has been going on since the Biblical days.
Maybe it makes them feel better about their own sinful ways.
Maybe when the Earth crumbles, they'll have a price to pay.

Because they don't know what it's like to be empty for so long,
That the thought of being full terrifies you.
They don't know that you'd rather be wrong,
than risk the pain that being right can put you through.

But I do, my dear.
For I am one of you.
I've felt closer to heaven in the arms of strangers
than I ever have kneeling on a pew.

I know what you dream of, darling.
I know that you dream of lasting and healing love.
I know that you feel prisoner by your demons,
I know you hope for a sign from above.

Don't let the world bother you much.
I understand you; I know you're doing your best.
For now, it's okay to find comfort in a stranger's touch,
to let love fall from your mouth.
To let pain flow from of your chest.

I do not let my horoscope define me.
The stars have also been a reminder that
I am far smaller than I sometimes feel,
but they have not written my life for me.

I disregard the nature of the Taurus
and the instinct of the Leo,
and I decide to write myself instead.

I do not allow my bruised legs and
black lipstick to show me for a deviant,
but I also forbid my floral braids and
ruffled skirts to show me as naiive.

I put aside my daisy crowns,
and burn my tattered jeans,
because I am not a symbol
of the articles I wear
nor a victim of how they
draw me up.

I hardly let my fair skin and my
green eyes tell anyone anything
about me that might make them cry,
instead I tell my pout and my feet ro
tell them that I am stand-offish and
do not crave the questions.

I do not let my lashes draw the boys
or my shape attract the men.
I paint myself in tainted colors
and wait for hell to make its mark on me.

I am discovering that,
I hide too much of myself to be a person,
and am fading into an idea instead.

At least if you don't ask,
I don't have to lie.
I've spent most of the past
few months asleep
on the bathroom floor;
sick of keeping everything in,
too tired to let it out.
"Home" is such an empty word.
I'm not sure why it felt
whole coming from your mouth.
I'm not sure
why I felt
whole.
We both know I'm just an idea
to carve into sheetrock
with swollen fists;
leaving worn out holes that
your heart never fit.
I try not to wake up,
but my body is used to
(everyone leaving)
routines.

I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.