I stuck on the label
My shirt capped with snow
I smiled as I was able
My voice my words could show

All who came to me
Read quickly and ran more
My label was not picky
Of who should fear my tooth and claw

I looked down unto its face
And it looked back into mine.
Not one who found themself in place
Could speak quite like my label's whine.

'Not you, not me, not anyone
Is free to be themself
While I am here you're already gone
For words make rich those ones with wealth.'

I clung to him and ripped him forth,
But horror thudded and with it, tied
My heart stuck to the paper and its morph
Was into a label as I died.

And die I did, but still the words
Stayed until I faded free,
Though I sleep the men in herds
Will speak the mind they have of me.

******,
Depressed,
And not someone who'd like to meet you.
Except,
I don't show any of that.
So, I'll still greet you.
Especially if your pretty,
Or listen to cool music.
I'm pretty picky about who I share my secrets with.
Or overly nice,
Or interested in me.
As long as you have time to talk.
You could be anyone.
Even "an angry lesbian,
With a loaded gun."
Just as long as you listen to me,
I'll be happy.
So I'm sorry if my vulgarity,
And depression overwhelms you,
I promise it's not meant too.

I once bought a box of fresh strawberries
from the market
I've hated strawberries all my life,
but not because of how they tasted,
how they smelled,
or how they looked.
To be honest, I've never really eaten
a strawberry before;
but I just knew I'd hate it.
People think that it was just because
I was a picky eater;
that I wasn't up for trying new things.
I hated strawberries because
people thought all girls were supposed
to like them -- their taste, their scent.
All sweet and innocent and pure and nice.
I hated how they expected me to be
confined in a pink, dainty box,
expected me to like or smell like
fresh fruits and honey,
all sugary and giggly.
So I bought a box of fresh strawberries,
put one in my mouth,
and the rest in the bin.
I still hate strawberries,
but for more reasons now.

A blithering fool I am. I bring some more tasty, poetic food to a full table of empty people again.
The smell of decay is swept over, with a savory draft of nauseous meat.
Close that fluttering trap, sit the **** down and warm your seat.
Here's a bottle of whines for your *******. Eat, meet and greet, and please, this Filet Mignon is too tough for my teeth.
Seething in impatient anger, Lisa demands another plate. Complacent waitress Marie patiently escapes the bubble of her "high class" greed. She then tells the cook for another steak, medium-well please! Geez, what a smile planted on her face, while she comes out to face the *****, condescending looks of a rich, shrewd couple that doubles a shroud of negativity, which makes poor Marie's day an even more stressful activity.
A chest full of kindness she displays to great lengths, but the couples' stuck-up, ******-up attitudes stinks worse than a pig pen in May. Paul and Lisa brings **** to everyone's fun parades. The stakes are high, while the next course swings by. Bring us some cookies, brownies, and ice-cream cones pronto! Not a smile, but smirk, as she rushes to grant the picky requests from rude folks. She looks dazzling, even amongst the mess. Then she trips and falls, hurling a tray of glasses. A swirling disaster, shards of glass spray everywhere amongst the upper-class masters. A blast of laughter erupts from Paul and Lisa's direction. Sitting smug, they look the happiest they've been in months. Quite the ugly reflections, marriage fights, and failed Republican elections. Careless customers rush by and look down dirtily upon her inspection. They just continue on their way to their seats of self-destruction. Waitress Marie brings herself to her knees, no helpful hands to her silent pleas. Co-workers agree that this couple is a messy infection. Marie finally stands and rushes to a bathroom to medicate her bleeding arm. Her charm dwindling away, as a swarm of classy critters, with dresses that glitters, shove her out of their important way. Feeling dismayed, she wraps up her ****** display. Great, she awaits the end to this hellish day. Amazed, her courage to carry on this shift of the shattered positive arrays is swift. She gracefully drifts out and back to her table of dreams. Amidst two faces of schemes, Paul and Lisa want their checks, with upset eyes that traces the lines on her worried forehead. A smile brings light back to her face of beauty, the couple continue to be snooty, making rude comments on her round *****. Marie rushes to get their expensive checks, and comes back with pen and paper. She gently begins to lay them down on the table, but instead, they're snatched from her grasp. Taken by surprise, she gasps. Her hands clasped, she smiles thinly at half mast. She says she hopes they enjoyed their meal, but they just laugh, leave their seats, and storm on past her in a flash. The waitress looks down at the checks, inspects, and feeling dread from within, as no tip lines we're filled in. Brimming with fury, she blinks away her frustration.
She then decides to go clean her station. As the night comes to a close, I'll finish up this crazy poem. Here's some food for thought to swallow. Be careful not to choke.
I hope this satisfies you, so wish Marie luck, for a brighter tomorrow.

I can't help but imagine
What it feels like to be monogamous
Unfortunately for me,
My loyalty is infamous
I swim in circles between lovers,
If I could, I would mend them all
And create a morphed partner
But I can't have one world,
I like them all,
From the artisans, to the country folk
Short, big, thin and toned or tall
I'm a wreck at my best, with that there's no doubt
I guess I'll just keep going,
Time will figure it all out

March 3, 2004**

It was a cool night. We sat bundled up sweat pants and hoodies. She lived in a trailer (a mobile home for those who dislike such terminology) on the outskirts of town, on a farm to market road that many blunts had been smoked on. One of our favorite activities was piling into my four door compact car and rolling up delicious strawberry Phillies or Swishers filled with half brown, half green **** of the earth bud. But that’s a different story…
Her parents and sisters were gone for the evening. The porch swing was situated in the backyard just outside the sliding door, beside the riding lawn mower, ratty trampoline which had been bounced on one million and one times (she even broke her tailbone on that stupid recreation device), and the newly constructed chicken coop. The swing creaked every time we swung, but we didn’t mind. I’m sure a small spritz of WD-40 would have cleared it right up but our teenage minds were incapable of such logical decision making.
It was not the first time we had partaken in such events and it certainly would not be the last. The canister was plastic, red, and a familiar sight for most. Anyone who uses a combustible engine fueled by such a horrific liquid knows what I speak of. However, when you’re sixteen and too broke to buy *** and too young to purchase alcohol and cigarettes, sometimes your options are limited. But we must have a vice. It’s a requirement for all humans, regardless of what some might say. Being the reckless young woman I was at the time, I had many of them, and honestly, I still do today. On this particular evening, the heavenly aroma of gasoline was both our friend and our savior. We would inhale and then pass the canister to one another, over and over again. Between the intense sessions of déjà vu and cat naps, our night was a blur. Incessant giggling and talks of silly adolescent affairs was all that occurred. The feeling of being somewhere you’ve been before a thousand times in a row is overwhelming and really makes one question the concept of time and experience. How can I be somewhere now and have been in the exact same position before? How can I experience something that has potentially never occurred because of the inhalation of a substance? It is quite boggling really. After exploring the realm of drugs extensively, it is quite odd to look back at a night in question like this and wonder how a substance can do what it did.
My best friend and I sat there for hours on end, inhaling and chatting. We would occasionally salvage a blunt roach to smoke on or steal a cigarette from her older sister or father. They were never my choice in brands but it’s difficult to be picky when you’re a thief. Up until this point in time, I had always enjoyed the aroma emitted from gasoline. However, this night would mark a change in perception.
The majority of what occurred is not only uninteresting but extremely hard to remember. Gasoline has a way of doing that… expelling memories from your brain in a whirlwind of déjà vu and uncontrollable nap taking. But, at some point in time we decided to take our little private party inside; perhaps because of the weather but more likely because of a lack of clear reasoning.
All I can vividly remember is that we both woke up to her father beating on the window of her bedroom to let him inside the house. We were both so startled by this event occurring that she knocked over the canister filled with the petroleum based product. Quickly scrambling to resolve the issue, we hid the gas can in her closet. We then looked at each other in pure disbelief over the situation. Not only was it scary but it was also quite amusing. The situations we would put ourselves in were always quite delightful, even when they were horrific beyond belief. We tried to muster up a plan of action but it was no use.
She then ran to unlock the door to let her dad in. The first thing he asked upon entrance into the house was, “Why does it smell like gasoline in here?” Obviously we did not have an adequate answer for him other than, “We don’t know, we were wondering the same thing,” The best part is that he never even questioned us. Why would he? We were just sweet teenage girls with smiles plastered across our faces because we had been huffing gasoline all ******* night.
On a night not too far in the future, we would partake in the same type of inhalation but because there was not a canister at my house, we would huff it straight from my grandma’s van. Our neighbor saw us doing it and called the police. For the rest of my grandmother’s life (six short months) she passionately believed that people in our neighborhood were trying to siphon gas from her Chevy Astro. She made me go to an auto parts store to purchase a gas tank lock to deter such activities. That marked the end of our gas huffing days.

he picked apart the movements
of girls' hips
like he forgot what his momma looked like
like he never knew how to believe a female tongue
he never thinks too hard
about the sentences she can make
only what she'd look like if he
forced himself inside of her

he ate his words like
a picky child who only ate cigarettes
and ******
he bathed in the brute fury
of how they never payed much attention to him
until they were screaming stop
and he was going anyways
he hated them for being beautiful
he hated beautiful things in general

but he liked the feeling of cornering his prey
in a dark stairwell
he liked playing the devil
and walking to meet sin with a backwards heart
a heedless skull
a set of fingernails that always chipped
as he picked away at them with his teeth

he liked to think he could have anything his way
if he made it so
he liked to know that if he made himself
the faceless shadow in a dark corridor
he could become the boogyman
he could wrap around bodies like silicon
and swallow them like tremors cracking the earth

every girl he'd ever hated for her body
would have nightmares about him
and he liked them better as dead bodies
because it's the only time they'll shut up and **** him
he boasts tire tracks running along main bloodlines
a broken brain like a land mine
a chance of luck that he could **** some time
following the scent of something feminine
the idea that his presence alone
could shake her down to her knees

he wants to take every thing
that has never been given to him
he takes joy in the distorted
the sick satisfaction
of tasting the caviar that no one ever served him
the princess, trapped, in a black dress
pinned down in the dust
behind the restaurant dumpster after dusk
what an interesting view from above
he thought as he perforated the flesh
and though he never cared for the victim's clothing choice
he liked her best in red

he was not a mommy's boy
and it showed
he took care to take in a way
that he knew left limbs hollow
in it's wake
slit wounds in a human
that were harsh
in places where white legs flashed beacons
a wraithlike shape that closes in
on women wreathed in dark streets
and poetry that hasn't been written yet

she had a sonnet to spout and a poison
of malignant parasites she couldn't shake out
that latched onto her veins
as she arranges them over her arms
and lower around her knees
and he never showed much promise
and he's angry that he has never been able to please
the world
so he waits for her
and he takes from her

and now he traipses out
with the blood
and leaves her to lie there kissing an ink spill
from her pen to the tar
have a billion conversations with the pavement
until the wounds dry up
she'll stumble into the arms of gravity
and leave her dead body behind
live with the infestation of his invasion
fused into her spine

making her squirm and shiver
years after she wormed herself out of your grip
she will always feel sick
of all the ways you almost got away with it
even when you've also died and gone
she knows
you've never been a mama's boy
and you'll never be a ladies' man
you'll only ever be the amens she made
after praying you would die
at point blank range

I'll buy a gun
To have an escape plan,
My body's a map and I
X'd out my heart to mark
Where the bullets will land.
Blam! Blam! Blam!
Here I am,
Lodged betwixt bars;
Imprisoned and sickened
In a cage that twists and ribbons
Deeply buried feelings that won't stay hidden,
I'll wrap them up all nice and pretty-
To gift you this burden;
To: Your Corrosive Love
From: My Heavy, Metal Hurting.
I feel lost in your anti nitty-gritty,
Icky, sticky self-inflated tendencies.
Being picky-picky
As you host greed,
And it eats away at you
Like a parasitic disease.
Would you help me if I said please,
If I bruised my shaky knees?
Let me praise you like a king
While you're slowly floating
On Ego's hurling winds
If you don't stop blowing,
You'll pop that hot air balloon head.

Look, I don't want my sun
To burn all this dread
I'm just trying to end my weeks
At the arcade, man.
Let my hands hold sticks of joy
Instead of stones you throw
At my frame's brittle bones;
In games I don't stay dead,
I'll make an escape quick.
Just pray my fingers don't slip
And I press the wrong button,
In a lickety split moment.

-SLuR

What happens when an artist falls in love with another artist?

She felt as if she wasn’t in love with another artist, but rather, a form of art. He was the kind of art that made artists think that their brains were the ones which conceived the idea of his existence. He was the type of art that made artists pray that their hands were the ones which molded and could touch his face. He was the category of art that made artists wish that their hearts were the ones which loved and could exhibit him to the world. He was the subject of art that made artists realize that their eyes followed him wherever he went.

It was nearing the year-end cold season. Tree leaves were turning a rusty color, ready to peel themselves off from the branches and fall, as the season suggests. This was her favorite time of the year: her being able to wear her autumnal wardrobe collection and her feelings relating to the descending movement of leaves. It was fall. And fall she did as well, for the boy who took up the featured gallery space in her mind of an art museum.

On one of the stone benches across the building of their college, she positioned herself, plugged in her ear buds, pressed play and closed her eyes. The playlist, dedicated to the boy who was a year younger than her, amplified the emotions she felt for him once again.

No, it isn’t strange to like one who’s younger than you, she thought. He is, after all, still towering at least nine inches over me. Crazy how the height of a person could make you tremble yet feel secure, and not to mention, could make them seem older.

He didn’t give the impression of an athlete, especially those fond of outdoors sports with sun exposure. He was pale with a soft glow, much like the first rays of the early morning sun around the time first period starts. He looked fragile with his thin stature. At least that was how her eyes saw him. To her, he was like a prized antique porcelain from the Orient—-a tall, thin, pale jar that held volumes of substance.

Her eyelids snapped open. Like a jar? How absurd, I can’t believe I just compared my crush to a jar, a nonliving object-

Her thoughtful monologue evaporated as soon as it condensed, for there he was, exiting the building. Since she sat directly across the entrance, it seemed as if he was walking over to her.

He was alone. This was her chance. She had pondered on this moment and had planned it out for months. After a bin of crumpled papers, two used pens and a tired brain and heart, she was done with writing her note and poem for him. The papers lay inside her bag, fragile and pale as the person she wrote to and for, yet to be exposed to the outside world.

Letting her eyes float over him, her senses flooded her being as her mind began to swim in the depths of what-if’s and maybe’s. She knew she was as frozen as arctic waters, and she hoped it was the breeze that made her shiver and not his gaze as he scanned his surroundings—her included. She hoped she wasn’t too obvious, at the same time, she hoped he wasn’t too oblivious.

But she could never tell if he was looking at her then. A sun ray peeked out from between the tree branches above and settled on his face, making his eyes disappear almost altogether, like the waning crescent from her favorite moon phases. He raised a long, bony hand to block the glare and soon, he was of her arm’s reach in search of a place to sit.

As much as she wanted him beside her, she didn’t want him beside her in that way. She didn’t want him to sit next to her just because there was space beside her. And she didn’t care if she was being too picky about the scenario. If something is meant to be, it will happen; one way or another.

After seeing her place her bag next to her on the bench (which took up the space he wanted to sit on), he averted his narrowed gaze to the crowded pavilions right behind her and moved on.

Was it a mistake? Was this the chance I missed? Was I supposed to let him sit with me and talk to me? The sudden invasion of such assumptions made her head spin at the reckless act. Now he probably thinks I’m selfish. He might even think I’m reserving the space for a friend. He might even think I’m waiting for my boyfriend, which I don’t have at all. Unless…

This was no time to think up a joke about adopting him as her boyfriend, though; she held the unspoken rule of “paycheck before boyfriend” close to her heart. Soon enough her thoughts settled as he took off his red backpack and sat on the newly vacated stone bench a few meters beside hers.

There it was again: the chance that returned for the second time because it pitied her heart that yearned to get close to his. And there was no denying that she did want to go up to him and introduce herself.

To any passing stranger, both of them seemed to be waiting for someone; perhaps, to be even waiting for each other without them realizing it.

Her hands were shaking. She couldn’t do this. Not right now, not yet, maybe not ever. She didn’t want to disrupt that peaceful life of his. He was the quiet type, and she didn’t want to embarrass herself in case she wouldn’t shut up once she said hello.

Writing in her journal during these unsteady moments made her hands calmer and more focused. Thus did fresh black ink for the boy blossom on a pristine page that very instant. Additionally, because her mind was in turmoil, she penned in expounded bullet forms.

- I want to know him. A lot. I want to know him because I like him.
I like him because I want to know him. I like him. A lot.
- Suddenly, school at 7am doesn’t seem so bad after all.
- He is wearing his navy blue, I suppose knit, pullover. It makes his shoulders wider and makes him taller. He gingerly took his phone out of his pocket, with those careful hands of his. I can imagine him holding my heart the same way. But my heart is the heart of a stranger, so would he be as gentle? I doubt so.
- I’m wearing my navy blue crochet pullover. This is too much of a coincidence. He pulls the navy blue top look off better than I can/do.
- A face like his belongs somewhere else but it seems as if his heart belongs here.
- I don’t care if people think he’s all I have on my mind this very moment. I want to write about him. They might think my writing is useless because it may seem like I’m immortalizing him. But they don’t realize that I write to express my feelings. Yes, my feelings for him will be magnified this way. Yes, my feelings for him will overwhelm me, the more I write about him. Then, before anyone knows it, I have already stopped thinking and writing about him. But for now, I am flooding my head with him. Because one day I know I won’t be able to contain another drop of him. I am flooding my head with him, only to drain him out of my heart in the end.
- I hope he doesn’t know that what I write and listen to have fragments of him. And I dedicate Taylor Swift’s old song Stay Beautiful to him because he deserves it.
- Superficial as my admiration of him may seem to be, I wish we could be friends (?!?) So I can admire him for real. And maybe get him his favorite snack on his birthday without the awkwardness of strangers.
- Wow. He’s looking in my directio-

No way. Is he looking at me? She held her breath again and casted so much of a side glance. It can’t possibly be me; he must have been looking at other captivating girls around me anyway.

The vibration of her cellphone made her tear her eyes away from him; she received a message from a friend whom she was to have lunch with.

Almost there, where are you?

His movement from her peripherals pulled her back to his presence again. He’s packing up? Already? But he just got here a few minutes ago, as much as I want to leave, I want him to stay… if that even makes sense…

He picked up his bag and stood up to walk over to her bench. One step, then two. His long strides were getting to her faster than she thought.

It was too soon. She felt it was still too early. It wasn’t time to get to know him.

Meet me at the carpark, she replied to her friend.

He was making his way to her with his impassive expression thanks to those eastern Asian eyes. Those same, tired eyes which caught her very own two years ago.

In the following seconds she was making her way past him. She held her head high and her shoulders back. He froze in place, confused if she made a mistake in missing him or if it was his mistake into thinking of her wanting to speak to him.

Today was not the day. Then and there she decided she wouldn’t talk to him, give him her note and poem, nor her attention and time. She didn’t even think of the imaginable future, which was unusual of her, if she would give him her number or even her heart in the time to come. One step, then two, she counted; I am walking away from you.

This was as far as she could get close and say hello to him—a walk-by and a silent goodbye.

I recognized him, not by his ruffled hair,
But by the way he ran his fingers through it.
Not by the clothes he wore,
But the way it shook as he nervously bounced his leg
Like this was our first date again.
Not by his bag or flowers,
But by the scratchy marks on his coffee cup
Showing how picky the boy is.
When I sat across from the boy, so familiar,
I knew it was him by the tinge of a smile
When he made a joke.
And by the way his nose scrunched up
When he realized his coffee was still not right.
And the rhythmic tapping as he stirred more sugar in
Just so he can make jokes about me
Being as bitter as coffee when he returns.
He could look completely different,
And I would still know him better
Than I know myself.
For, when we said goodbye,
I recognized him not by his lips,
But by his kiss.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You get a sudden rush of cold late Winter air.
The world smells like it's never going to stop raining.
Your brother and you are sitting outside the garage.
You can't stop crying,
But he's still trying his damndest to comfort you.
You were five.
For three years after, you will still think it is your fault
For coming inside covered in rain water.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

Your eyes stung with tears.
Your chest felt heavy.
But you couldn't tell what hurt worse,
The literal smack across the face,
Or the sting of betrayal when your mother agrees with your father,
That you are, in fact, no good.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You're sitting out in the living room of the apartment.
The room is dark,
Except for a fading lamp.
It is 9:30 at night.
The sun is only beginning to fall behind the horizon.
Your father finally speaks,
After clearing his throat,
A slight cough to clear the residual cold from the ice of his drink-- tonight was scotch, thank god.
He says "Y'know, it's okay if you're a lesbian. Just make sure your girlfriend is hot. Oh, and blonde." He laughs bitterly between sips.
You can smell the alcohol from where you're sitting.
You can feel the dread in the pit of your stomach.
You feel hot anger piercing and burning your palms.
You hold your fists tighter.
You clench your jaw until your head hurts.
You mumble something.
"What?" He snaps, half apathetic, have with a dangerous edge.

"I don't like blondes." You say through gritted teeth. It's only a half-truth. You don't actually like anybody, blonde or otherwise.

He laughs, but you know it's forced.
"Trust me when I say this, you definitely can't afford to be that picky."

Your eyes meet his. Shadow against shadow. Midnight against midnight. You don't speak. He laughs, and goes on to tell you how he's the only one in this family that even likes you, so you better start being nicer to him.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You don't remember hurting yourself,
So when she asks, you tell her
That you don't know where the cuts came from.
She calls you a coward for not having already taken your own life.

"Why are you burning
Precious childhood memories?"

You were up all night,
Wishing you wouldn't wake up.
You go to walk out the door to the bus,
You stop in the kitchen to grab something quick for breakfast.
As soon as your hand reaches the cupboard handle, you can feel her gaze on your back.
You decide you don't want breakfast that morning.

"Why are you--"

She's in the hospital again.
You just wanted to celebrate your brother
Having made it another year in this hell hole.
But that's not what she wanted.
You both spend his birthday sitting silently in the hotel room,
Staring out the window,
Wishing that Spring would bring a change along with all the warmth it promises.

"-- burning precious childhood memories?"

Your little brother his crying.
The other is asleep.
But this brother has a cold.
The other is still asleep.
This brother cries
Because he doesn't feel good.
He's barely four months old
So he can't use his words.

He's crying very loudly.

She screams in his face.
Tells him to stop crying.
Tells him to just shut up already.
You jump off the couch
And yell at her as loud as your eight year old self can manage to be.
"DON'T YELL AT HIM. HE'S ONLY A BABY!"

She glares at you,
A wicked snarl,
And tells you that she'll do whatever the hell she wants,
You're her children.

He's still crying.
Now they're both awake,
And they're both crying.

"Why are you--"

"W-why are y-you"

*"Why are you burning--"

I lie awake
And think about everything I hate
Everything that relates
To my past
Old habits coming back
And I have to adapt
To the overwhelming amounts of self hate
The new scars on my arm
Tell me that I've come a long way
They will eventually go away
And then I can focus on each day
My thoughts and my feelings
Happen to be two different things
My thoughts control my feelings
But my feelings cause my thoughts
So I ought to reevaluate my life choices
Even though I don't have many
Only ones I regret
And then you come along
And make my heart strong
I can't help but feel like the universe owes me one
Or two
Or three
I'm not picky
I just want something extraordinary
To make up for all the holes that are left of me
Maybe I over think things
I try not feel
But think too much to makes sure that everything is real
I'm thinking myself into depression
Regression
Every thought leads to violent expression
And I just need someone to look at me
And say that I'm okay
My thoughts lead me away from anything that involves positivity
Just say that you believe in me
And that you will never leave me
Why sleep when I can think
Why think when I can sleep
Maybe if I think about sleeping it will happen
Everything around me slowly becomes everything that's hurt me
I don't want to die
I just need to find a reason to stay alive

it's so hard for me to start conversations because i'm hopelessly picky.
if i talk to you, i want to talk about something that will keep the conversation going.
i hate when there's silence, and i hate when i struggle to find something to reply with.
i hate when you send "yeah" or "okay" because that means this conversation is over and i have to struggle to start a new one.
i don't want to bore you with my weak attempts at keeping you close.
i want you to talk to me, i want you to want to talk to me.
i want enthusiasm and i don't want to have to rattle my brain to keep it up, because it was never like that.
but it's not as easy as it used to be.
i revel in the rare days that we talk nonstop for hours.
the days where conversation is so simple and never wears out.
but i know that after a day like that
there's only silence until one of us figures out something else to say.

i guess i need more mentally disturbed
friends.
i’m feeling lately like the scab that’s been picked off,
forgotten, dried up, designating.
people don’t understand when i say my heart feels like it will
explode out of my lungs, throughmythroat and get caught between
myteeth.
my anxieties need a **** buddy, because making eye contact
is even too
much. and i wish i could stop assuming the worst.
"jesus, you worry too much"
i can’t help that i find the flaws, the nit picky things,
the traits that i want to squish like
blueberries.
i can’t help that when i sit alone in my car,
i think too often of swerving into highways and wondering what a deer
sees before it
dies.
that’s why i don’t talk about this, i never can anyway,
they swell and sit upon my tongue like when you ate that pepper whole
and all i tasted was flames.  
my anxieties and i are the kind of friends where we speak nicely
and are all smiles in front of one another,
but as soon as we turn around,
all we say is venom.

I'm not usually like this
or so i like to think
my thoughts chase in the direction of you
when hope begins to shrink
as long as i can remember
I've only wanted a few
the funny thing is that I'm picky
but i compare them all to you
when i sit here all alone
making excuses for your lies
i start thinking to myself
how many more tries?
i know that i deserve better
but my hold on you is so firm
and when i think of letting go…
i start to itch and squirm
maybe its the idea of you
that keeps me dredging on
because i still whisper to your shadow
when i know that you're long gone
and when i picture happiness
your image blinks and skips
will you be the one by my side?
or slip though my fingertips
its seems that all we've got is time
I've already waited years
and although I'm trying to better myself
i keep confronting my fears
am i good enough for you?
what will it take you to commit
you tell me that I'm the one for you
but here alone i sit
so ill pull another petal off
he loves me, he loves me not..
and someday ill see if its worth it all
every battle that I've fought

Come to think of it, I've never seen a fat vampire
It's not like they get a lot of exercise
Laying around all day in their own grave
You would think they'd a bit larger in size

I mean don't they ever get hungry
So hungry they say they could die
That's hard as the walking dead with no lives left
Bet they'd love if blood came deep Southern fried

Do they prefer meat eaters over vegetarians
Do they like their veins to be grain feed
Or they picky or not with the choices they've got
And would they settle for whatever is left

It'd be nice if they could at least enjoy desert
Maybe a slice of Red Velvet cake
With icing so cold, matching their dead empty soul
And red of course for reds ****** sake

Yes, all the vampires I know are skinny minnies
Could be cause they only know how drink
I find it kind of cruel as all they can do is drool
Watching as living sit there and eat

Lots of ladies there may be, but I haven't had that many
My **** is always active, and I think I would have any
In the past I could have been, just a bit too picky
The art of wanking I did try, but that left my pants all sticky

Some nice **** I would love, or an **** or three
The fairer *** is preferable, cos there's nothing strange about me
It really doesn't seem that fare, when there are many slags
And lots of ugly fat ******, that say they all want shags

But I can not locate any, I wish there was a way
That I could find a nice gal, and not someone that is gay
Nothing against the Lezzers, I'm just not that way inclined
But I'm fed up with wanking, and I don't want to go blind

I would ***** an old gal, with a big fat rounded ****
A squeezable amount of flesh, inside an **** ****
Big fat ****** are welcome, who want it up their bucket
I would like **** your ****, and I'd really love to **** it

An **** I could really try, if only the girls would
******* lots of ***** *****, that could be quite good
A large obese girl I would ****, with lots of rolls of fat
I'd stuff my **** inside there ****, cos there's nothing wrong with that

Ideal worlds would be good, if you could **** the girls you like
But I will settle for a *****, or a well used ridden bike
Even in a ******* they could be a real good ****
If *****'s are full of *****, I'd still **** your *** filled bag

Maybe I could find an old gal who is a real life *****
I would just think so what, and **** her well used *****
After I have loosened up, her tight old ******* hole
I could have a tighter ****, with her **** upon my pole

******* the ladies *******, this is always such a dream
Arses will be filled up, and the cat would get the cream
If you want to get ******, and you find any of this thrilling
Get your ***** and arseholes out, ready for a creamy filling

Come on all you fat slags, I'd like to see you naked
And even you wrinkly old bags, to me nothing is sacred
Your ***** cats are required, and your arses are inclined
Fat slags and old bags are still quite hard to find

when some said hello
some said ha ha,
said holmes without sherlock to signal a sighting
in signature of fingerprinting a shake;
but some said hello,
some shook some with stipend erased freezing;
after all... the doctor allowed a carcass to instil a freed numbness!
a clown frowned attempting to be picky with laughter
mascaraed, and then all hell ready to be hibernating yawned
ready from the hyperbole excused ******* a tadpole into thinking of frogs.
oh we loved the laugh the pouch of orange juiced pulled apart and pulped
into skins and skinny; we were all ready for a hajj there and then!
ha ha! make that scented with coriander!

My eyes are forever ruined. I see too much, and what I see melts every gold and silver I have embedded in me.
I seem to know too much, but never too much to expand beyond limitations.
Limitations of what the mind can see.
I suffer, a heart of pure diamond, moulded into what others have made me.

I see intentions, crowds of people, lies, pain, truth...
But this gift means nothing to me anymore.
The healing I carry with myself.
I am not heard and listened to.
I feel misunderstood.

What can you do when you have it all?
But something is missing...
I’m smart, intelligent and driven.
Back at school as an adult to complete something important to push myself for further opportunities.
I push myself too hard and suffer defeat when I face failure.

Failure is my only fear.
It’s scary... knowing that without self discipline, where am I to be?

Please stop loving me, I am too sensitive.
Evil, personified.
I am torn, disappointed, disgusted...

Love serves me no purpose anymore.
Buried so deep inside of me is longing and confusion.
Wanting what I can no longer have.
I push away those who do

Too picky?
Too cold, detached from it all.

I want you, only you.
I still think about you.

But I may be wrong, for I have wronged myself into thinking that I will ever see you again.

Yolan.

Broken imagery....
I was so wrong
Darling clairvoyant, please stop ruining me

“Good morning, lovely weather,” he said
Leaning over the counter and
Unfilling a bucket of goodwill over my head
“I’d like a girlfriend,” I replied
“A friendly, pretty one
And preferably one not delivered from a bucket.”
“Picky, picky, aren’t we? Unbucketed girls don’t come cheap.”

He showed me his stock
I showed him the cash
I pointed to the one with the tiara and sash
Which was a mistake because she turned out to be Miss Worlds Apart
As, when I looked more closely, did all the others
Strange to see them together like that.
Then to make matters worse
The man in the shop turned out to be Mister Parallel Universe:
As soon as he had my money he disappeared.

And she didn’t even come with a free bucket.

It couldn’t last
She kept herself at a distance
Then blamed me for shouting
We never went out together
We slept in separate beds
Took separate holidays
I bought us a tandem
She bought a unicycle
I bought two tickets for the Superbowl
She bought a barge pole
“This isn’t what I was promised at the shop,” I said
But I could produce no bucket as proof of purchase.

She must have slipped out her bedroom window one night
I found a ladder propped there in the morning
A ladder, two lines that never meet.
It had to be him and sure enough
Up from the garden drifted the smell of what could only have been buckets.
And no letter of explanation from Miss Worlds Apart.

I cried today
Because I realized that I
no longer expect you
to walk through the door.

I don't look at the corner
of the back yard
expecting to see you there
working on something.

I don't plan our dinners
based on your favorite foods
or worry over when the food
hits the table.

We eat when we eat
We eat whatever
It really no longer matters
You were the picky one.

I cried today
Because I realized
something that broke my heart....
I'm used to you being gone.

Just once,
I'd like to be normal,
Average.

Or the median,
Mode,
Or range.
I'm not picky.

Too smart for my own good,
But actually stupid.

Too clumsy to play a sport,
Yet I play anyway.

Either the pliable,
Gullible,
Easy to mess with nerd.

Or the weak link,
On the basketball team.

Is fitting in,
Just once,
Too much to ask for?

Is one real friend,
That big of a request?

Is knowing what to say,
Really that hard?

Is being pretty,
Too big a wish to grant?

Why can't I be normal,
For once in my life?

I get so sad,
as sad as i can be
i get so sad that all my feelings
get up and leave me.
and i get so numb
i don't know how to be.
and it makes me mad.
it makes me mad 
and i don't know how to fix me
i don't know how to fix me.
and it makes me mad,
it makes me mad. 
i get so mad 
and i yell at you
i yell at you so much
i forget how to stop.
and i know i shouldn't.
i know i shouldn't 
but i do and i do and i do again
and i don't know how to fix me.
i don't know how to fix me.
i get so numb 
i don't know how to be.
and it makes me mad.
i get so picky
i get so picky 
and i pick at you
and i know i shouldn't.
i know i shouldn't
but i do and i do and i do again.
so i start to thinking maybe
if i can't stop it
i'll let it happen
so you'll pack your bags and tell me
you love me
but you can't stay.
so you'll leave me alone
and i can be alone
and i don't have to be good
for anyone.
and you can be happy
i know you could be happy
with someone more happy.
i get so sad
as sad as i can be.
i get so sad that all my feelings
get up and leave me.
and it makes me mad.
it makes me mad 
and i don't know how to fix me.
i won't be loved if i can be fixed.
i can't be fixed 
so i can't be loved.
and i don't know how.
i don't know how to 
love you
when i don't know how
to fix me.

Inspiration is a fickle muse
A touchy maid
A picky flirt
Tempting the artist and author
Flicking a tendril of light
In your direction so it
Barely brushes the mind
Enough to see that it's genius
But not enough to see what it is
So many lose this tickle of an idea
But a few are prepared
Armed with papers and pens
Walls and paints
Stone and chisel
They scribble and splash and carve it
As best they can and then refine
Shape and sculpt to better suit
Their idea of perfection
So that the same tendril may touch thirty
But only ten capture it
And none in the same manner

Sitting in her chair
Wanting out of there,
The Notorious Natalie
Plotted quite frantically.

Mind absorbed in many plots,
Its a wonder she didn't develop brain clots.
Hearing her quarry coming down the hall,
She wheeled herself closer to the wall.

She spoke so low with all due sobriety,
"Here goes the plan in all its entirety."
Giving a wink, tossing a mickey,
Choosing her time, being quite picky.

Catching sight of that sanctimonious nurse,
She vented her rage, let out a curse.
Flew through the air, and let out a yell.
Poor old Nurse Agnes sure did quell.

Natalie's plan, to take the nurse down,
Ended badly with her on the ground.
The belts snapped her back and she hit the floor.
The ice pick she had flew into the door.

And even now that she's forgetful
Natalie's heart is still regretful.
Avoiding plots of ice picks and death,
Focusing mainly on keeping her breath.