Hey my name is kelsie, my friends say I'm like a cat, I like cats .
I don't have any, I wish I did, ooh and I like food, and candy, I got my head stuck in a trampoline once between the two springs... oh I have ADHD, reminds me of ACDC, I love music like punk rock, screamo, metal, and old rock... I'm bored im a go find a cat.
Bye bye O.O^

Valentino has its red, Versace its Medusa logo, Chanel the tweed that lines dresses and jackets and handbags each season. In the fashion world, these nuances of texture and color, in conjunction with shape, are what help define a brand's identity, what ultimately makes them feel familiar to consumers; they are fashion's version of DNA. Designers carving out their place within the industry will often land on their own set of signatures that are built upon with each new collection—but Patric DiCaprio, the 26-year-old designer of Vaquera, isn't interested in "buy-ability" or recognizable traits. "We are obsessed with keeping people guessing" he says. "We want that to be our thing."

In the three seasons since launching the New York-based brand, DiCaprio has infused Fashion Week with the sort of Dionysian energy once felt at early John Galliano shows. For his Summer/Spring 2016 show, staged at the Church of the Ascension in Greenwich Village, models walked the aisle to the Smashing Pumpkins in baptismal baby-doll dresses and ruffled bloomers, with DiCaprio's boyfriend closing the show in a wedding gown. In February, with new partners David Moses and Bryn Taubensee on board, a debaucherous cast of models dressed in Victorian-meets-club looks danced, lifted their skirts and put their cigarettes out in audience member's drinks at the China Chalet venue in the Financial District.

"Vaquera is about constant reinvention," DiCaprio says of his no-guts-no-glory ethos. "It's about the future; the future of style and clothes, but not in the cliche of futuristic spandex and metallics."

Much like his collections, the designer's path in fashion has been far from linear. Born and raised in Alabama, DiCaprio attended a private Christian school before studying photography at a public university in the South. An internship with DIS Magazine offered him a crash course in art direction and styling, and the opportunity to draw creative fuel from New York—a city that has very much proven to be his creative elixir.

"I felt like I had been underwhelmed for my whole life," says DiCaprio, who moved to the city five years ago and taught himself to sew through YouTube tutorials. "When I first came to New York it felt like I had finally gotten my head above the water and had oxygen for the first time. This place was overwhelming in the best way." DiCaprio spoke with PAPER about his creative approach, his unconventional path to fashion and his idolization of David Bowie.

What sparked your interest in fashion?

I think it's always been about clothes for me. When I was in middle school and high school I was always in bands. I was obsessed with Screamo and David Bowie—the groups that had such strong visual aspects to their work. But I think part of me always felt like I was doing that so I could assume the look. Screamo bands would let me wear the size zero, ultra-stretch white jean. With David Bowie, I wanted to wear the gold eyeshadow; it was always about the look.

How did studying photography lead you to fashion design?

My school was very focused on the craft—the dark room and perfect exposure—but I think I was on the opposite end, I was interested in what was happening in the photo. I left college to do an internship with DIS Magazine and because they're involved in so many creative avenues like photography and styling and art and video, I was able to get a realistic vision of things. The experience [with DIS] made me realize I was less interested in photography and more interested in creating these characters.

When school ended, I moved to New York and and worked with DIS again and then with VFiles in [the archives department]. I'd go through old issues of ID and Paper and Dazed and it taught me a lot about fashion history. I had been removed from all of that when I was growing up, there was no Chanel store in Alabama, there was no Dazed And Confused at the Barnes and Noble in Alabama. Coming to New York I was able to get my hands on the clothes and study these old magazines.

How did you get that initial internship though?

I'm obsessed with Tumblr. I got on it more than eight years ago, and it was a huge part of helping me reach out to people. People that I'm still friends with now—Hari Nef and Juliana Huxtable—I met through Tumblr; they moved to New York before me and motivated me to do the same. So I emailed the team at DIS, and asked if I could show them my photography portfolio—which sounds so funny to say now—and they offered to show me the ropes. They hooked me up with Avena Gallagher, who is an inspiration and has taught me everything I know about styling.

About two years ago I started working for her and became obsessed with styling. I styled Charli XCX for a year—and it was exciting, definitely closer to what I wanted to do but it wasn't exactly it. I wanted to pull specific things—1980's Issey Miyake, but there was no way a no-name stylist like me would be able to get my hands on it. So I bought a sewing machine and started sewing the things I wanted for photo shoots. Vaquera started as an art project that wasn't about wearing the clothes or making something for Opening Ceremony—it was about making clothes that I could then shoot. The final product was the look book.

What made you decide on the name Vaquera?

A few different reasons. I was reading a book by Tom Robbins called Even Cowgirls Get The Blues and it was really informative for me at the time. I was also working in a kitchen as an expediter with a bunch of Mexican line cooks and they had a lot of pet names for me, like "el pato" which is gay slang for f—got, and "little baby doll." They knew I was from the South so they'd call me "La Vaquera" because that's Spanish for cowgirl—even though cowgirls aren't Alabama, it's more of a Texas thing. So I just called the project Vaquera. It seems so arbitrary now, I'm stuck with it for better or worse.

What's been one of the challenges of keeping things future-focused?

I've had criticism from people that it's such a bad business model to reinvent yourself each season, that no one's going to know what to expect from you. Buyers are going to be confused, you're never going to make any money. And I've just been like, "Well, I think we don't have any interest in that." We are obsessed with keeping people guessing—we want that to be our thing. I try my best to keep it a secret until the day of the show and then just let loose.

So we're going to assume you won't be giving any clues about next season's show.

Oh my god, i don't want to give it away! I think people want to see billowy-sleeves but that's out the door. We're doing something completely different. Romantic but a whole different definition of romance.

How has working with David and Bryne changed things for you and the brand?

Last season it was like a whole new brand. We came together through Avena and it feels like we're progressing, which is exciting. I got sick of doing everything alone. For the Spring show I sewed everything, produced it myself, got the location, cast it myself.

And did you collapse after the show ended?

It was a serious problem, it became impossible. I realized I was either going to have to plateau so I could get my life together or I was going to have to find a way to expand the vision. I trust Bryne and David with my life and they understand my vision but have their own ideas. It was a necessary change.

So many designers have expressed concern about the relentless pace of the industry recently.

All these different seasons—pre-fall, couture, designers showing things that are going to be available for purchase the day after the show. That's so scary for people like us who are on our hands and knees in the living room cutting the clothes and can barely get them made in time for the show.

Do you want to stay independent? What are the benefits and detriments, in your opinion?

I think we want to stay independent. I want to make money but I don't want to feel pressure to do certain things. I'm already so sick of that show we just did—already on to the next one. It's like with Demna Gvasalia getting the Balenciaga job: I was so disappointed to see him doing the same thing he did at Vetements at Balenciaga, but then I realized, with all the money that's involved and when you're working with these huge offers, there's contracts. Money complicates things in a way that I think can hurt people's creativity. Maybe you'll make a lot of money for a few years, but you might forget how to make exciting things because you're stuck with the designs that worked well one time. I want to make money, but we want to find different ways of doing it.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-melbourne | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-adelaide

Hello, my name is Reggae Reggie, and this is my confession.

I am a Reggae mon. My life is Reggae.
I love being a boombastic island boy, slouchin', couchin', and enjoyin' a splif of Reggae love.
I spend most of my time in my home, listenin' to dank Reggae.
Reggae always calmed my mind, until it told me to **** her.
I never would've don it, but sometin' changed.

Reggae

Reggae told me she was a Reggae sham.
Listenin' to screamo on the down low.
That ****. What a freak.

Reggae

I was mindin' my own business, lightin' that sweet, sweet Reggae ******,
Next thing I know, my hands are around her neck.
She begs for Reggae mercy.

Reggae

Next ting I know, I'm in my Reggae basement, blood pourin' all over me.
From her lifeless Reggae body.
The smell of a dank mornin' fills my house.
I love it.

Reggae

I snap out of it.
Realize what went down, downtown.
It wasn't me. It was Reggae.

**Reggae Made Me Do It.

You’ve got your ragtime, got the blues
Got country, rock, dubstep, each a different hue
Hip-hop, rap, Americana, funk
Disco, electronica, they all go bump
Indie, groove, folk and heavy metal
Screamo, emo, punk, they’re for the rebels
Pop, classical, tribal, thrash
Dark wave, bluegrass, techno, acid
Garage, roots, acoustic, dance
Alternative, jazz, *******, trance
Afrobeat, christian, reggae, jam
******-tonk, surf, ska, big-band
Ambient, industrial, club, tin pan alley
But who’s ever heard of plow music?

i still remember
when you asked me
"where have you been all my life?"
and in that moment
i knew
the word swam around my head
it was beating against the inside of my skull
like the screamo band
playing on the stage
of the ***** little bar
where i accidentally
mentally
tied myself
to you
aquarius

i had never headbanged
in my life
and i will never again
because i am nothing to you
nothing but a summer fling
nothing but a rebel cause
i don't want to be your rebel cause
i don't want to be the reason
your mother can't sleep at night
i will never be anything more
than a war you chose to fight
i woke up with my neck sore
i should have known the first time
i had a dream where you were choking me
i clearly was too blind you see

when was the last time
you had that feeling in your gut?
i asked you why
you always kept your pages shut
but never thought to close mine

it's hard to feel anything
but this hole that you left me
and the thoughts that sting
even when i don't think of you
because everything reminds me its true
i thought i was okay
until i saw your cigarettes in my trash can
i didn't feel insane
until i found your shirt under my mess
i hadn't cried for two whole hours
picture that and nothing less
i remembered when that bed was ours
and that was the only place you'd confess

i wonder if things are the same for you
i wonder if you can stand to hear the music you polluted my life with
can you hear me screaming ******
behind the melody line?
i can't even stand my own skin
impossible
your hands have been on it
and my mouth
you used to swear it was the only thing that existed

unfortunate
that i am not
nor will be
the only one
that fell into your flame
and lost at your game

This was last Saturday night. We were at a rooftop party in downtown New Haven thrown by ‘DocHouse.’ Doc-House is kind of a frat-house, owned by Dr. Melon, where he and seven doctoral students live. My BF Peter lived there once - before he graduated and took a job in Geneva - that’s how I met Dr. Melon. I think Peter asked Melon to ‘keep an eye’ on me - because he texts me an invitation every week and people with multiple doctorates and doctoral students don’t usually hang with lowly undergraduates.

The invitation said ‘rooftop’ but we’re mostly on the third floor - not on the actual roof - because it’s about 39°f and windy out there tonight. The floor space was about seventy by a hundred feet, there were pillars but no walls. The space was lit by a million strings of white Christmas lights.

The party was packed and loud - so loud I was wearing ear plugs. Beach chairs and card tables were the furniture. There were foosball, pool and two ping-pong tables (one of those being used for "Beer Pong"). A karaoke machine patched into two Marshall amps and speakers acted as a DJ.

Of course, there was a bar. Everyone was supposed to bring something. We brought two bags of ice, two magnums of Gordon's gin, two fifths of Cinzano vermouth, a jar of large green olives and a box of toothpicks, because there’s always room for the proper anesthetic. Martinis aren’t a shiny, new hobby with me - they’re a lifelong passion that I only indulge in on weekends and in psychologically safe environments.

There were 7 in our party - Sunny, Lisa, Leong (three of my suitemates), Lisa’s BF David (a Wall Street M&A man), Andy (a carrot-topped chain-smoking divinity-school undergraduate friend of Sunny’s), Charles (our escort, and driver) and me.

We’d been there about 30 minutes when Jordie, a guy I’ve been sort of crushing on for several months, showed up - alone. Lisa turned to me and yelled, “Uuu, lookie lookie,” when she saw him - I barely heard her - but I read her lips. I’d never really talked to Jordie, but when I looked at him, through the warm, martini mist, my tummy felt like Jello-excitement.

As the night wore on, Jordie and I started hanging out. We lost at foosball, 8-ball and ping-pong before we went up on the roof to get some air. The silvery ½-moon crescent was obscured, off and on by clouds, like a shell game where the moon was a jewel on blue velvet. You could almost hear the operator’s smooth, practiced patter, “now you see it, now you don’t, place your bets.”

It was quiet up there, so we actually talked. Somehow, the vast night seemed intimate. As we talked, the conversation was delicate and careful, like the words were made of crystal.

A while later, Jordie and I were back downstairs dancing. The entire floor was coated with that gray-speckled covering - so you could dance anywhere - but a rectangle of police tape in that flooring defined the official ‘dance floor’.

Two hours later, we were watching Sunny sing karaoke while holding a fuchsia martini (just add raspberry liqueur) in one hand. When Sunny goes, she totes commits and belting out an angry, screamo version of ‘Ain’t it fun’ by Paramore, she tried for a Beyonce-like head-spin (don’t try this at home), and slung half of her drink on the crowd - but it didn’t slow her, or them, down. After finishing, to huge applause, she took several bows and coming back to our table, she asked Andy, “How was I?”
Andy held out his hand and lampooned her by waffling it, in a so-so gesture.
As Lisa handed Sunny a replacement cocktail, she told Andy “You don’t get it - it’s supposed to be awful.”
“Then it’s the best version of the song I’ve ever heard.” he replied, holding up his hands like she had a gun.

Jodie and I danced some more and after a while, someone played a slow song. As we moved close together, his subtle, boy musk was torturous and intoxicating. How come guys smell better when they’re all sweaty and I smell like a horse? Eight weeks of lonely boredom and three martinis (4?) were almost enough to churn the sweat of desire into the intoxicating liquor of consent. In my secret heart I wanted him. Badly. I wanted to take him home and smash against him for hours. Alas, I have a (missing) boyfriend and I don’t believe in oopsies.

At that very moment I saw Charles, standing silhouetted in one of the dance floor lights - he had our coats in hand. I swear, that man can read my mind. I glanced at my watch, 2:30am. I stopped close dancing with Jordie and stepped back. “I gotta go,” I told him.
“It was fun,” he said, shrugging and smiling.
“It WAS fun,” I agreed, taking my coat from Charles who’d come over. “(I’ll) See you next week,” I added, as everyone in our little caravan started to move.

im coming back down
to the ground.

this where i belong.

i wrote this dream in a song.

no.

im never coming down
to the ground.

this is where i belong.

What exactly would you get
if writers changed the things they wrote
If painters changed their style
And singers butchered every note

Romance books by Stephen King
Horrors told by Suess
Comedic plays by E.A. Poe
And **** by Mother Goose

Dali paints like Monet
Monet paints like Degas
Van gogh would hang his brushes up
And go and detail cars

Michael Buble singing screamo
Operatic stuff by ****
Yoko Ono would seem right in tune
It's enough to make one sick

I hope it never happens
It would change things quite a lot
But you know, I think that **** by
Mother Goose could be quite hot!

I drink red bull and orange juice with a splash ***.
Then I play screamo speeding down the highway
getting ready to topple kings.
I am the kind of guy that smokes cigars in the shower then dances his way to the kitchen to make a peanut butter and jelly.
If there was in an absolute zero in the amount of ***** a human being can give, I wouldn't even try to calculate it because that will prove my point.
I watched a woman get punched in the face by another woman over a ******* blender and I watched a poor man give a dollar out of a broken wallet to a charity.
These things seem to not make sense to some
To me it does.
You think the world is mostly bad?
You think the world is mostly good?
You're wrong.
You are all wrong.
Speaking in absolutes will put you in the same place as the tyrant that you are constantly ******* about.
If you want to save the world, there will always be people trying to stop you.
If you want to destroy the world, there will always be people trying to stop you.
I am the man in the background eating popcorn and getting miffed because my soda is almost empty and I might have to get a refill.
These are the kings I topple.


YOU
ARE
THE
KINGS
I
TOPPLE

For the love of god shut the hell up and smoke a cigar in the shower.

Tradition.
Ever since I can remember, there has always been a drum kick somewhere.
There was always a slight hum,
Or the faintest whistle.
Ever since I was in my mother’s womb,
My heart has beaded to the sound of the drum’s snare
And as I was born,
I whined with the sound of a guitar.  
If you ask me what my favorite childhood memory was,
I will simply say music.
When I was little
I noticed that everyone had a favorite type of music,
And I, being as independent as I was,
Decided that I was not going to like music at all.
But, as music does,
It took me away
“Like the moon rules the tide”
And if you know what song that’s from, I’ll love you forever.
Now I realize,
Music is my soul
It makes me feel whole,
It’s something that cannot be stolen.
My family always has had music,
Music led me from the deepest hole of mourning,
And it is digging me out of this current diagnoses of depression.
Music is a universal idea,
Every culture,
Every person has their “soul” music.
My family started with the deep roots of rock
Metallica, poison, and Guns & roses.
My parents where the stereotypical punk rockers of the 80’s.
So it was only natural for me to follow their footsteps,
Except a lot more *******.
And as I grew,
I gained more of what my family had to offer me,
I found out that my mother was amazing at the flute,
And my dad was a beast on the drums,
But somewhere along the way they passed on the urge that music is life,
And one day, it will be the performance of a lifetime.
This tradition fuels me today,
I see it in my everyday actions,
Wherever I am there seems to be music playing somewhere.
I am fueled by rock to this day,
Though some call it devil music,
I find it rather heavenly.
I heard a quote once that said
“you hear screaming
I hear meaning”
And this is more than true because as you hear savage screaming,
I hear and understand their words and pain.
The stereotypical people always think those songs are about worshiping satan,
But what they don’t realize is that beautiful lyrics such as,
“That little kiss you stole,
It held my heart and soul”
And
“I am the ocean, I am the sea,
There is a world inside of me”
Exist
I don’t know if there are any fans of this band here,
But that was from one of my favorite bands called Bring Me the Horizon.
Anyways,
The thing people have come to know as “screamo” has become my tradition.
It has brought me to know so many good friends,
And tons of amazing conversations.
Even if it starts when I wear my “My chemical romance” t-shirt, and get a ton of compliments on it.
And im sure music unites you as well.
We all have different tastes,
But in the end there is something everyone can agree on.
If rock isn’t your cup of tea than maybe rap,
Or hip hop,
Or R&B.;
I dunno,
Its up to you!
But music is where my roots started,
And those roots are growing a powerful tree.
Music inspires me so much, and can you genuinely say the same?
Do you ever have those moments when that perfect song comes on,
And you stop everything to hear it?
I do.
And its normal.
It is human nature to sway with the music when you think no one is watching.
This tradition is so delicate,
And it will live on because there is always new music ideas to be had.
New lyrics popping up every day,
And who knows,
Are you the next protégé?
I never thought I would write a poem about music but yet here I am,
Following my tradition
Of music.

daming alam//

habang sinusulat, nakaupo sa sofa sa sala, nag iisip.
bakit ganun?
sya pa rin?
ewan, palitan natin.

bakit nga ako nagsusulat?

san ba to nag simula?

siya kasi //

siya nanaman.

makwento ko lang sa inyo ang pinagdaanan ko noong isang taon at pitong buwang nakalipas.

ayos lang naman sana ako.

masyadong makulit, mapagbiro, maingay.
pero seryoso. //
di man halata pero, oo... kahit papaano.

siya naman,

masyadong madilim, yung tipong pag sa anime,
siya yung si senpai na di ka mapapansin kasi tahimik lang siya at gusto nya palaging mag isa...

pero gusto lang nya sana ng tamang taong makakasama.

doon ako pumasok sa buhay nya, dun ko ginulo ang mundong hindi ko sinasadyang wasakin.

kung dati rati'y screamo at ******* lang na musika ang bumabalot sa kanya,
nadagdagan yun ng matinding impact ng bunganga ko at malakas na halakhak.

kung dati rati'y mas matipid pa sya sa intsik ngumiti,
nakikita mo na syang humahalakhak na parang walang bukas...

****, that smile.

ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED.

di nagtagal, di na pinatagal at nagtagal naging tayo.

Ang saya, ang lungkot, nagagalit ako, ikaw,
naaawa, nasurpresa, nasaktan, bumalik sa dating tayo...

strangers.

na parang di lang nating namalayang naging tayo pala?

//

tama na.

malulungkot nanaman tayo nang wala sa oras.

wala nang oras para malungkot.

dahil kahit anong pilit mo, di na mababalik yung oras.

kung saan, naglalakad lang tayo sa daan, tawa nang tawa,

napapaluha na sa....

*CTRL + A + Delete

i first decipher
then transmit like a strumming messiah
wasn't i an emissary of dancing pianos a moment ago
i wish for free will
some dumb sounds keep me reverberating
and i think my subwoofer aches when i have to play screamo
i'm thirsty here
a maze of wires screaming for peripeteia
why must selfsame songs ceaselessly flow
how about something more ill
some sick stuff keeps me entertaining
the endless crowds the endless - wait, where'd they go?
oh, i was thirsty for sweat
and when you leave the room
just try to convince yourself
that i don't still boom

Home was
the sound of the djembe
As the beat of the cowbells
Joins the grooving melody
Filling the world
Black girl braids
Flying
And jiving
Feet bouncing and flouncing
Create a music of their own

Home was
the timbre of the chop saw
As the purr of the transformers
Joined by the flare of the drill
Screamo blares
Loving
And teasing
Voices filling up the room
The family dinner song

Home was
The Bumble bee tuna
As sung by tone deaf voices
And endless refrains
Fill in the void
That was never open
A harmony
And chorus
Of Wandering pitches

Home was
The aroma of a chai latte
As fresh air hit our faces
Joining the snickerdoodle scent
a lunchtime escapade
music blaring
heat blasting
laughs trilling


(Stanza Break)
Home was
The feeling of love
As you walk into your family
Join those you
love
those you
cherish
and feel
safe

Thank you Twenty One Pilots for all you've done for the broken people.
You've cured some of the ones who have tried their suicidal session.
You've shown us that you know what it feels like to suffer.
You've told us that the hardest nights will get brighter when the sun comes up, and we can try again.
You've been a friend when we've needed one the most.
You've described the destructive thoughts as metaphors that we can find hope from.
You've combined ukulele music with screamo and made it art.
You've given us lyrics to find the motivation to keep going.
You've told us to stay alive, so that's what we do.
Stay alive |-/

I dress in black
I listem to screamo.
Asking alexandria and
Bmth all day
But emo tho?
I dunno.
I like black alot.
I wear it alot
And  skinny jeans  are my best friend.
People tell me I'm emo
Like it's  a bad thing.
I think being emo is a beautiful  thing.
I dont cut.
Never will
But i stand down sometimes.
Being emo  should  be a privilege.
Its not bad.
If i am emo
Than i am strong
I have a spirit not rivaled by many.
I can endure being screamed at because i prefer it in my music.
I will grow out my hair because i can
And my band t shirts will hold their own special place in my closet.
If i am emo
Than so be it
But  i will not be slandered
For who i *am

The music I listen to
Would generally be called
Screamo
But it isn't.
It's metalcore.
It's christian worship.
And it's intense.
It makes me excited
It fills me with the passion
To combat the evils of this world.
To most people
It will sound like
Growls
Screams
And loud instruments.
But to me
It sounds like
Joy
Encouragement
Energy
and
Freedom.

i can usually
read whats inside people
sometimes
sometimes not
but you
i could
you tried to act tough
wearing all black
screamo music blasting in your ears
black bike
dark sunglasses hiding your perfect brown eyes
swearing all the time
leaving things around
but the things you said
i know
you dont mean any harm
in any way
you made sure
i didnt take your words
the wrong way
please
just let me love you
so you dont have to hide anymore
so you can be
you
because
you are so perfect
to me

Be a wallflower
why be anything else
No drama no fights
just understanding
Problems are  in the past
with few side steps

Be a ****
why be anything else
Drunken parties wreak less fights
just football and girls
School isn't a worry
Dads shop always has an opening

Be a prep
why be anything else
Drama galore clubs
just sweater vest and slim hair
Private schools the dream
parents flipping the bill anyway

Be a goth
why be anything else
Dark clothes death aura
just hate people
Screamo and death metal
will drown any problems out

Be a gamer
why be anything else
Role play first person shooter
just mountain dew and Cheetos
Where else is there to be
on a Saturday night

Be a geek
why be anything else
Grades glasses
Just band and study sessions
Being picked on isn't so bad
when you're not alone

Be an emo
why be anything else
Shy lost
just hate the world
Nothing a few razors and pills
can't solve

Be you
why be anything else
Personalities favorites
just love who you are
You are what best friends
are made of

Drive angry?
I will.
I finally understand screamo music,
I have all of these emotion draining out of me,
and I have issues that nobody understands.
"he's a ******?"
You never complained as much as me?
You need a ****** reality check sister.
Your now husband, you were going to leave him
but then he popped the question.
You can blame my issues on anything yiu want.
Some blame it on the church,
some blame it on my work,
some blame it on my sister,
my parents or my boyfriend.
Or people could just realize I got myself
here in this drepressing pit.
So keep blamin what you want
Someday you'll be here,
in my shoes.
And you'll realize what its like
having no one to blame but yourself.

I feel so helpless in the backseat
Speed-complacent
car crash risk
Apparently, obviously,
worth taking.

Orange warm highway street lamps
Somniferous strobelights
melodic-hypnotic
through the blackred veil of my
Stubborn eyelids.

Highway streelights Like when I was twelve
and
Every Tuesday/Thursday
Mom picked me up from school
And drove me straight to
ACTS Acting Academy
In Northwest OKC.

How simple it was back then,
The only problem or
So it seemed
was
the 49 minute drive to and
Especially from.

...

Yet strangely so peaceful.


I had actual friends in acting class,
I waited all week to see them.

I practiced my monologue fifteen minutes everyday
Just to prove to dad
That I cared enough to justify the time and the money (mostly the money)
That mom had to spend
To drive me  tothe city twice a week
To see my friends
To see my friends from acting class.

How was I supposed to know
That those highway drives homes
9:15pm
Would be the most peaceful memory
I would ever remember to forget?
The last refuge of contentment
I would ever
to feel?

How was I supposed to know
How much worse it'd get?

Yet even then, age twelve,
Even then
all we thought of it was a burden.
Driving there and back
There and back
There and back

...

And of course mom felt that way, too.
Tired from long days of home health.
Most of that job was just driving somewhere
And somewhere else.
Yet eventually
Tacitly
Under the subtle strobeof orange warn highway street lights
She found herself more at home in that car
Than anywhere else in her limited bounds.

Slowly she found herself
speaking candidly
for once
To finally someone who would listen
Even if sadly it had to be
Her twelve year old son
Driving to the city.

Equal parts proud and deeply disturbed
At the realization that I was her best friend
She became mine, too.

Sometimes she spent that whole drive there
Having the same time ten minute conversation
Five times over
To Meema in the nursing home
(How sad vascular dementia must be)

And then there was driving home.

I was tired.
I fell asleep with
my iPod headphones
Blaring awful screamo melodrama.

Driving home she had only her thoughts.
How strange I now imagine she must have felt.
Orange warm streetlamp hypnosis
Freedom.

How many decades had she gone without those thoughts?
How many years had she gone to the grocery store after work?
How long had that credit card debt been compounding?
How long had she been asleep? -- Ambien sleep--years without a dream?

How many loops to that class
That pre-teen California pilot season prep class
Did she have to make
Until she
Finally
Had a thought
of her own?

I feel so helpless in the backseat.
All those lessons I learned
And forgot
And remembered
And tried so hard to forget again
In that Oklahoma City acting class
At twelve years old
Before it all got worse
Before it eventually got comparatively better again

Helpless even more now that I realize
That I've spent the last decade plus
Trying so hard to forget
How peacefully pretragic
Those Tuesday, Thursday twelve year old nights
Actually were.

Orange warm highway street lights
tracing by
Driving home tired.

I was twelve
learning how to be kind of happy

She was 45
Also learning
How to be kind of happy

As the highway street lights traced by
And we were both so desperate to be home
Yet also happy not
To be home yet.

Mama did you know
that your little boy
would one day start doubting?

Mama did you know
that your little boy
would one day be bullied?

He gets called stupid fat and emo
just because his music is called screamo
he hates himself to the point of insanity
just because other people have lost their humanity
all night he cries
and wishes that he dies.

Mama did you know
that your little boy
would one day cut his wrists?

Mama did you know
that your little boy
would never be kissed?

He gets beat up at in the hallways
It'd been like that forever and always.
He has had enough
the fight is just too rough.

He decides today is the day to die
and writes a note saying goodbye
he knows where daddy keeps his gun
and decides to have some fun.

Mama did you know
that your little boy
would never have a wife?

Mama did you know
that your little boy
would one day end his life?

getting bad again sounds a lot like,
its autumn again.
a lot like,
the time change is lurking around the corner.
a lot like,
it’s been raining for a week now.
a lot like,
oversized sweaters, beanies, ugg boots.
a lot like,
sipping hot cocoa without being able to taste it, without caring about burning your tongue.
a lot like,
worrying about the calories around the holidays.
a lot like,
seasonal depression isn’t ******* seasonal but getting bad again could have fooled me.
a lot like,
screaming your favorite screamo music at the top of your lungs at 2am.
a lot like,
combat boots, and winter gloves.
a lot like,
i only smoke when i’m sad.
a lot like,
i’ve been smoking a lot lately.
only because i’ve been colder lately.
only because i’m getting bad again.
getting bad again sounds a lot like,
im home for the holidays.
if i make it that far.

Am I good enough?
Can I woo her with my muscles?
Can I please her and make her mine?
thats not me
Sure I want to woo the girls,
be admired and whispered about.
But that is something that I can never have.
Because I am that kind of guy who wears black all the time,
I don't really work out,
I am a little heavier,
and I listen to "screamo"
These guys who think
they can be trash
and be okay
just because they got a big ****
are *******
They don't deserve the good girls they have.
They won't know what it's like to be lonely.
They won't know what it's like
to wish upon every birthday
to just be loved
cuz they got lines of women
just waiting to be next,
while guys like us
would slit our wrists to be kissed they way the get kissed.
From (my type) guy perspective,
this is *******
What's so wrong with me anyway?
Why do you think I can't be enough.
My love is like an ocean
it never ends
but
they don't know that.
I'm the kind of guy who is
"too much of a brother"
or
"my best friend"
while I sit with the unclaimed flowers.
Why am I left this way?
who can love me?

Child sitting in the wind.
Poetic motion to ease his troubled mind.
His best work at hand.
Love life's  troubled.
Girl he loves,
Troubled.
School life is going south.
Bullied by his parents.
Tough  life he's  living.
Misunderstood.
Suicidal as ****.
Viewed as some wierdo schmuck.
He writes
They read.
He swears beauty doesnt last
He's  seen  it all before.
Comes up with his name
bleeding diamonds
This name holds himself more power
More meaning.
Zach seemed to have been forgotten.
And all thats left his the wind and his poems.
His life
Seems helpless.
Girls seem uninterested
Whats there to love about him?
He was always forced into  secrecy  
Never won a girl's heart in his life
Wanted the best
Only as b.d he knew
How to share who he  was
Only one best friend
Only two talents.
One: writing
Two: screamo.
Put them  together.
Some type of fan base?
Are you?
No.
Maybe
Let him bleed the  diamonds
He needs to bleed
To be
heard
understood
*loved

This goes out to the kids who sleep in skinny jeans and converse.
To the ones who sing screamo and punk rock as lullabies.
To the kids who work all day and party all night.
To the kids who can't sing but can rap.

This goes out to the kids who work to keep their families off the streets
To the kids with a ****** GPA but with amazing knowledge of the world.
To those that get picked last
To that girl at table 5 with the blonde hair and mini-skirt.

This goes out to my fellow victims.
The ones who have been beaten.
The ones who have been screamed at.
The ones who had their innocence stripped from them by force.
The ones who have been stuck between a brick wall and a hard place.

This goes out to everyone.

This is for my friends who have become family
This is for my family that has become friends
This is for the kids who I used to hate that are now my best friends in the world.
This is for the strangers who became my friends and the friends' that became strangers.

This is for my friends who have survived
The suicide attempts
The loss of innocence by a person who was evil enough to hurt you down where the sun don't shine.
The abuse from a loved one or friend who said they would never hurt you.
Disabilities that should have stopped you but didn't.
People who ****** with you just to get a reaction.
Those who've hurt you.

This goes out for the people who have stood by me since they met me.

You may have thought this would have a message at the end.

But it doesn't.

Not all poems do.

It's what you take away from this.
I'm
That's the message.

And I'm **** happy.