FrustrationFrustation a feeling of hopelessnessindecisions cooled off, replacesby hot heat sizzling past sinsbut not eradicating them from memorymemorymemory is what haunts us taunts uskeeps us awake at nightif only recollections would fade disappearlet me fade awayaway from what I did but alsoto what I will becomeLet me be the present.The past is alive, and so is the futureonly the present eludes methere yet not therekeeping me awake at nightand not awake enough in the day.
OutsideI look around and see them.The others, not me.What are they thinking behind those closed facesTheir eyes give me a peak into thatsecret realm,But I am thrown out in confusion.The masses surround me with their clamerfor attention! and quest for something elseNot the importance, pride or glamourBut they look at others for guidanceInstead of looking ito their own heartsFor more than a path, a guide toGuide the poor seeker into the embraceOf love...Of purity...Of self.
the things we'll never say.1.snakes crawl out of my mouth,hands like sleep waiting silentlyfor me to give into them.i toss words like rocksacross my tongue, skippingacross the lake, and we reach,hands outstretched, for the sunbut it's a shame it's all empty.2.listen, if you loved me, youwouldn't try to fix me.if you loved me, you'd paintbutterflies across the wallto make me smile. listen,if you loved me, you'd giveme handrails to hold ontoon the way down. you'd tell methat right now, i'm a caterpillar(but that caterpillars becomebutterflies.) listen,if you loved me,you'd love me broken, too.3.don't speak.sure, you could sayi'm beautiful. sure,you could say you love me.but if you were silent,maybe you could connectthe dots and find my heart init, somehow. maybeyou could open your handsand i'd find all my dreamsin the lines.so don't speak.words won't ever say enough.4.your first mistake was meetingme, oceans in the stars andwhispers in our ears. we crossedboundaries as if t
Deux-piecei gave my heart to a crocodilebuthe used it as a toothpicksoi took it backandgave it to Charlie Chaplinbuthe kept playing the dictatorsoi took it backandgave it to Houdinibuthe'd make it disappear every mornsoi took it backandgave it to the Beatlesbutthey threw it to their lunatic fanssoi took it backandgave it to my chestbutit was dark and bloody in theresoi took it backandgave it to You,my Unloneliness,to stuff it next to yours -i heard from your veinsthere's room enough for Twoin your rib cage.
En dur ing an·te·ced·ent And I spoke to my walls, discovering that the only difference between them and her was a coat of paint and a pulse, and often-- just the pulse. And I solved my problems for under ten dollars, at corner stores: I purchased lip chap, armbands, and press-on nails.
It is hard to be softMom cutting Dad's hair in the kitchen. Feather voicesbecause they are discussing matters heavier than water,jarring scrapes when they move the chair.Tufts of hair fall, touching thecurved blade of ear. It is sharper, as are our brains,than you think, even asthe night velvets. It pads alongside my cat,who sits behind the laundry room door and makes old saxophone sounds.I slip inside to touchthe kitten scruf of his neck.How difficult it is, to definitively love or hate,when everything is so soft.From where I sit there are no windowsand except for drooping eyelids I would not believein the moon. Or in the swift autumn nightsthat come upon us like riders. And the hardhands begin groping in my belly,begging to be noticed. I do.
I am girl.Other boys tell meI’d look bestdisheveled,firmly pressedagainsttheir skin.& they knowI am girl-from the curve of my hips,to this jutting collarbone,lonely of love bites& bruises.But, your hands shapefalsities out of my limbswith a tongue speaking of mein riddles;Isabella,Christine.Why do I allow your bodyto find rest against these boneswhen you don’t even recognizethe taste of my moon skinbetween your teeth?
demonlogy remember remember the whispers of november - but wait, this isn't a revolution it's not even a rebellion your white flag doesn't drop anything but morale the one man army of nothing staggered steps and dried tongues, cracked lips begging for Legion
OlderTime is a lonely bastard child. I knowhow it feels.I explore the spaces inside, moist hollowswhere the angels once workedtheir mischief. Strangewhat you can grow accustomed to. I probethe old scar tissue: smooth, numbin places. I imagine I can feeltheir shades, tactile afterimages: a zombiereflex, a longingfor a longing. It pullsat the center of my chest.I miss the certainty of need.I examine new possibilities, takesteps, show interest, craft a proposition,cut a book deal. I have always been honest,goodfor others, even at my worst. I read. I write.I observe, offer advice. Business is easyto come by.I have my way with words.I nurture the spark, zapit with alternating current, breathe lifeinto the old girl. She gags,stutters for breath, settles into a raggedpurr. Obsolete and in needof a tune-up, but serviceable. Not so nearlybroken.
Heart:a rebelliontucked awayin her chest.they sayshe's got skinunworthy to writepoetry on,butshe tapes thoseloveliesto her limbsanyway.-dp
Closed mouthed,I tried to devour myself in my sleep,all tight lipped and tonguelesshours after you left mewith only an unbeating heartkeeping me company.Callused fingers made me shiver,but never managed to make me burn.Instead, they left me feeling colda frostbitten liar with a snake for a tongue.An unnamed poetic.I'm dreaming of red skiesand dragons of oldI'm begging, and I'm begging,and I'm beggingPleasewarm me up.Set fire to these bonesGive me a real reason to scream.Because, there rests an old poetin the farthest reaches of my souland she longs to fight this fire with flames.[ As she's learned the tricks of her trade only conversing with Monsters. ]
DrunkThe chemical imbalancebrings him to the brinkof the natural worldand drinking in the cool smell of peacehe nods offin a drunken sleep of desperation