The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.

It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk with
a middle-aged bitterness
of the man you were raised
to believe was too virtuous
to be in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him—
The man whose love confused you,
whose clumsy attempts
of fatherhood
kept the heart of a young girl
perpetually guarded
by a cautious skepticism—
The man who brought you into
a world he found absurd
as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.

More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner
with the two of them a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (though
you’d feel like a traitor
if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.

In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children I may ever bear
into this bittersweet game of *******
we play that we’ve since called ‘life,’
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems to navigate
the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****.

The whole concept
of adulthood
is one that seems to
trespass
from the ever-anticipated world
of the theoretical,
just to barge into your life
one night
like an uninvited drunken friend.

It will never really “hit you,”
but it’ll come **** close
the first time your aunt
offers you a glass of wine
as she and your mother
gossip frankly about
your father’s mistress—
you sip on cheap Chardonnay
and pretend to be used to the taste,
as they talk
of the man you were raised
to believe
was too virtuous to be
in debt for some glitzy
engagement ring that he
bought to restart his life
with a woman he left your mother for
shortly after the pandemonium
of a guiltless affair.
The man
whose brutishness
you were told to overlook, cradling
the sparse memories
of when he’d tuck you
too tightly into bed, or
when he’d tell you that he loved you
even though half the time
you really didn’t believe him.
The man who brought you into
the world as carelessly
as he raised you to face it,
torn apart
like every illusion that makes a child,
the ashes of which
that slip through your fingers
inevitably declare you
another bitter adult.

More wine will reveal
that your beloved father
is a controlling ******
and his relationship
with that *****
the whole family hates
only appears to be functioning
because she lets him have
all the control
he couldn’t exert on your mother,
even though you’ve had dinner with them
a couple of times
and if you had met her
under any other circumstance (even though
you’d feel like a traitor if you said it aloud)
you wouldn’t think
she was all that bad.

In red, declarative letters
I want to write to any children
I may ever bring
into this ******-up little game that
goes by the name of “life,”
that when they first gaze with awe
at the unattainable grace
with which every grown-up seems
to be navigating the world they created,
with all the pain of tax-paying and womanhood,
I want to scream
that we don’t know what the hell we’re doing either
and if at any point I try to convince you otherwise
you should tell your mother
that she’s full of ****.

I stopped
making art
for you
because you
****.

and that's
the extent
of my savagery.

Hi. Yes thanks. I know I have pretty eyes I’ve heard that a lot.
Can you stop talking to me now?

I say that within my head because I know it would be considered “Rude”. When you’ve just given me a compliment. At least that’s what it’s deemed by most people in society.

If a guy tries to start a conversation with you or give you a compliment. Why don’t you just smile. And talk back.
Why don’t you just not? I know it’s considered polite. But I don’t owe you a smile. I don’t owe you a conversation. I don’t owe you a **** thing. Let alone a smile.

But that isn’t appropriate of me. I mean. Honestly how dare I tell someone no. Let alone a person of the male race. Who thinks that they’re being polite and reasonable. But when I try to disengage the conversation and walk away. You either step up. And verbally pull me back. Because if I keep walking and ignore you it’s rude. And there’s a chance that if you’re one of those guys. You will persistently keep walking and follow me down the street towards my house.

And I certainly don’t want you knowing where I live when you won’t even let a conversation end. And then there are the guys. That have grabbed me by the arm. Turned me back around. And boldly stated. We aren’t done talking. And by the fire in hell. It has taken every single fiber of my being. To hide the fury in my eyes. And all of my will. To keep my hands by my side instead of delivering you a well deserved punch to the nose. Because how dare you think that the conversation ends when you want it to end. Maybe I should be honored that you wanna talk to me. Despite the fact that I don’t even know you and you make me uncomfortable. And I have noticed your eyes. And how they’re constantly roaming. But no girl. Is and has to put up with you. An utter stranger. Who uses the excuse of. “Don’t be such a *****.” When you’re denied a conversation or you’re told no.

So thank you. For the ever so painful conversation. The fact that. You randomly chased me down when I shook my head. And started walking faster. And last but not least. The fact that throughout the time span of this entire conversation. You’ve never made EYE CONTACT with me not even ONCE.
So.

To the self entitled ****** who decided that I owed them a conversation. When I politely and quitely shook my head no to your offer of a conversation.

*******.

5 Reasons I stay awake at Night:

Escape .

From the monotony of waking up and taking the same crap from the same life, no matter how many times I shuffle the deck, these are still the cards I've been given
From the nightmarish dreams of reliving my best low-lights and missteps, and coming to terms that I might never be all that I've wanted to be

From the cold reality that these sleepless nights hold the only comforts I truly have left, inside the pages of a yellowed journal, battered and bleeding ink from its blurred lines.

Distraction.

Binging another series on Netflix always sounded more appealing than taking another night to cry into my already soaking pillow until I pass out again

Playing through Pokémon fire red and naming my rival "******" was fun when I was 12, so why stop now? Even though its my.. 132nd attempt.

There is always another more obscure indie band that might somehow understand me better, and I cant leave that unheard.

Fear.

I am so afraid that when I sleep, I might never wake up from that slumber. Not that I'm afraid to die, I'm scared of how badly I want to at times

I'm terrified I will see familiar faces in my best dreams only to wake up and remember they are still gone, and I have to go on without them.
I'm afraid of tomorrow. So maybe if I stay awake past the point of sleep, far beyond tired, I can always stay one step ahead...right?

Loneliness.

How am I supposed to crawl into a half-made bed, alone when it was made for two? Your body should be here next to mine, but I cant remember the last time I felt that.

If you were beside me, It would be easier for me to drift off through the atom bombs and revving chainsaws that are my addled mind.
I'll lie awake and stare at this pure white ceiling, and think of how Michael Collins must have felt on the dark side of the moon. Sometimes I envy him.

Me.

I know inevitably, my hollow and tired bones will have to shatter as I crawl on top of the broken shards of glass that is my mattress. As I grab the blanket made of flames, I pull it up to my throat, feeling its scalding touch steel the oxygen from my lungs, the asphyxiation slowly taking me under again.

As these shards seep deep into my now lacerated skin, I feel the heavy chains of my bed frame grab me and hold me in my broken solitude, as that sweet mistress of death floats above me, gently reaching out to me.
How beautiful she is, she leans in for that sweet kiss of the end of all things, my lips tremble as I meet up to greet her, but these chains keep me just close enough to feel her cold breath, never enough to feel that serene deadly poison she offers.

But how bad I want to on days when my bed holds me hostage, to kiss her in my bed until everything turns black.

I listen to the silence you leave me in and learn things.

I learn that I have been passive and submissive for a very long time. That sometimes I hang back when others blaze in with passion and conviction, and dither on the outskirts, tentative and uncertain.

Or when someone else would have exited, slamming the door behind her with emphatic drama, I linger, hoping things will get better, not able to see they are as bad as they are.

I become furious about old trespasses...in retrospect, still wondering, years later, just when and where the lines were crossed.

I worry that I bring out the ****** in men. Because I seem inevitably to do that for so many of them. A reflective surface for weaker resolves.

Old hurts float to the surface these days, leaving something else behind.

"Columbus was a twatface ****** whose karma now entails an aeon-long dharma of subsequent reincarnations as a monkey *** stain spurt on the hard cold floor of an unkempt city zoo deep within the bowels of Fucksville, USA. There, I said it. idgaf"

~ Einstein

Hands in my pea coat pockets I shuffle down 8th avenue looking down. Whenever a pair of shoes that have seem to be worn in adventure passes I lift my head to stop them.
Excuse me, Excuse me.  I ask the intriguing shoes.
I’m either met with a puzzled look, an impatience look , or a sympathetic look. Sometimes there is a look of all three
Looking at the owner of said shoes I boldly ask,Do you have a story?
Here, I can usually guess their response based on one of the three looks they gave me.
A look of puzzled usually leads to more confusion on their face expressed in lines created in their face by a furrowed brow and scrunched nose.
A look of impatience usually leads to a *******, and a cold shoulder met with an even faster pace, or a phrase along the lines of ******, Freak and more ****** phrases that I’m sure you can guess. (My favorite so far has been ******, now that’s a story)
With a look of sympathy I’m sometimes given a quick sorry followed by a cold shoulder (see example 2), sometimes a Sorry, what? Due to their actual interest in what I have to say. These looks lead to the best stories.

One rainy day I was met with lady bug rain boots scuffed around the bottom, yet still shining a bright red that I guess wasn’t even that beautiful on the store shelf, and my guess a size 2. Looking up I find wide green eyes staring right back.
Now this was no look of the three I’ve experienced, it was a whole new look.
A look of curiosity, but not puzzled.
A look of eagerness, not impatient.
A look of care, not sympathy.
And so many more looks hidden in those big green eyes that seem to hold the world.

Though I was aware of the tiny feet, I was mildly surprise when I was met with those green eyes at an almost 2 foot level.

Excuse me, excuse me, Do you have a story?
The ladybug boots with green eyes smiled at me.
Everyone has a story, but I have neither the time nor the crayons to explain this to you.

Writing down your thoughts,
feeling deep and personal,
rereading what you wrote,
and feeling like an ******.

Erase.

New introduction,
new formation of words,
unable to write them down correctly,
cursing into the empty room.

Erase.

Sitting with your arms crossed,
huffing as you readjust in your seat,
taking a calming breathe as you try again,
realizing that all of your efforts are futile.

**Give up.

1.
Donald John Trump
Just sits on his ****
As his deplorables feast
On whatever he tweets

2.
Donald John Trump
Is wicked and plump
But not nice and fat
Just more an ******

3.
Donald John Trump
Has a **** that's a stump
Women won't take him to bed
So he grabs their ******* instead

4.
Donald John Trump
Owns a golden sewage pump
Except it can't keep pace
With all the **** from his face

5.
Donald John Trump
Is a cancerous lump
On America's nose
That really must go

6.
Donald John Trump
Never gets a fist bump
His hands are so small
We can't find them at all

7.
Donald John Trump
Is a foul putrid clump
Who makes us quite sick
Bragging about the size of his ****

8.
Donald John Trump
Really likes to ****
Women without their consent
And he'll never repent

9.
Donald John Trump
Is a mean old grump
Who tells people they're stupid
But we know who the fool is

10.
Donald John Trump
It'd be best if he jumped
From the top of his tower
Since he's always so glower

11.
Donald John Trump
Is a dim witted chump
Whose head is quite large
Though Russia put him charge

12.
Donald John Trump
Likes to take a dump
On hookers while snorting blow
Many people are saying so

13.
Donald John Trump
Is in a terrible slump
He can't even enjoy his throne
Because the press won't leave him alone

14.
Donald John Trump
Only wants to flump
In a chair with women kneeling
After a long hard day of stealing

15.
Donald John Trump
His voice makes a crump
Like the sound of an engine
Or last breath of a dying pigeon

16.
Donald John Trump
Would never date a frump
Just nines and tens
Preferably ones who're quite dim

17.
Donald John Trump
Has just a cold swampy sump
But unlike humans no heart in his chest
He still says it's the best

18.
Donald John Trump
Is a clownish orange schlump
Who said he'd make America great
But just stoked up a lot of hate

19.
Donald John Trump
Always gives a nasty thump
To anyone who disagrees
Or gives facts to counter lies he believes

My head is constantly spinning
And I can't seem to regain my balance,
I'm so depressed that I can't see straight, But since I'm young
I guess those feelings aren't even valid

We live on a floating rock, constantly rotating around the sun
Yet people are still worried about random boys who like it up the ****.
We're too concerned about one another rather than what's truly important:
Like staying in our own lanes, and teaching things that are less adhordent

It's 2015 and people are still being judged by their color  
When really we should be judged based upon How we treat each other

society is taking a negative turn, no doubt about it
with ignorant people preaching hate,
saying that a woman is at fault when she gets *****.

"She was asking for it" they say,
as they sexualize shoulders and legs
thinking that a woman wearing a short dress
Is just begging for their toxic kiss

The only thing I'm begging for
Is a change of heart in the hateful,
Who say my love isn't real
Because it isn't "full, fruitful, and faithful"

My love is fuller than
You will ever know
it's not my fault that you live
life with your eyes closed

I'll love who I want
Because **** she's so fine
And anyone who looks at me differently
Is no friend of mine

And a final "*******"
To all the ******* in This small town
Who think they look better when they
Put another person down

(You don't look better, you look like an ******.)

I was on a freezing
Train platform when
A cursing man approached
Me
His smile already queued up
"Hey man,
I tried to ride the
Train with an old
Ticket"
He turned the ticket
Over and over
In his hand
To accentuate this
Point and continued
"And i have 9 bucks
Could you spot me
For the rest?"

"I have no cash"
I lied
As most do
When confronted for
Money by a stranger

"You don't need cash
You can use cards on
The machines"
He said pointing
Towards the bank
Of awkwardly standing
Ticket kiosks
Our only companions
In the chilly night air

"Nah man, i'm good"
I said

His expression changed
Not to anger but
Disappointment
"Well, thanks anyway"

He walked off cursing
A broken trail of white
Breath twisting dizzyingly
Away from his head

Standing there I felt bad
That I hadn't helped him
He only needed 7 more dollars
And I had six crisp twenties
Folded neatly in my wallet
And two credit cards
Nowhere near maxed out

For some reason
I started to interpret myself
As part of the problem of mass
Apathy amongst men
In turn feeling slimy
Unnatural  

I made a point to lap the
Station multiple times
To find this man and give
Him more than he needed
Not to help him
But to prove to
Myself that I wasn't
A phlegmatic  
******

I caught him inside
With another young man
About my age
With a softer face
Giving him a sandwich
And a few crumpled bills

They traded a few words
And laughed
I returned to my
Perch on the platform
Alone in the
Freezing night air

Later the man came out
Smoking a black and mild
And waited next to me for the
Train

When we got in he only sat
A few seats from me
I saw him take the
Ticket he told me was old
And hand it to the
Attendant
Who punched it and moved
On

Later we made
Accidental eye
Contact down the
Aisle
He queued the same
Smile and turned away
From me

And in the prohibition the US government poisoned 10,000 of it's own citizens. Slipping cyanide into beer bottles and arsenic into wine caskets lying on bedside tables. And people still kept going back, despite swollen tongues and heaving lungs. 10,000 people lying in unmarked graves, and people kept drinking their lives away.

And I keep going back, drinking from the same poisoned chalice in the hopes it will **** me quicker. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. And I don't know if I've ever been so picture perfect, so dictionary definition.

I go back over and over again.

They say you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.

Pain that licks up your spine and dances in your lower belly.

Pain that forms a crown of thorns, a daisy chain, scrunching your stomach until you can't breathe.

Oh how can something so beautiful, so lying on the grass outside of school under blue skies and wispy clouds, be so painful?

You ******, you ruined daisy chains for me.

And yet I keep going back.

They say, you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.

Pain, that is screamed, pain that is hollered, pain that is whispered.

Pain, that makes you want to put your entire hand through the window pane, glass be dammed.

And people say pick your poison, and I wonder if it came from the 10,000 who kept going back.

I wonder if they know that I picked mine a long time ago.

You see,

When your world, is black and white, because someone forgot to turn on the light. When all you feel is numb and exhaustion, pain is nice. Pain is a comfort, a red warm blanket that you huddle beneath as you pretend that the storm raging out side is not somehow your fault. But why wouldn't it be, after all everything is your fault.

Pain reminds you that you can feel.

So yeah, you keep going back.

If the only way to remind yourself that you are not a robot, a well-oiled machine is to go back to mustard yellow walls and the pungent smell of sorrow.

Than let's just say you have a knack for picking out the sharpest knife to fall on.

They say you can get addicted to a certain kind of pain.

You say to me never to inhale **** or ecstasy or LSD, you tell me they are poisons people wilfully put in there bodies between gulps of the bottle clenched tight in your fist.

I wonder if you know that sometimes I imagine my neck, between stubby fingers and bursting veins.

I wonder if you know that I picked my poison a long time ago.

Neither side won,
neither side lost.
How many people are there
whose wishes have been so answered?
Voters like me who seemed to have had their way,
Sit down, ******,
pack your bags
and prepare to depart the Oval Office.
The future is ours.