Eliza.
Her skin is like little flowers
Her hair as smooth as silken grass
A silent beauty
What is this feeling?
Eliza.
My mind paints her yellow and green and lilac
Against a blue sky dense with my tears
Her hands raised, fingers spread, in benediction
Eliza.
Her eyes dance like the sun
Moving excitedly as she talks about something. Anything.
And her smile… so ******* beautiful.
I know how wrong this is, but it feels so good.
E.li.za.
I think I love her.

I can’t cry anymore
I lie here dry eyed waiting for you to call
A call that won’t come
What am I afraid of
The stars say a prayer of comfort and solitude
That fills my heart and chills my soul
Good night my love, time to close your eyes
And leave this world behind, wherever you might be
As you drift away into the deep blue night
Swirling with indigo and deep violet
Maybe I’ll sing to you some other night
But I can’t right now.
Music evades me.

As They might tell you, I am the luckiest girl alive.
Luck. Lucky, the luckiest.
I have 3 dead vapes and a dead dad.
Burned coil, burning hair, burned out
Even my bed is on fire.
I’m just so… tired? Tired, definitely. Just tired. Just. Tired.
A lucky, lucky, tired girl.
Whose soul cries out for something long and sweet and deadly.
Goes right along with daddy, don’t it?
I am, we are but cigarettes, burning between dead lips.
What a gift, what a gift.

we are caged animals.
locked up, locked in for everything,
even the devil smells your sins.
hide your words, impulses, your eyes
or the loons will have a feast tonight.
crackers, nuts, guy just went loony tunes, lost your marbles.
insanity.
I am this. or so They tell me.
I dream in words, deepest words
tired of screaming every day, let me out LET ME THE **** OUT.
heed my words, dear one: be careful what and who you cut. it might just change your life.

sobriety.
who would believe that I prayed for this.
poison.
I can’t believe I ever touched that ****;
touched beauty bottled, rolled, burning.
don’t think; you might tip the wagon.
don’t drink; you’ll spare your sanity.
don’t smoke; you’ll surely burn alive.
the child’s impending suicide.
it’s pain in a pen, a bottle that bleeds;
it’ll knock you back to your shaking knees.
back to praying.
but if I break, don’t ******* ask why,
for the artist is an addict, no matter how dry.

night has come home to your room, and so have those red eyes- starry and wakeful. feverish.
you are one of mine. a little fool, a Rose of thorns.
hold our word tight, in your flower hands, a word gilded gold and hollow.
watch the wild ones go by in an instant, there and gone.
they can smell your youth and beautiful sanity, all blushing petals and green stems.
stay close to me, baby. so I might revive my spirits. I think I can, now.
so walk on, Little Rose. take up my limp and my name.
and remember that shining word that blooms from every flower you hold:
“fear.”

Mine eyes are clouded with older days
Before I fell, before I bled
Lust and cigarettes greet my hands now. Willingly enough.
My senses are failing, as is my brain
So I can't seem to remember what all this is for,
I wish I had smiled in our picture
So maybe you would have never known of the poems behind these clouds.
Open my mouth and breathe in the words of those unknown and forgotten.
Whisper them in the ear of something that was supposed to die with winter’s end.
Though it’s April now, there is no spring. Grey morning follows empty night, caught somewhere in limbo
But spring shall come yet. It always does.