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P.T.S.D.I eat these pills like candy,
an abuse that feels like love.
Drink hard liquor when it’s handy.
Nose to nose, push and shove.
My self-worth is more than this.
More than you’ll ever fucking know.
A vicious cycle, round and round.
A callous past that won’t let go.
I can’t be your conscience.
I’m not the angel on your shoulder.
Our mattress up in flames,
we just toss and turn and smolder.
You tried to give me everything,
the good and the bad.
But I want more, and more, and more.
Stubborn hunger, addicted and sad.
Blot clots between my legs.
Gut wrenching pain within.
Remanence of you,
the rancid stench of what could have been.
This line between love and hate,
thinner and thinner as I grow strong.
Not afraid to sleep alone anymore.
I’ve fucking been alone all along.
Restless.I have a soul, distinct and alien.
I feel it beneath my skin, pulsating.
Itching to escape my body.
Rushing through my fingertips like a fist-shaped hole in the wall.
Jaws always clenched, wired shut.
Sanding down teeth and bone.
Resentment and bloody gums.
What will my aching discomfort bring today?
Pick a symptom, any symptom.
Chronic headaches? Dry heaves? Off-kilter equilibrium?
I'm dwindling - had and felt it all.
I disappear by the pound and cut off all my hair.
Disappear with time and sickness and mouthfuls of pills.
Doctors got me on this Xanax diet.
With a wish in one hand and shit in the other.
So I drink a glass of wine.
And I laugh at the tragic, boring, cynical person I've become.
Existence is the mere struggle just to remember to breathe every few seconds.
Lungs black, filled with smoke that I keep telling myself is medicinal.
My anxious, vagabond soul will not rest till I am dead.
Free at last, free at last.
The Man in Red Plaid.These walls are my friends.
They know me better than I know myself.
Dark energies surround me.
Cradling me in cold arms.
Thumping like death rattles.
I fester on top of my mattress.
My comfort zone of dead skin cell bed sheets.
Stained with blood,
And the man in red plaid stands in the corner.
Always staring at me.
Like lonesome hallucinations in the night.
Pressing on my chest while I sleep.
He’s the only one who knows my name.
Home.Beautiful eyes are sociopathic.
His static-blue gaze sends shivers down my spine.
I fell in love at sunrise,
with threadbare jeans and a dull hangover.
Studying the curves and bends of his body,
imperfectly designed with me in mind.
Admiring his sleepy-eyed, alabaster complexion.
In the mornings, he smells like home.
I want to bury my sorrows in the soft nape of his neck.
I want to stay there forever.
Insignificant.Time slips away from her,
dripping between her nearly arthritic fingers.
Entire years pass in her peripheral vision,
lost in a spinning whirlwind of color and shape,
love and indifference,
vertigo and delirium.
She meanders aimlessly through the daily motions and daydreams,
feeling partly hardened,
and partly brokenhearted.
She is lonesome in a familiar way,
aching as though she had lost a precious limb.
This is the aging process,
and everyday she feels several steps closer to her own deathbed.
She floats in and out of reality,
too abstract for that simple, beautiful, middle ground.
Fantasizing about lives she will never live,
confidence she will never have,
and a romance that she never should have expected in the first place.
Decomposition.Existence is disintegration.
Flowers curled and withered.
Paper bones and yellowed skin.
This skeleton is my own.
My history -- a nameless tombstone.
An antique mirror.
A crumbling clot of dirt.
This is what it’s worth.
There is no God.
No tree of life.
Nothing grows here anymore.
Distorted.I hear things.
in my head.
Pupils dilate like wormholes.
I am catatonic.
I am wrong inside.
Heredity.I'm afraid of you.
My post-traumatic deceiver
with a heart three sizes too small.
Loving you is a sacrifice -
an underestimated dare.
So I keep both feet on the ground
and my fists up in the air.
Violence runs in the bloodline -
a big man makes real big threats.
That alcohol speaks louder
than your capability of regret.
Hate swells in your soul -
in your drunken,
You are someone else,
just a werewolf in disguise.
Now I know the anger exists.
No apologies -
don't fucking bother.
I saw the devil inside you
and he looked just like your father.
Something I Can Never Be.If I had any
I wouldn't look
in his direction.
he's all I've ever
He's the object
of my affection.
He is liberation;
Even when he
breaks my heart,
brings me to my knees.
I want to feel safe
in his arms,
I'm reluctant to commit.
I hate how much
I love him,
for fear of things
I can't admit.
he takes me
the pills mean more
the love of his life;
a love that
can never be.
the truth about growing up
1. It's easier when you don't think.
1. It starts early,
on a cloudy day when you recall
the 'childhood memories' of
two summers ago,
that's when you start your backslide into
2. On the bright side
you won't notice this until you're
good and ripe in age,
so maybe it doesn't matter
3. That tightness in your chest?
The feeling that you're not ready
to take on the rest of your life; it
4. It stews in the pit of your stomach
makes you doubt,
but there will be days when you look back
on the mountains you climbed -
the raging rivers you crossed -
and you'll have a sneaking suspicion you were
more prepared than you thought.
5. There's nothing like your own bed.
6. Laundry will never smell right
without mom's sweat and tears.
But you still have to separate lights from darks,
keep the zippers pulled tight
and the buttons unhooked.
7. There is comfort in your parents' presence.
8. Things change
the future gnaws and rips
Southern modernizationBlack comedy market economy, banana peel political humour, cards with the cartels, the solution free room service and credit the union. Bolivar twist, ding dong dollar under control, valley of the coin desert with no value. Gangsta paradise, the victims are the people. Big mac and cold conflict interference a part of it all. In little Mexico you’d need a high horse to jump the great border wall that boasts its peak.
Viracocha melts waters unlike those it rose from, making waves of out of metal oceans to overtake the current south, re-steel, re-take, tech-mechs the entire south into neo-Machu Picchu, cyberpunk music moulding, reshaping old society into an new age, iron dynasty, fresh coat for an old, ancient look. The coattails of Quetzalcoatl if he were a modern man pull together the merge of future and long passed past..techno temples and the like.
LullabyHush, my baby,
Be still, don't cry.
Lay with me
A little while.
Close your eyes,
Slow your breath.
Hear your heart
Inside your chest?
Your heart is strong,
It guides you well.
Be sure to listen
To what it tells.
I hear him now,
Outside the room.
It won't be long,
He'll find us soon.
Now close your eyes,
Slow your breath,
And rest your head
Upon my chest.
Darkest MoonI celebrate my right to live;
To the dismay of some, perhaps
It should be noted
These words I write, however true
Are only portions of the moon
I’ve decide to shine light upon.
But who am I to preach respect?
Who Am I to preach equality?
An advocate for re-personification
Of the female gender
But exhibits cannibalistic characteristics
Within dark spaces.
I am a shadow
Hidden within an Eggshell, painted pink,
Waiting to hatch.
Is the darkness
The night brought upon us.
things to tell you before i leave for collegeto mrs hatcher:
i promise that one day i will write that poem you asked me for
(the only thing you ever asked me for)
and i will finally tell you that you deserve
so much more.
to mr. walker:
i promise that i will not pity you.
i promise that i will not envy you.
i promise that you will always be one of my forget-me-nots and marigolds.
i promise to always be grateful.
i promise to be careful.
i promise to be crazy.
i promise that i will remember what it feels like to be needed
and what it feels like to let someone who needs you down.
i promise that i will never resent you for asking for help
and that i will always be there when you do.
i promise that even sixty years from now,
i will not be surprised to find a letter from you in my mailbox.
i promise to always remember what it felt like to be young and crazy with you,
how scared and lonely we were.
i will remember that we both survived it,
and that we'll survive this, too.
CarolineYou loved the fire
of rogues -
imperfect men who shot up
the endings of the day
and drank down
too much beauty.
And like one of them,
you bellied with rebellion,
felt his tense seed
toil where women
and craved his notoriety.
Poor girl -
his verses won the day
and the call of words
was too fickle a lover
for any constant star.
Don't blame yourself -
are more attractive
and all poets are
You Were Born Missing SomethingYour skin is glazed with crystals of frost
and your heart's valves are close to
freezing shut tight
from being devoid of something
Though I am torrents of hail, whirling storms,
warm tears streaking,and tornadoes of rage
that flow uncontrollably through my veins
and out of my mouth,
every breath near you is warm
because your words are so cold
I am a natural disaster at its finest
with bones twisted in painful angles
and a crooked spine
you were born spineless
it was a broken sense of beautifulhis smile was like dust caught
in sunlight; more like a dreamy state
of being than reality, like the half-
remembered yesterday that still haunts your
memories because you
didn't want to forget how it
we'd lie on the floor with
slats of light shot across the ceiling, drinking
in the atmosphere
with windows propped open by
books and yellowed pages,
and by the time
we wandered into sleep, we were drunk instead
smell of roses --
he was a broken kind of beautiful, a
beautiful kind of flawed; love-letters, anonymous
and never sent littered
the dusty floorboards beneath his
of what we were before
love found it's way
back around; hours passed in a sunset haze
as my fingers ghosted over words
he'd written half-asleep, ink smudged on his fingers --
they say the music
comes when your heart's about to break, more
like a whimper than a bang; but i've
never heard a song so
sweet, and this sense of lovely has found it's home
inside my bones --
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