Open up your mouth.
let it out with a shout.
so we know what it's about.
so that we won't have a doubt.
that you've found your rout.
tell yourself that it's necessary
so that you can
sprout.


open your mouth.
let it all out
so we won't have a doubt
what you're about.

maybe your doubts
wouldn't be so loud,
if your mouth
wasn't so proud.

light go down
head turn around
(but ours)
then starts the sound...

i'll trade you this brain space
for your head case.
i like your purple
more than mine,
and in this place
i'm sure you'll find,
my greens are seen,
and the wine is fine.

*******,
have you ever seen a mirror?
i'd love um if I were you.
*******!
you're eye contact is ;
extraterrestrial .

see? I can be fake too.

ah **** honey, it was...
i mean...
can't you take a joke?

i'm sorry..

****...

now she's gone.

and I hate popcorn.

I need to stop talking with my eyes.

I say too much.

What a ****** movie...

at least it's still 4 o'clock.

Sun's still out.



******* popcorn.

you get mad at me often
because we don't speak the same language
or because as much as i listen to your
boy-hood fantasies
i still only here the voice of someone
scared
to just be a woman.
It's difficult for someone
who just wants to be a man.

you call me a hypocrite.
walking around with a mirror for a face
while I scream at everything else for having
the same face
or closed-mouth laugh
or the tongue in between her teeth.

you get mad at me because
i tell you to be direct
but i can't never seem to tell you what i mean
by "I love you"
or "I don't know".

As I breathe
the music on my shoulder is  kicking it's legs
and sighing
with bells on its shoes
and freezing cold finger tips

As I listen
the breathe in my head is speaking
in the lowest tones
of the brightest colors
and I keep reminding myself for some reason
that they're just words.

aren't they?

I don't know.

I love you.

Writing turns me into words
Painting makes me color
And I have no voice to be heard
When there's one without the other

Music makes matches of my ears
Striking on sandpaper notes
Voices turn me into tears
Pieces of me thrown from throats

Self-expression is some sort of healing
For the things that we think we're feeling
and when the paint begins its peeling
and your words begin their reeling
that's when you'll know how is why

Sometimes
my sorrow is mine.

I swallow my depths to feel shallow.
I expel myself in liquids
to repel this self from its wicked
and repair my health with this wilted
conscience.

I want to laugh
and then fall silent.
Because happiness is insane
and self-explanatory,
and the only wise words can't be said.

Sometimes
my sorrow is mine,
and sometimes it's yours.
Or theirs,
but it's always served on a silvered platter

so nothing's the matter.

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

It's like your sadness.
It looks at me with screaming eyes
under uninterested brows
through black holes.
It scoops crystals under your couch
and doesn't hesitate to tell me
that it's happy to be here.

It presses piano keys with disdain,
beckoning sinuous  sounds of
catharsis.

What is this  
furnace
that burns us?
Why does this
sternness
turns us
worthless?

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
I want to sleep until I get back.
I want to sleep until I've found what's real.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

You could do with some shut-eye yourself it seems.

I would like to formally apologize,
for turning you into a demon.

All I wanted
was to be sane.

So,
I took what I could.
your taste.
your touch.
your time.
Of course, you kept your body,
no matter how much I wanted it.
No matter how much I had it.

I tried to cover my self
with your fingerprints
so that maybe no one could see
the skin underneath.

I tried to cover my selfishness
with my fingerprints.
tracing confessions of love
on your alabaster back.

The fingerprints are still there.
Populating our clay flesh
and our sky minds.
I'll admit to their beauty,
however tender they may be.

After the end,
you kept yourself,
and I kept
your touch.
your taste.
your tears.
pooling like the puddled palette
of a weeping painter.
running down my spine,
making me cry,
the colors.

I wanted you to feel me,
but my eye are knives
and my fingers flames,
so I strayed from my self
and gave you my mirror-heart
so you could watch yourself walk away.

Now that you're gone
your demon screams for freedom,
but she's kept engaged.
For I'm afraid
that her release
is my destruction.

Slowly,
I can feel her becoming my bones.
Soaking in.
The colors.

I would like to formally thank you,
for being my demon.