.i shudderwhen you speak;your words arecold when theytouch me
.you brokea heart,convincedthat there wassomething goodinside
.love grewand died repeatedly;she tore it out atthe root
.and if you evermanage to get inside myhead, i'll wish you luck
.some people are deadlong before they die -there's just no burialor cremation,no funeralfor the spirit
.some thoughts get so loud thatyou cry out for them to leave;they scatter like birds startledout of their trees, before landingagain where they wereand after a while,you just have tolet them sing
.i dug up thepast again, thosememories viciousand snarlingi set them looseinside the houseand now we haveto leave
.you were a passingstorm, a tornado scribblingyour name in the sand
.hell isthe devil's chest,an empty red cavernhe's simply tryingto fill
.does a weedever wonderwhy it isn'ta flowerdoes a treeever feel likeits roots areholding itdown
.is it worse tohear a truth,or give oneto tell a lie,or live one
.sometimesthe voicein my headdecides tocurl up inmy throatinsteadand sometimesthe beat ofyour heartdecides tomake itselfknown throughyour fists
.you're afraidto let anyonestoke the firein your chestfor fearyou will burnthem alive
.your heartalone shouldremind younot to beatyourself upyour pulseshould remindyoukeep steady
.you pulledall the strings;now i connect morewith the puppet thani do the puppeteer
.you were life's newwork of art;small easel bonesand a blankcanvas of skinbut he ruined you over time,added the brushof a scaror two
.everything i hold deari hold too tightly;i am so sorry you weremarked when i had tolet you go
.you got given a life,now you have to earn your living
five second suicideand as i pour myself out on these canvasesi drip over the edges, spilling dots ofabsence on the hungry earth.they call me jane doe,and i am not art.every evening, i close the door,close my eyes, disassemble.slowly, i've become fleeting.i float, my feet don't touch the ground.how can i crash?i fade, i dissolve,but i've lost the motive to explode.there's no glory in my death;i leave no trace of the dramatic.a man on the train last tuesdaynudged me, apologized, and carried on his way.he's the last person who'sspoken to me since then.we hit a notch in the tracks,the car wobbled.i stared at him silently,counting the infinite futuresthat suffocated behind my teeth.i'm dying in my own penitentiarywith the cell door key in my pocket.
things that go bump in the nightabsence makes the heart a monster.
Once Upon A TimeOnce upon a time there was a girlAnd she lived.
The Dead SeaThe Dead SeaI offered water to her,but she was a seaI offered love to her,but she was deadI offered words to herand she hated me.
So SilentSo silentIt was so silent on the hill,She could hear her steps,Her breath...A look at the watch;Time's not passing,Not going away,Like a friend who waits, insists;BegsThat she must do something at last.
( 4/01/2014 )I’ve been toldladies are supposed tocover themselvesin flowers, fine wines,or men.Fuck poetry,ladies don’t havetime.But lately,Bukowski sitsupon a barstoolin my headlaughing.He’s telling meto fuck her, poetically,emotionally, physically-figuratively speaking.I can’t decide which“her”he is referring to,( the new or the old )when jealousyon both endshas meby thethroat.Why do I attractbroken girlslike abandonedpuzzle pieces?Why do my wordsnot sit rightin my mouthwhen I can’teven stand upand speakfor myself?I don’t deserveto be apoet.
Candle WaxYou meltmy heartlike candle wax,but I'm afraidover timeI'll getburnt.
-she knew he was a grave, but she buried herself in him anyway.
lostto tell you the truth,i can't stop missing myself.
.he stood on the shore,and told the sea he loved her;the jealous wind tore hisvoice in two