What a relief to set aside
my mechanical pencil
and write with you,
O Ballpoint Pen
found at the bottom of my pen box.

On your side is engraved
“Samy’s Camera.”
Did I walk out with you by accident?
or was it on purpose,
beguiled by your sleek, cool body
as you nestled into my hand
and I clasped you tight
likw my boyfriend in a steamy nightclub
dancing slow to Moon River.

Was I writing a check for
a roll of Kodak film,
ASA 400?
Or was it more recent?
Purchasing a digital mini-camera
to carry in my purse?
Before cellphones took selfies so flawlessly
that I tucked my Sony
into the dresser drawer
behind my underwear.
It lies abandoned
soon to be joined by all my
mechanical pencils.

You, my Pen, are my reliable companion
who will record lists for me:
To Do lists
Shopping lists
Birthday lists
Laundry lists.
You will record why my lover
doesn't want me anymore, but
I will tear up that scrap of paper
as soon as the ink has dried like blood,
that heartless man,
unworthy of the ink I waste on him.

O beautiful Pen,
sleek as the fur on a cat,
smooth as a gin and tonic,
solid as his hand on my breast.
for merely.

I hereby relinquish my mechanical pencil,
whose lead keeps shattering.
But you, dear Ballpoint Pen, I can press hard.
And how much more beautiful
with you
are the curves of my words.

I want this to go as smooth as writing from a ballpoint pen, girl let me be the Lion in your Lion's Den

This is an Instrument a Verser must have
Without it, we cannot Write with Love.


This Tool, yet so small
Does so many for All.


Ink-Filled Skinney,
With a ball-soaked head.
Passing-out stains of Blue Blood
And creating Words which Read.


People throughout Literacy
Seek for this Sword.
To furnish their own Feelings
And Bsuiness in the Ring.


It all started,
With a large, downey feather
From the Swan's sacrifice,
Dipping the tip with sticky paint,
And scribbling onto leather.


Paper, in progression, was its Factor
Then came the Fountain - Civil Man's writing major.


This Pen does well
And so does much.
Ink goes up,
Goes down,
Though still plans to Blot.


However it may be,
How the Ball-Point was born.
"This is way Better!" People would say
And now - the New Century - is still
Used today.


And because of it,
Production was born
In Business, Literary and most
Of all - Journalism
Was so Progressive.


And so this ends,
This Tale of the Happy Ballpen.
Of Friend's in-take,
Which is needed much in the Open.

It starts off like a rock flying towards you
No algorithm to predict the speed, to predict the flight
No calculations to be made as you stand dumbfounded
You recognize the impending impact
Brace your muscles
Only hoping it doesn't sting too terribly
That the bruises ware off cleanly

With pens and ink
You scratch a surface with aching fright
torn papers show no signs of the words promised to be revealed in good time

You see ballpoint blood in your veins
Teasing seductive stares, broken by papered fragile skin
Grabbing for a pen you cry out as it bites back in the palm of your hand

Muscles tense
Awaiting impact

I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!

I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.

non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom

Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.

No high school sophomore ever grew up without
A naked lady plastic ballpoint pen -
Those furtive giggles in geometry class
Are not about theorems all risqué

After the FFA trip to the rodeo
Or the band trip to sunny Galveston
A pretty lady with a 1940s do
Loses her swimsuit over and over again

Upend the pen, and she's nekkid in the sun -
Whoever thought writing could be such fun!

The grass bends down beneath my feet accordingly, only to rise,
rise again
The waves break on pebbles, sand, only to crash again on
distant shores
Pulled back through quiet memories, the soft smoked smell of
mesquite & juniper
Lying in the heart of a gray metal shell, laid length-wise, molded into
a mad-mans image
Falling through old, tired, lives, with such innocence, clean &
unburdened by life
Accumulating this tiredness, begrudgingly ground down, absently
tossed aside
Never asking why, like beasts led to slaughter, not of flesh & bone,
put principle & ideal
Dreams of silver, fading into tarnished piles of rust, distorted image,
mocking faded beauty
Quiet nights spent in the shade of moonlight, watching the stars go
down with you
Dreaming of sunshine as the dew collects on our sleeping
faces
Awakened by the fleeting song of cardinals, staring into lattice-work
clouds

Retractable ballpoint poem and prose set
in chrome with gold-plated clips,
handcrafted designer opening lines,
and elegant black lacquer finish.

i'm sitting in your room thinking about how
i do believe that you loved me
just not enough to stay
you didn't love me enough to call
or explain
or fix me
or say goodbye
all of the memories are gone
gone with the scribbles of a ballpoint pen
and a suitcase
your room and i are alike
we are both absent of you

being a poet is not planned

~for Gabriella Garcia~

~~

a sixteen old soul says she understands,
being a poet is not planned,
forcing an old mans re-collection of the first time,
he made love to a virginal white
papyrus with muscles trembling,
body bent, chest bursting a rockets red glaring,
eyes marking the sheets with salty drip spots

what possessed the wrist veins
to wrest a cheap ballpoint pen to transfuse pain,
in a semaphore of uncoded ink blotches,
what was he thinking

was he thinking?

that it was an ejection
that it was an *******
that it was a tribulation expiation
that it was a tribute explanation?

that it was an injection
that it was a circumspection inspection
that it was a circumscision surgery of emotional complexion
excising an infection with a written genuflection?

try, but no might, the first is subsumed
by the thousands that followed dutifully
though his one poem  flawless, expertly recalled,
it will always be the next,
and unplanned just like this one too

who anointed his brow, the hair and forehead,
with oil pure, dripping down onto, into his cut cain marker,
who is not answering a query relentless
is this his plan, his appointment,
is this his flawed excellence,
is this his imperfect penance perpetual?

knowing well and full
now

the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloraturas

~~

upon this he reflects,
praying that
god protect the
young poets
from planning
____
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2893127/unplanned

A pen is not a tool,
it is an instrument,
and it does not do for an instrument
to be cheap
or poorly made.
If I have a choice, it will be expensive
Ink, not gel.
God forbid a ballpoint Bic.
No.
It will be the kind of pen that makes you want to write,
even when you have no idea what it will be about;
Write,
not for the flow of thoughts to pen to paper,
but for pen to hand to brain,
the sensation of the tip smooth across white ****** paper
swimming up your arm.
Handwriting that is usual jerky
and of questionable legibility
morphing into a graceful scrawl

I would have the kind of pen that rips the words out of me,
if I had my choice.
The pen a bow, the paper a cello.
The notes pouring, spilling, becoming,
composer unsure of where they come from
but suspecting some deep, secret crevice inside them
only touchable by the finest instrument
that they can imagine.

A pen like the head of an infant
in your palm,
so soft and inexplicably right
that you want to hold forever,
because it feels like it belongs in your hand;
cradled plastic as pleasant as downy hair

And with such a pen I will write
and write,
at the start hardly aware
what these words will weave.
A portrait of an artist,
genius or insane?
And the ideas will unravel
until it becomes more than sensation,
the meaning bigger than paper and pen.
Finally, at last.

If I were a cup of black coffee you take me just the way I am.
If this were a thanksgiving dinner you'd be the turkey and I'd be the ham.

I'm the water and you're the sea
I'm the sailor and what I really mean is; you complete me. 

If this were a battery you'd be the positives and I'd be the negatives.
If I were a holiday you'd be the festive's.

If this were space you'd be the stars that form my galaxy.
If I were a driver in New York, you'd be my taxi.
If I a flower and you the bee, then it's clear to see that what I really mean is; you complete me.

One ways, u-turns, dead ends and yields, green lights, left lane merge and a squashed bug on my windshields.

If I were a Bic ballpoint pen then you would write out every sin.
If this were it, it would be the greatest love there has ever been.

Road signs and paper, fantasies and nature cannot help to say in such a little way that all I try to convey that what I really mean is; you complete me.

If I were a song you'd memorize my lyrics 
If this were February 1990 it would be Hold On by Wilson Phillips

If I were a comic book, you'd be my nerd.
If you were a photographer I'd be your bird. 

If I a cold night and you the book by a fire, then I'd be the Hobbit and you'd be my Shire.
If I a cup and you the tea then all there is left to say is...

In between sips of skim-milk splashed coffee; in between the sharp, fragmented, ink-drags of pen and indentation of paper and the simple sketch of a fish in a lake [the fish like the hand and the cog, and the lake like piano keys and copper machinery] The Imagist explained to me the conception of music and clockwork.
And the Human Condition.
"Humans," he sketched, "have a very peculiar sense of self - it ends at our skin. Cut off my arms and I'll survive, but sever the air from my lips and... At what point did our limbs become more a part of ourselves than the sky?"
And after a moment of measuring the weight of words, he thought to me, "Man, I don't know why I get myself into this... What made me think I could write a children's book?"

I told him how I wished I could write music. You could read it in my poetry; my metaphors about sheet music and night skies. My yearning to explore worlds that my starfall has never blinked in. And it struck me, bittersweet through the roots of my wisdom teeth, how we can never choose our art. Rather I'll bushwhack through, leaving trails of half-started, stutter-stepped poems, looking for something that sings like guitar strings.

The Imagist and I, we are children of a visual age.
I try to sculpt our twenty-seven minute attention spans through sporadic hand gestures.
He told me about his trip to Montana through drawings of the people he'd met,
from the three friends of friends who were a quarter of a face or less. Like Bob, the right eye and jawline, who knew something about everything  [He said it's like having a conversation with Wikipedia], to the deeply detailed dreamy girl who played the accordion.

Sometimes we wake up feeling like Mr. Potato Head, with our mouth where our eye should be.

In between sketches of friends who fell out of touch and John Ashbery poems, we gave credit to palindromes. The Imagist drew HannaH with a handlebar moustache and I realized that this poem ends when Two Creek closes - comforted by the fact that poetry can be about the simplest moments, the ones that I never understood exactly how beautiful they were until I read them in my own shaken handwriting.

In a mix-up of words, He discovered how sick he was of writing with something, rather than writing for something.
I evaluated my own pen and chewed on my tongue.

I wish I could draw portraits so that I'd remember first impressions.

When The Director showed up, we exchanged science and art. He explained to me the imaginary horizons of black holes and Hawking radiation, but even he taught it through a sketch in the top left corner of his science fiction movie script. At the foreign end of the table, The Imagist continued a conversation about the complexities of children's books, and theories someone developed through observing their attention-starved cats who bore uncanny likeness to kids, and the appeal of Furbies, while The Director asked me how I write a poem.
I told him it starts with a single line, something that zings in my mouth like cavities and canker sores, but not to take my advice because I have far too many illegitimate, ******* sons; clouds of words daunted by the clear skies of the rest of the page. After The Director's end credits, eventually I joined the foreign conversation where we had begun it, with The Imagist saying, "Our skin connects us to everything, it doesn't trap us in to our own narcissism."

And then they were gone too, each dissolved into a part of themselves and each other - to fall into place in a world that runs on six-billion beating hearts.

In between the grain of a yellow birch table that's hosted the gunfire of mouths and lonely bones, I stayed and played my part, losing my fingers in the varnish and pages of books, believing that I, my entirety, my open borderline skin, my wooden grain, my air in the wind, my ballpoint pen finger, was writing for something.

I wrote a letter the other day.
dancing around the subject of dragonflies
I don’t speak in their language
honestly its too complicated
because I don’t speak in nuzzles
I don’t speak in love
I speak in the cold attitude of indifference
I mutter thoughts in blue ballpoint pen

To him I speak in keyboard clicks
with a snap of a twig we flip
and we are in the same room
matching cereal bowls
emptied of their contents in the sink
We speak in notches on a bed post
and a mattress on the floor
We speak in unwashed sheets
He crushes my disdain as if it were a walnut shell
and informs me that I speak in my sleep

Whatever the weather we stay at home
stare out the windows at the fairy lit wilderness
jotting down whatever concepts come to mind
he is cream rolling in peaks
smooth and whipped
poured over his duvet
as if he were cool whip on peach pie
He is my worst intentions personified

I wrote a letter the other day.
dancing around the subject of dragonflies
I dont speak in their language
but he speaks mine
even though its complicated
we don't speak in words
we speak in private displays of affection
we speak in caring closed door moments
and the texts he asks me to send when I walk home alone
To make sure I am safe
and In the end I may mutter thoughts in blue ballpoint pen
but He reads them loud and clear and responds in love

No writer ever seems to exhaust the ink
That oozes from extruded plastic tubes
Made by machines and chemicals that stink
The crowded banks of the fetid Huangpu

Cheap plastic pens are given, shared, and sold,
Tapped and gnawed, pocketed, stolen, lent, and lost
Drying and dying after they grow old
Misplaced, mislaid, decayed, but seldom tossed

A ballpoint helps us with our thoughts to think
But no one ever seems to exhaust the ink

the words don't come easy
on this head-pounding hungover day
every train of thought trails off
into intangible nonsense.
maybe if i buy a new pen? i think
perhaps then these words won't look so lame?
maybe a carbon steel ballpoint pen
with high-grade stainless steel trimmings.
i could engrave my name on it.
with a pen like that, i think
i could write cryptic poetry
that would bewilder the masses.
then i speculate the possibilities
of stabbing myself in the neck with a pen like that
with my name engraved on it.
possibly if i hit a main artery
in my neck, i think
that could work.
but i can't afford a pen like that.

Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.
Facebook, Twitter, Vine, Gmail, and Instagram.
Shampoo, soap bar, toothbrush,
toothpaste, temperature, and time.
Shaving cream, razor, running water,
advertisements, sensitivity, precision, and cuts.
Burned tongue, empty stomach, loose tie,
missing shirt buttons, beating the clock,
wallet, briefcase, and car keys.
Ballpoint pens, scented trees, fast food wrappers,
loose change, lighters, citations, ***** clothes,
CDs, and napkins.
Red lights, pedestrians, homeless people,
newspapers, billboards, pets on leashes, sewer
grates, crosswalks, skyscrapers, and garbage.
Faxes, printers, memorandums, break room,
prestige, cubicles, customer service, paperweights,
filing cabinets, stocks, and corporate.
Wipers, streetlights, rain coats, dive bars,
and home.
Blankets, pillows, a black dog, and a cell phone.

Follow the ballpoint pen
You are entering fulfillment
Possibilities at its best
Sometimes the mind of confess
A need to proceed
Inner creed
Long term to short term
Alpha letter by alpha letter
What could be better
To be or not
Bulls eye target
A thought on the dot
Journey in and think it out
Ballpoint pen being the solid foundation
Guidance throughout the illustration.

I don’t understand these days,
the poetry I speak,

Or value my inner author
enough to strive for literary peaks,

And yet, here I am
writing about my writing still-

Words won and lost
with the drop of my quill,

A ballpoint pen
to be more exact,

But who in my journal
is in need of such facts?

I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices

and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes

How do you put such profound emotions into words?

Do you paint them onto the page like a gentle brush swooping and sliding?

Do you shout them from the stage into an audience of frightened eyes?

Do you quickly write them down with a stern ballpoint scratching into blank paper?

Do you whisper them softly into curious ears with gentle and intimate intention?

Do you scream them at your memories till your throat burns?

Or do you silently stare at the sky and think them into the abyss?


~S.C. Kelley

"That's outrageous!" He said.
"You're a ******* fool" I muttered.
That's pennies on the dream.
If you think that the four dollars
   And 29 cents is for a piece of plastic with some ink and a ballpoint then you're probably just making a grocery list.
A pen  is not for scribbling to do lists.
There is an app for that.

A pen is for unlocking dreams and opening windows.
It's for recording the nightmares and victories of a life worth living.
If you don't have PTSD from one thing or another by 28, then you aren't living right.

"You're a madman" he chuckled.
Maybe so.
But I think the price is worth it.

Hello, little god,
cornered in this world of insignificance;
between sips of too-cold raspberry tea
create your own brand of madness
and label it "art."

From the blueberry stool
that is your throne, conduct
symphonies of beluga whales and
daisy chains molded together
to craft another colorful beginning.

Papercuts and calluses
are your battle wounds;
a diligent ballpoint pen
is the dog that marks its territory.

But then--

White knuckles
crumple mistakes,
transforming them into carpet-coating origami.
Your fingers keep the beat
that defines disincentive:
bmm, bmm, bmm.

Possessed
by antagonistic demons, tug
at the noose that is
a favorite paisley tie
and admit defeat.

Take another bite of your
overpriced Reuben sandwich.

I remember the night you swore to the god you don't believe in that you didn't love me anymore.
The way your brown eyes morphed into a deep pitch black.
Blacker that our sorrowful souls combined.
I didn't think I'd ever hear those words.
But they crawled from my ears into my barely beating heart.
Stabbing every inch of it, naturally tearing it apart.
You see, we could have had it all but, the the god forsaken demons came back.
They crawled back into your mind..
and filled it like the the tears filling my small round eyes.
I almost drowned in the ocean of emotion.
You were no longer my lifeline.
And you swear you're fine.
Oh how you repeat it, that you're getting by.
I write and write every miserable thought.
My pages filling up like the darkness filled the sky as the days turned into nights.
Woe is me, woe is me.
I repeat those words so miserably.
The thoughts of losing the only thing I had choked me.
The thoughts wrapped their evil around my neck.
But the noose I'm making is going to be a lot tighter.
As my love grew deeper, my heart grew lighter.
Losing feeling, losing it's rhythm.
I wrote and wrote until I ran out of ink.
Now I'll make my way to the bathroom sink.
I'll peck and scratch at my skin.
I'll peck and scratch at the thoughts that I think.
My black ballpoint pen became my red ballpoint pen.
And I now continue to write again.
Eventually I'll run out of pages.
Oh my soft tan skin will make a beautiful canvas.
I ask and ask if you're absolutely certain that you don't need me.
And the answer remains the same.
You don't need me.
You don't need this.
So I scrapped together every memory, every kiss.
Oh the sweet bliss of pretending they stayed in place.
My love.
But the thing is, you're not mine.
Love.

For all the goodness this screen provides;
for its instant gratification;
for the evolved digital relay of self-published creativity;
for the immediate responses and comments
from half a world away.
For its space saving mastery.
I long to hold all your words, verses and rhymes intimately
within glossy or plain protective coat of hard card
Your spine dunked in the cup of palm
headcap to tail resting in crux of arm
or nestled like a lover upon lap.
I could take you to bed.
I want to thumb through your pages
Pages once mashed and pulped and pressed to dry.
I long to feel the weight of words physically
to smell the freshness along each hinge crease,
and caress the texture.
To return to those most fond
charactered with dogear
underlined with ballpoint
and pencilled margin notes.
Even the mild smudge of finger tip dirt
when I simply could not wait to picking you up before washing.
If only this screen was a page
One of millions ever changing
I could hold all your work close
and fall asleep with your words
waiting in rest beside me
always
beside
me....

you call me a coward
for confessing my heart
through a piece of paper
rather than with my lips
perhaps because
ink dries much faster
than these tears do
acetone can disguise the truth
at the tip of my ballpoint pen
and paper may be shredded
for these feelings to not exist

What is it with four letters?
That mere intersections of lines and loops
Of curves and edges
Of creations of ballpoint pens
Have managed to spell the faces of the voices that keep me up at night

P-A-I-N. Pain was the story of age 5
The reverberation of the door slammed shut
It is the sound of my mother’s wails and my father’s rage
It is the sight of skin kissing skin in the most unromantic of ways

H-E-L-P. Help were the tears that have run dry from age 16
The tugs and pulls, of scratching to hold on to anything and everything
They were of hand after hand that stretched only to push and silence the crying of the girl left with nothing
They were the stares that spat on my face, whose breathe have filled my lungs with words
Which said, “you are not enough” , “you are a mistake”, “you will never be more than your failures,”

L-I-E-S. Lies are the roommates that have taken over my bed at age 21
They were the tags that came with the packages of death and failure
It tells me bedtime stories of fault and regret until I dream of only those
It is the gate that have forced its way to barricade my heart because my heart; no, my life; no, my existence is undeserving of interactions outside these walls

What is it with four letters?

D-O-N-E. Done is the selection of ropes and blades, of bullets and train rails at 23
It is finally believing in the bedtime stories of defeat and condemnation
It is stepping on that last rock, layers above creations worth saving more than I
But no, done is the shadow that stretched into my vision
It is the intersection of two lines that drew a gap between my feet and the fall
It is the truth of the fallen and the risen that have tilted my head to look back
At nail pierced hands that have been embracing me all along

R-A-I-N. Rain was the prayer I said at age 25
It is the drops of red that dripped from places in His body that are now just scars of triumph
It is the ocean that kisses the shore anew a million times a day
K-N-O-W. Know was I never forgotten
It is the realization of a presence that have charted my life’s story since day 1

What is it with four letters ?
What is it with four letters?
Wait, what is IN four letters?

H-O-P-E. Hope is man redeemed
It is the truth pain have tried to numb us of and lies have tried to replace our memories with
Hope is glorious substitution, it is of spared lashes and whips
It is the inhale and exhale of a man enduring
Of steps- right, left, right, left- of a body stained with blood untouched by this world of gravel and dirt

Hope was of a baby born on straws resting on earth’s grounds
Hope is from His last breathe, a scandalous end that exhaled life into a new beginning
It is Chapter 3 of an “undeniability” that defeat is a myth refuted by an empty tomb
Hope is redemption from resurrection, deliverance from remembrance
Love and grace eternal
Forgiveness impartial like fire that consumes all sides: past, present, future- the done, doing, and did

Hope is Christ taking flesh to save a creation unworthy but loved still
An irrationality made reality
Accept that this is not the end, that life may have moved without you but the Author of life has never failed to write you in each time
So stand today with an authority respired by Christ and rebuke the sayings and said
Of screams and whispers by your stories of ages 5, 16, and 21

Know that you are the King’s beloved, paid by a price with an amount that transcends infinity
Darling, hope is a four letter word written in strokes that spell L-O-R-D
And as everlasting as those letters spell is hope as eternal
So place a cross on your front porch
So next time pain and lies pay you a visit, they’ll know that your home is not of bricks and stones but of a body lined with bones and flesh of man who have conquered their master who is death

Bask in the divine, it is finished

Frail demeanor of library index cards
packed with Dewey’s decimals
stared upon so many times

some of you stigmatized with graffiti
“Read This” and “Don’t Read This”
as if the vandal knows

I wish to ****** each one of you
good precise direction you give
care in punctilious hand print
of maimed athenaeum tenders
all with long stretched noses
bridging reading spectacles
eyeing out naughty gigglers

stigmatized themselves by
rolled up quaffs
with pushed in pencils
or retractable ballpoint pens

writing implements held so delicately
while you were ascribed

O index cards of my shielded youth
how you protected me, informed me

Guided me on treasure hunts
where my imaginings still take me
away, in isles of knowledge

information coded in numbers and letters

Yours is the power

i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.

the romance section was laughable,
giving me bullet point commentaries
as to why i am doomed to never
be loved or feel loved again,
reasons why i settle for beautiful boys who
enjoy my company because i'm quirky, cute, time killer material,
not anchored, solid, strong, soulmate material.
but that's just it, i guess, no one can deny it-
(everyone knows when they are in the presence of precariousness.)

the mystery section offered me nothing but
a full buffet  of questions i already had,
questions that always seemed to give clues to future answers,
delicious questions that tasted sweet at first
then turned suddenly sour,
questions that made me understand the meaning
of a deceptive cadence.
(these books made me wish i didn't leave fingerprints
on everything i touch.)

the fiction section made me feel like a child again,
these were the books that reminded me why hope
is and has always been my favourite bedtime snack.
(these were the books that reminded me that just
because i couldn't make you love me did not mean
that i couldn't make believe you love me.)
since i've stepped out of my fins every step has made me wish
for the courage to throw myself into the sea,
to dissolve in an instant,
to be a daughter of the air forevermore.
(perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was the only person in the world
who knew just how much it hurts to be a human being.)

the self help section gave the illusion of answers,
the way a fortune teller with a foreign accent
doused in flattery and jewelry might seem.
i have spent hours of my existence with these books,
laying on my stomach, furrowed brow, fingers turning white
from clutching the ballpoint pen for dear life thinking
maybe if i just keep
underliningunderliningunderlining
things will start to make sense again.
(because, don't you know? the more you underline
the parts of your life that are relevant on paper,
the closer you are to having figured out your life so perfectly
you eventually will walk by these books wondering
which unfortunate person you should donate them to.)

i inherited an entire library
full of books that offer explanations
as to why you are incapable of loving me.
i think maybe there are some things
that we are never meant
to know.

He stabs me with words
Detaching each letter from the one before
He sharpens the ends
With a hot iron sword
And ****** my heart
Just enough
Just enough

He won't let me die
Each moment alone
The silence between your words
My ears are bleeding from your
Pitch dark memories

An image to
**** for.

It’s no longer burn the witch
it’s drown the ******
purity only attainable when it’s served
as a death dessert, martyr Mary
do you understand TV dinners
made the housewife go extinct
or berserk, I think that’s how it goes
catching their heads in ovens as protest
but listening came in through the door
as a catcall, festering on ottoman chairs
smoking that new cigarette with a cautionary
tale at bedtime
the ends  being ground, like the beef
that we’re all guilty of starting between
sighs, or the coffee beans blistered
trying to come up with an excuse as to why
high heels won’t break that man’s spine,
and it won’t in that new suit he’s so possessive of
because he paid for it with the sweat of his back
as the gaggle of his fellow businessmen
scuffle over who gets to lick the perspiration
that earned him that respect, that bought
the privilege of feeling like a man that stands out
from the wolves in offices, waiting at midnight
for the froth to begin to foam and to
claw at reasons why the bed is always empty
when he’s everything everyone wants to be
and I think you begin to sympathize,
I think you begin to understand why
balancing a ballpoint pen between your
forefinger and thumb is equally as
drinking the cup half full
the modern man with his chiseled teeth
and overt way of speaking throws
up at the American Dream, standing
naked in the glory of publicity fame
there’s too much lights, the makeup
is too intense
the crown of jezebels
Belongs to the hardworking man
with the unkempt lawn, and the
natural features of a god
it’s no longer burn the witch
it’s freeze the *****
while they stand flirting
with the boondocks trapping
fireflies and weak Christians
in their hair
and will you listen to me now?
as the hordes of provoked
believers stand in crowded
bars and in your own home
******* themselves mentally
as they chew and spit
into each other’s mouth
what they’ve always wanted to hear
and the pleasure comes from
not knowing and not wanting to know
and will you touch me now?
that the fantasy is created in your own image
and will you worship me now?
that I agree with these shackles
telling me that they were always meant to be there
that ******* is next to holiness
and will you accept me now?
that the book has been rewritten
and the villain is not you nor me
but the refrigerator with the lizard
that tempted humankind and
banished them from ever entering paradise again
and will you **** me now?
that comedy is only worth in whoever
has the longest tongue

Sit back and over-analyse
the lies that you were serving my mind.
Providing a way to relate
and trying not to overcompensate
for my lack of you,
I should have known you’d
***** and moan enough that
in time,
I could make your whines rhyme.
(Maybe that’s why your speaker points
were always the lowest.)
In this debate,
rate my way and rate of diction,
because truth is stranger than fiction
I sigh
cause I’m lying through my teeth
when I say “I’m okay”.
Sit back and wait for
what you think you have to say
We wager away our
bad experiences,
nearing another night of searing
dreaming
playing make-believe
with a ballpoint pen.
Remember the way all this started
with an oration and the weight
of what came to be a bad break up
make up
break up
wake up
to a world where you two don’t fit together.
Force your cracks into each others’
like broken heirlooms
Shake off the dust,
Can’t shake the thought that you’d be happier
without me.
I can’t see through this cloud of doubt without
an explanation,
an answer to the chance
that I can’t distinguish
the morning dew from her rose petals
that she tried to drown you in
from your tears.
“If this ain’t love
then how do we get out?”
Get out of this mess,
regress back into an obsession
with death,
and destruction,
let me provide some instruction
on obstructing these thoughts
that threaten to consume
what I assume is your last shred
of sanity.

i used to wake up with sore eyes and black bruises i've never seen before
i'd look for long cigarette butts half full beers and forgotten liquor drinks
i had two cow licks that stuck up like horns
i had thick cigarette smoke like peanut butter and puddles in the kitchen that leaked from the trash bags into the rug
i'd paste cardboard boxes and ripped up comic books together with my drawings
in permanent marker and scribbled edges of ballpoint pen and colored pencil coupled with
writings of philosophic schizophrenic machine gun word salad
that ran off the page and
onto the walls
i had slippers i'd worn out months ago and shirts i washed in the shower
with dish soap
i had flies that flew around in circles until they got smacked or fell dead
i'd climb up on the roof in the afternoon
throw bottles in the street and ******* the side
i welcomed the dirt the bloodstains and the deep cough
i loved it but mostly hated it
and i'll never forget it

Keep truth bottled up in a pen
It awaits escape
Pensively
Penciling about the day
It will get to show its face

I am
the real world's
writing utensil.

From checks,
envelopes,
to contracts,
you'll find me,
not a pencil.

The only problem
with being
the real world's
writing utensil
is that I can never
erase my mistakes.

From scribbling out
to whiting out,
they never
truly disappear.