It's a waterfall.
You know, the kind that cascades hard like
the white water rafting trips' featured waves
and just when you think they've calmed,
they're back even stronger.

They said they had their suspicions.
You've been more flamboyant.
You don't want to dress like your gender.
Stereotype, stereotype, stereotype.

But to be accused,
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US
To be yelled at,
YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU THEN?
To wish you were anywhere else but here...
Somewhere over the rainbow...

But I'll never be over the rainbow.
Contrary to her belief,
it's not a phase or something I'll grow out of.
It's genetic.
Contrary to his thinking,
it's not helping
when all my communication with
others is severed.

I'm gay.
There, I admit it.

It's not like I'm gonna scream it from the rooftops, and no,
it's not the reason that I really like bowties and short hair.

Can't you just
accept me?

The final blow
is when your family
decides you're too good
for that type of lifestyle.

WHAT MORE CAN I DO TO IMPRESS YOU?
I've tried my whole life to make you proud.

I guess this just goes to show
that being myself
will never be enough.

So leave me to my cascades and wet cheeks in bed-why do you care-
because we all know you're wishing I'm something I'm not.
Someone I'm not.

Disowning me
would have been the
far superior alternative
to the disappointment.

"Our youngest daughter is just like her father, but looks like her mother. And our oldest daughter? She looks like her father, but acts like her mother. Well...she did."

No one really understands how strong they are until they feel pain.
Pain brought on by others, sure.
But pain brought on by oneself.
Ink by ink and bone by bone,
We write our own rifles
To shoot our penned images down with.

Don't feel as if you are alone.
How many views do you have?
How many witnesses are there
To your black stained suffering
That could turn to red any moment?

Who knows.
I know.

I know the silence a written page can scream
Louder than any thoughts and any people.

Just know that no matter the lack of comments
No matter the absence of physicality to hear you
Your pain
Is being read.

In my head
There's an image of you
But I'm sure it does you
Absolutely no justice
Case closed.

A paper crown, and a heart made of glass
A tattered gown, and her kingdom of ash
She walks alone, she can never look back
The story of a queen whose castle has fallen to the sea

She'll make it out, but she's never the same
She's looking down, at the scars that remain
But you hold your ground, though your kingdoms in flames
Cause it's the story of a queen who's castle has fallen to the sea
Knowing there's no one who will be a king that will come and save his queen

When all she needs, when all she wants, when all she finds
When all she is, and ever was, is compromised
Cause there's no one to love her
When you build your walls too high
And there's no one to love you when you build your walls too high

She's looking out, from the war that's inside
She's screaming out, cause no one survived
But when you're all alone, you wait and you hide
Cause it's the story of a queen whose castle has fallen to the sea
Knowing, there's no one who will be a king that will come and save his queen

When all she needs, when all she wants, when all she finds
When all she is, and ever was, is compromised
Cause there's no one to love her
When you built your walls too high
And there's no one to love you when you build your walls too high

There is no one, who is strong enough, to save your love
There's no fairytale
There's no fairytale

When all she needs, when all she wants, when all she finds
When all she is, and ever was, is compromised
Cause there's no one to love her
When you build your walls too high
And there's no one to love you when you trap yourself inside

I'd love a paragraph wakeup message every now and then...

I can't stop listening to Paramore.

And inside my head there's a sparkly tornado
That won't stop turning, holding together
All the thoughts I love and hate
In a fine frenzy of the deepest shades of
Black and brightest shades of white
That there are...and yet...
This storm, I know, won't stop,
It'll just keep pelting me with stinging memories
That sing as the fervor only increases,
Leaving me spinning, spinning, spinning....

And I can't stop listening to Paramore.

I am so sorry
That I loved you
More than you could handle

If my heart knew your language
You'd already be mine

it has finally stopped snowing
after how long?
steam and fire
blood and breath
it's all gone.

thank god, right?

but it's not exactly fields of flowers now.
because now i have to figure out how to swim
through the newly melted
floods.

...why the hell does it take so long to develop.....

How come I always end up paying for wishes?
Aren't they supposed to be free?
Why is recompense part of the deal
when they're supposed to uplift little me?

Why does the brass lamp cost money?
Doesn't rubbing it mean luck?
Why must I pay a penny a day
If it won't guarantee I'm not stuck?

These pearls around my neck, they itch
And burn and mock and ache
For their gloss represents a hitch
No one will ever make.

I love the feeling of your words tracing my skin
so why don’t your hands feel the same

If I were to drop out my heart on a platter
and give back what's given to me;
If I were to cry hard but make not a splatter,
what's there left for to see?

Emotions are made for the playing of heartstrings
and picking of sentiments true;
But if we were bigger and grander with love-things,
wouldn't we be happier too?

Minds are the makers of falsehoods and lying
and pressing the lighting of thoughts;
But pulling the curtain on Fate's newen'd vying
could overturn many famed lots.

So treasure the ringed things that protect your heart
and plastic the lives that you own;
For living is telling, and telling, an art
that helps us to thrive and to grow.

Being perfect
Is living up to
Someone else's standards.

I can smell coffee drifting through the air like silk
And in through my window, birdsong swirls in
On the warm summer breeze
Laughter fills the room,
I stretch,
And I smile.....

I can smell the coffee from the teachers lounge, making my stomach bellow involuntary whale calls
And in through the window, bird sing, laughing at me, stuck inside
And the wind is hot, too hot, it's stuffy in here.
Laughter drifts in from the hall, from the throats of teachers who are already free of this hell.
I stretch, trying to get comfortable on the metal chair forged from the depths of the underworld,
Grimace, a smile of pain,
And return to reading paragraph three.
One.
More.
Hour.

Perfection.
It’s what we strive for.
Some believe it is their destiny.
Others, much like me, believe it is the world’s curse.
Sure, it can be a goal. We look to it for guidance, as a role model for how our lives should be lived, for information on how to handle certain situations. Yet for me, it is a cruel, twisted, sadistic black cloud and threatening my life with a torrentous, eternal thunderstorm.
Perfection daunts me everywhere I go. The people I see passing by reek of it; not a hair is out of place, and they ooze with confidence and clarity.
Like a viper eyeing its’ prey, it waits for the opportune time to lash out at me, when I’m weak, vulnerable, or most of all, happy.
One is led to wonder; why should I care? I don’t have to be perfect in order to live. I just need to be me. Yet when you’re sitting in a room full of tiny anorexic models, do you still feel that courageous? No.
It all comes down to your inner strength. It is more beautiful than the most perfect statue, more potent than the most perfect of medicines, more withstanding than the most perfect wall. What is inside you should not be taken for granted. It is your own, personal powerhouse, ready to fuel you when your perception begins to lag.
So would it be better to shun perfection altogether? Honestly, it does not do much good for a girl to start cutting the word into her thighs, a boy to repeat it over and over again as he ties his own noose, or for a convict to mutter it as he stares at the ceiling unable to sleep. What point is there?
My resolution? Shout it from the rooftops, scream it from the skyways. “I am flawed……………...And I am beautiful”.

You've read Perfection.
It's subjective.

But your opinion is perfect to me.
No matter how much I disagree
I love the way you are,
The way you speak,
The way you think.

So perfect?
Perhaps.

Just because I think you're perfect
Doesn't mean others do

But just because others despise you
Doesn't mean that I'll stop loving you

if words were actions i'd be dead
or, perhaps, living inside a bright yellow tulip
with an acorn for my cup and a walnut shell for my bed and a full heart in my chest
or, maybe, i'd be sailing the seas on a lily pad
with nothing to sustain myself but dreams of what each wave hides
or, possibly, i'd be sitting on an old front porch
nestled in a rocker and watching steam rise off my tea into the morning fog
or, perchance, i'd be weaving roses into the village girls' hair
while they sing to me of their dreams of love and i respond in kind
or, potentially, i'd be sitting in the nook of a high up cliff home
writing a book at the window seat while lightning storms outside
but, more believably, i'd be where i am.
because words are words, and actions are actions.
and i am me.

they said after the fire
comes rebirth.

but I'm no phoenix.
flamingos don't rise from the ashes.

they burn.

blood isn't effective
because someday you'll run out.
we know this.

soak up sun instead
drench yourself in salt water
kick up dirt under your heels
let blades of grass slice open your back

then slice open your mind
it you let your pain come from elsewhere,
you'll have time to produce your own happiness

I've been pushing this piano
up this steeping hill
with no thoughts of taking breaks, no,
or of pushing harder still.

I've been dragged by this piano
down this slowly sloping ridge,
for music makes a heavy soul
that'd overweigh a bridge.

I've struggled with this piano
to traverse the gravel ground,
but there's no easier way to go
than down, just markedly down.

I'll pull up at this piano
with the fervor of a few
that will help me even though
it's getting harder to pull through.

So away I'll fly with this piano
though the heaviness is grey;
for the music that I do know
could well save me someday.

Slowly, she scraped and saved and sighed
over all she had left
and she realized the little love she had left
wouldn't be enough
she could never, would never afford
the cost of her heart

Sparkly.
Vibrant.
Lively, yet hiding something.

What can glitter hide?
What can sequins disguise?

Pink- intuitive, insightful, kind.

Under that glimmering surface
there is love.
Hurt.
Confusion.

And I'm never going to let go of
my wish
to enlarge
the love.

It was only a dream,
That cold lie that we shared.
One fruitless night and one darkening day
Signified that we were impaired.

Pair me off; lose me not.
How can we love as we are ought?
For love is cheap, and seldom bought;
Why buy when you can steal the lot?

A lot’s been taken; I see now…
Taken up and beyond the clouds.
Past the moon and the mist it sees
Up past the stars and the galactic breeze.

It breezed right through us.
I know not how.
All I know is there’s nothing left now.
What was our intention of fleeing that dimension
Since all humanity’s left us now?

No more now is the gentle undulation.
No more now are the sweet sensations-
My eyes are opened, and thus I see:
That cold lie we shared?
It was only a dream.

Just because I cave like a chameleon under pressure
Doesn't mean I don't have true colors buried
Underneath this plastic

The reign of the monarch Queen Amber
Was not in the least case mature.
When she needed a nap,
She’d rule with a slap,
So her mother up and overthrew her.

Please, be safe.

Please, know I love you.

Please, know I didn't mean to miss you.

Please, know I can't wait to see you more than anything.

And please. Know I'm scared.

Don't inconvenience yourself, please. I'm fine, really. Go about your business, nothing to see here.
Just a girl who feels like her ten mile relationship has become a thousand miles, uncrossable, uncontrollable.
Don't worry, no worries at all to be found here.

Just empty space.

That's all there has been for a while...

...and words can't fill it.

I didn't know moaning had two purposes. for real.
and this isn't meant to be ******.

but when you're rolling over the couch
over
and over
and ******* over again
and nothing seems to make sense,
especially the times you force air in and out of your throat....

why the moaning?

because I know for one
panicking
is not pleasurable

What makes a good plot?
Is it the driving forces of a whirlwinded love, a mad minded passion, and a heedless fear?
Or is it the calm rolling thoughts that peep into your window every night begging for an audience that whisper to the genteel with the silence of a weeping willow?
You decide.
Reality?
Or empty-minded desire?

Quoth the starling, "Forevermore."

When the words in my head
Don't make any sense
But they rhyme

When your thoughts
Just happen
To rhyme

They always describe words as dripping-whoever they are.
Words drip from your lips,
drip from a microphone,
drip from the speakers of your car.

My words do not drip like the forlorn water clinging to the water faucet after their companions have ceased to flow.

My words attach. And they hold on.

To what, I can't be certain- who can be certain of anything in this mired time of our lives- but I know it keeps me going, I know not where, but that is the consolation.

You are steering me in whichever direction I am meant to go, and my words are the oars. They may have seemed ill-said, but they put me in the direction in which Fate would have me drift.

But not aimlessly.

So, darling, when my words hold onto you and attach themselves to your lips, will you leave them there?

Or will you let them drip away?

It isn't so much the realization as it is the process.
The life blood that contributes to it, the feelings that emanate from every wavelength of it.
It's the doubts and concerns and hopes that line the path with light or darkness, all the pathfinder's choosing.
It's the way.

I've had to discard my watch
And duct tape my clocks
Into a black electrical silence

Time is never enough
And with him,
I wish it'd stop
Completely

They just keep getting higher and higher
yet the merchandise stays the same

Why does my heart
always cost me
so much?

does it burn
*to pinch a flame?

It hurts.
You know what I mean.
Like ripping off a bandaid-
Except this one is a mountain high
And firmaments long.
And one thread at a time,
It pulls at my heart and shreds it
With the recollections
Of ideas, loves, memories
We were ready to create
And share.
Is it the end?
You seem to think so.
But is it wrong of me to hope
That this adhesive strip
Pulls up not disgust and forgetfulness
But hope?

you may be used to holding the strings
but my mouth moves on it's own

Little girl.
Lamb?
Kitten?
Child.

Purple bows
and purple misty clouds
that sweetly alight
on purple mountains
and purple hopes
that climb high.

My purple little girl.
Purple- wisdom, extravagance, royalty

...my little princess.

Pushing, pushing,
I don't know why I'm pushing,
Driving, driving,
to find an unknown place.

Climbing, climbing,
don't know why I'm just climbing,
striving, striving,
I'm starting to feel peace.

The notes on their hearts can't start to depart
cause their brains can't even start to detain
what is part of their name;
it's their fame, their shame, the life that they live
and the pain that they use to assure that they gain

You love and you live and you push and you win
but you push all your sin to limit and when you're
deep in it you can't pin with win to hold down your sin

so eat what you gain and forget all your fame
the fame of the game that you started through pain
cause your name can't contain all the hearts you disdain
and you can't keep on winning the way you keep sinning

so push on your heart
**** all the art
shatter the legacies break all the tendencies
cut all the ways that would force you to stay like the one who
cried every night cause he lost the one fight where the girl got away

push on your heart
**** all the art

open the pockets and rivet the sockets that pulse all the life
that pounds into your strife
when you're dying you're done
when we're lying we're one
so pull on the trigger cause tonight we've got none

nothing to share and there's nothing to hold
so gimme the lines and the words tell me I'm bold

push on your heart
**** all the art

let everything inside of you just die
cause the life that once lived is no longer alive
and though you may try you just can't satisfy
the heart that you want to be inside her eyes

tell me you hate me
scream your words through cracked glass
and mend the renting vocality
push me against a wall and
give me a reason to cry
because i gave you one to
hate me for

do this for me
be direct
for how can we learn from our mistakes
if we don't know we're causing them
in the first place?

You seem so sure.
Now I have to be the one to take charge
And ask:
How long has it been me?
When will I ever get to see your beautiful face in motion?
Where will be the landing spot for my delicate feet, where I first spot you?
And why....WHY?
Why am I
-humbled, annoying, and too quirky-
The one you choose?

The clock with the metal rim
Lay it flat
And see us inside
Sprinting away from the hands
In hot pursuit
And trapped in different quadrants....
Will you love me
Two hours behind
Eight states away
And a year apart?