"All the guys always dream of Angelina Jolie"
she tells herself- "and she's usually in the ****..."
She's gonna thrive off that, that's where she'll get her drive.
"I can be as full of lust as their dreams," she thinks to herself-
Ignoring the guy down the block who tells her she's "got a doll of a body, but the face of a horse.
Except for her lips- any day of the week those would be sweet."

It's girls like her that make me sick, living and killing themselves off what the boys call sweet.
Just pucker up and try to make yourself look jolly-
if you offer him enough of a taste- he'll forget your voice is hoarse
from all the smoke you ****. It'll work even better if you don't talk at all and just get lewd.
"This will make him love me at last" she always tells herself-
But when he's got his fill all he really ever wants is to get away and drive.

It's funny the way it always goes, he drives
into her soon as soon as he makes her feel a little sweet,
then runs off soon as she looks more like herself
and the lures wear off. Funny how the morning after does that. Maybe the next guy, maybe a Joe or Lee,
might finally like her all around, even if she doesn't strut her wares ****.
But probably... actually, most likely, not, it usually always goes the same for ******

like her. So she'll just keep 'dolling' herself up as she hoards
away her list of mates. Maybe, though, the next one might take her on a nice drive.
Yeah, he'll take her somewhere nice and new.
"Don't feel so used," she thinks "see, this guy is truly sweet."
And she just hopes this Joe is nothing like Lee,
That last man who ****** her dry while she forgot herself.

Still, the rest of us just watch as she lets herself
go downhill, pretty typical, just like most other ******.
She really might stick with Joe,
for awhile anyways, but even if he cares for her, she'll be the one to drive
him away, why follow him up if she's still running down? She'll find the next one to sweet-
talk her into bed and into the draining ****.

Her story will always be the same- A new
den to sleep in with each new guy, she treats herself
to the good life she says, nothing wrong with that, while her partially sweet
looks keep falling farther back to being kicked by a horse.
And from my once close friend, I'll drive
further away, I'm too sick of her plump-lipped stories about what's-his-name? Joe or Lee...

Yeah, sure, she might show you her snapshot-nudes, she really thinks she's comparable to Angelina Jolie,
But she's not sure of herself at all, she's not all that sweet.
For all of her promises and lures, I promise, she's really just a dried up *****.

Just words

These are just words.
A storm in the distance 
Advancing with rage 
Escalating in time 
Take the power away.
Just words.
High pitch shriek 
Piercing ears 
Traveling the connection 
Between head and heart
These are just words
Spitting out the mouth 
Tornados
Harmless breathe
Butterfly wings flap
Lethal turning.
Just words
Beauty that seems to fly 
from angry hands
Beat the things 
Only supernaturally touched
These are just words
Hurled in a corner 
Knees to chest 
Just words
Raging war 
Settling scores
These are just words
Tearing like paper 
Childhood taken
Just words
Target set to ****
Bullet bursting 
These are just Words!
Rivers flowing 
Shame imploding 
Just words.
Regret for tomorrow 
Can't take back what stains 
These are just words
Memories flicker
Weight upon the shoulders
Just words
Empty, 
lifeless 
These are just words
Nothing that can come to cut the heart
To chain the soul.
Destroy the life.
Just words
Repeat, 
repeat
These are just words.......

I loved a girl once, she had long dark hair.
She could draw, I watched her draw wrinkled faces.
She kept her mattress on the ground, her tongue in the air,
And with the mattress, and the tongue, we went to new places.
It was weird, which I liked, romance was boring.
She'd chew on my jaw and I'd spit in her eye.
No request for sensation was worth ignoring,
We were all *** for tat, we were high for high.
Then she left, as she would, and I felt fine.
I mean, I felt like ****, but I kept this in mind:
I still have those days, and those days are mine,
And I have other dark haired girls to find.
       Now that she's gone, my drink's all that's near,
       But that's okay too, I can spit in my beer.

Slowly,
we are all going insane,
slowly, but surely, we are all slipping down the same path,
some pushed to the brink sooner than others,
some farther behind.
We all trudge towards our doom,
funneled and guided to the right area
by the hands of our society.

The end has been predicted many times,
in different ways, by different people:
many a stray asteroid has been foretold,
one that will sink it's rocky teeth into the earth,
and make it explode.

It seems like the end may finally be coming,
people have been pushed so far, that they have cracked.
Their minds have broken,
their thoughts have jumbled,
they don't know who they are.

They are zombies,
literally and figuratively.
Zombies.
The ones who have been consumed by society
and spit back out again,
forced to live in a world that they want no part of,
so they attack,
and,
much like the zombies from storybooks,
they have this strange appetite,
that is full of a thirst for others.

These people care not for the world,
or their own bodies even,
no, they don't care.
They rip themselves apart,
tear into their own flesh,
and escape reality,
finally,
after succumbing to their fate.

The world,
pushed against unseen boundaries,
forced to the brink of insanity,
has finally spilled over,
and now,
we must fight the zombies
inside ourselves.

The tides have fallen,
but the waters keep rising,
choking out the remaining few who struggled to retain their homes.
Shotgun houses,
long abandoned when the levees broke,
and the ocean crashed through the streets,
leaving a wake of more than just sand.

X's
marks on doors,
spray-painted numbers depicting the body count,
telling you if it was safe to go inside,
if you will be poisoned by gases,
or memories.

Volunteers,
thousands of them,
rushed to the scene,
quick, for their moment in the spotlight,
while the house were still damp,
helpful only in the attraction they brought with them,
where are they now?
Now that the houses and the people have dried themselves off,
where are they?
Those who lost nothing,
those who have everything,
where are they?

Out of sight,
out of mind,
out of the way,
locked away,
a secret,
kept tight,
except for the occasional whisper of the waves.

New Orleans,
a broken city,
still fractured,
held together by hope,
and help,
from the few who still venture down
to help put the pieces back together.
The select few
who still care
about the forgotten city,
the cracked town,
a city that's been down on its knees for seven years.

Dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality
So I dream under the sun
I dream ultraviolet
But then to the human race, I seem to lose the keys
And the rabbits always lead me to gardens of lust
And they’re kidnapping angels on capitol hill
Thought me and the universe had an agreement
But still I’m building spaceships the size of a pill
If you let out your monkey, a butterfly gets framed
Where goes all those who have lost their graces
This tattoo of you is a curse-
a Borneo from the bottom of a bottle
And dreaming during the witching hour’s like
Being under the pink with an icicle
And I don’t wanna go to hell on a technicality

Love is overrated
Grit and self-loathing
Her parents loved her but
It never did her any good
She wants to love
But not be in love
The past and present are grey
The future is void
Divine fear of cosmic flavors
But she can taste them
Face deep, she can taste
What no one else can

Starlit nights bring a sense of tininess.
The vast soot-stained cloak of the sky,
pierced with so many tiny scintillating
spots of vim opalescent flares, is a heavy
intoxicant. It contains a thing most panache.
A girlish teetotaler beside me says,
"We're like those stars, distantly inflamed,
lost in a void of what we cannot know."

She is most apt in her contrivance.
I wish to be castellated, terraced
with Byzantine buttresses and towers-tops.
I want a portcullis for my portico that is
made mostly out of gold, an inner bailey
where the stars can sleep and the wine may flow.
I want the wine most metaphysical,
the type that flows and churns, perning
inside the inner sanctum of the mind.