Plan B

The door swings open
held for what I thought was me
think to myself
Aren't I lucky?
Turn around, I'm not alone.


Yes let me open up.
Let my petals all fall open.
Yet, watch as they wilt, drop to the floor, disappear
But this is what you wanted, no?

Let me tell you my secrets
brink on emptiness
share my only feelings, which are created
pulled across fabric too soft
ripping under the tears

This perfect picture that never existed
pressed behind glass
a museum displaying the fake
but truth? take it, you can have it all

My past has been a fraud
lies cleverly spun up to keep me from existing
silent, my words are non existent
smile and it'll all go away

I'm a cop out
avoiding the inevitable


Crazy all the same

I watched her from the window. She was a complete mess. Crying and then smiling. Pacing the length of the room. She held it in her hand, her life not even an arm's extension away. Control, complete control over everything. Crying, frustration, more anger to follow. Tears that questioned, even denied. As I watched, i wondered what went through her head. She dropped, collapsed, let go of her control.


Vanilla, white
skin like that of sweet cream.
Against porcelain just as fragile
soul cracked at the seams.
Glistening against soft crystal
Filling to saturation.
Water spilling over
Dancing upon the straight edge.
Pictures pooling
A cardinal taking flight.



Run faster to reach that edge
getting further to the getaway
You're already gone.
Drop the world
it was falling apart
and forget all that bull shit that made you
I'm gone anyway.
Rules confined to that tight leather book
Preaching to the empty minded
closed off and forgotten
The sidewalk ended here.
Red, yellow and green
stopping when told
never starting again
mind served and gone.
In this moment we waited,
waited to be fucked over
now falling off
cored and edges browning.
Sounds bouncing
white walls cracked up
bars slicing the sun
watch like a caged animal
not going anywhere.
Life comes as a pill
downing yesterday like a syrup
Spin 'till I collapse
start to feel sick
the lights go out.
I'm not fucking crazy


yesterday I had dreams

I'm the kind of girl that once believed in romanticism. Knights and shining armor. Smiling faces and cheerful laughter. I believe in love and happiness. This is the kind of girl I am. There is no clouded eyes just sun-kissed hearts.this is the world i want. I want to think these wishes will come true. In hope of a happy tomorrow, a tomorrow that will never come



Say goodnight to the moon
kiss the sweet reflection good-bye.
Watch as the stars burn out
Sing this sweet lullaby.
In the morning the sun will come
lighting up the late midnight sky
Caressing the horizon,
as the two worlds pass by.

-Rhymes, i really hate them.


Evanescent Love

At the end of the rains there is a fire.
Engulfing the lush blades of green,
once heavy with an unwanted desire.
As if rusted,
now brown,
the sun still blaring.
In this drought,
longing for the rains of tomorrow
Comes an ill-fitted cure.
Sporadic rain as if a tease
Bring what should be drops of life
Yet no, with each shower
more pain is to follow
Watch the the grass burn under the rays of the sun.



There's an empty feeling when your on the edge of tears. When it's not hysteria it's almost comforting. You cant figure out why you're crying or even when your going to stop. Just drops in the corner of your eyes. Just waiting for that moment of weakness, when you cant hold them back. This is the breaking point that either leads to an irrational meltdown or when the mind stabilizes again. At this moment there's a numbness, a reflection over everything. You can watch others love and die around you. But the the question is, did this phase you? Are you going to cry over lost a love or a dead child? Will you remember when she beat you down with words of incompetence? Count to three, take a breath, tell him you love him, cry.


Spinning. A spiraling downfall. Caring, thinking, crying. Raindrops fall, whisper words.Thoughts. Cold stings down my arms. shiver, shake, cry. Repeat. The trees, the leaves, the air. The hard plastic of reality. Everywhere, every screen play.They kiss.Disappear. Lie. A need, necessity, drug. Falling off the cycle. I wish.


The grass is greener

There exists death and tears,
but none of which i feel.
Broken hearts and bullet scarred souls
Again neither pain to call my own.

All i have are soft set skies
pale oranges and pinks
wrapping me into security
warmth as an external source
letting me know care.

On this side of the fence
I know of only smiles
and waves of rolling laughter.
i haven't experienced the pains of the world
i know not of hunger and fear,
i know not of control and submission.


What lies beneath

we have dreams of perfection
an idea what life should be
green grass
white picket fences,
this is suburbia.

Dye your hair
plaster a smile
arrange your face,
collagen alterations.

Kids walking in line,
single filed submission.
left foot,right foot
not ever stepping out.

Down a path we follow.
the trees are growing
and bushes pruned
this is suburbia.

The streets are watched
and each corner is stopped.
none to be seen.

Among the borders
where grass is not but brown
just waiting for the mark,
the mark of stiletto heels.

So now grows the walls of suburbia
tearing down any middle ground
lining the streets in pearls,
eating away at every store bought family,
this is my suburbia.



Flowers in a vase,
an intricate sight
Colors like that of candy
temptation for hungry eyes
Drawing one in,
fixated, winning you over.
Realizations then sets in,
the flowers all wilt away.


Not another sad song?

Gentle eyes stare off,
a hard brown outline.
batting eyelashes,
modesty not to be seen.
An almond outlook,
compelling curves to follow
Once closed, lost among the ridges
Hidden, only to be seen again.

Self-Served Extensions

I am like a portrait unpainted
you see nothing more than what I show
I am a sea of reds, blues, and greens
all there blossoming,
but you know of nothing more than mono-colored me.
I am fourteen shades of gray, dull, dreary gray,
all that your eyes can take in.
I am the cover of a book
bound tight and closed
you know nothing under my steel wool skin.
I am thoughts laced with acid
who burn through the soft flesh of minds
pouring out to the muddle the world that surrounds me.
I am like a festering blister
you want to understand these thoughts of mine,
to get them out
to bring them to the surface
but just as much
you wish them away.
I am as if an infection,
under the surface attacking and tearing myself apart
but on the outside perfect as can be.
But then again, what does it matter
when all you see is what I am.
I am a portrait unpainted.


Rushed thoughts

Water filled lungs. Breathe in, gasp for air. Choke, the air is gone. Too much, too fast. Break down, Scream. Tear filled eyes. Spill over. Red faced, Lights go out. Red, green, yellow. Stop. Collide. Collision. Dead. Dripping through veins This pain, this pleasure .Fast. Speed. Hover. Thoughts to feel weak. Given in. game over. A flame, a flicker. A touch, a burn. Blown out, now gone. I’ve learned my lesson. No more games to play. The prize rewarded. empty arms. broken hands. defeat at its finest. head. hurt. heart. pounding. a walls name to call my own. bruises. blood. beat. the rhythm to my thoughts.

I lived in the house of sawed off telescopes

I know the smell of what holds families together
I am that good little girl.
I heard everything I was told.
I always got what I wanted, there never were any tears.
I sat tall in the chair.
It’s empty words that tasted bitter.
I broke something then.

I never threw snow at a passing car.
There was a skeleton in my closet.
If you made it talk, I would lie.
I am that good little girl.
I never spoke up in the classroom.
My face solemn with rage
I broke something then.

My bedroom was a jail cell, I felt like a prisoner
I wished someone would come and let me out
I am that good little girl.
The adults used to say they loved me
And then click the door would lock like a pen.
I broke something then.

My heart stopped beating like a ghost in the graveyard.

My brain stopped responding.
I am that good little girl.
I didn’t care about the people.
I left my soul in that place.
I broke something then.

I couldn’t think thoughts on my own
I couldn’t beat you at this game.
I am that good little girl.
I looked in the broken mirror and scratched at the mess.
My mind was a tortured wound.
Now I am only happy alone.


Left Hungry.

Judging the world by its inequalities
Poverty always to be poor
Third world hate.
Darker Skin, Darker eyes
This world now,
darken my soul.
Remembered for what we have not,
taken from what once was
Two worlds know not what,
what they have done to me.


Testing Me.

Cards placed in front of me.
Each one different or so says the eyes
I see them screaming,
I see them as animals
I see them as hungry
I'll see them as you like.
So tell me the answer,
my response will match all the same
Tell me what you wish to hear,
my words will be nothing less.
Cards placed in front of me, as if a test
Their patterns, their pictures, their stories
all nothing more than a game of deception
So what is to become of me and this rorschach test?


Water under the bridge

There's a bridge in Brooklyn. Stretched out, she waits.
One by one, she is passed by.
no attention is given
And there she is left,
just holding up the world
upon these metal shreds.
And why does she still wait?


Untitled Madness

Another pill from the bottle. A quick fix, an easy solution.
Pop one, pop two, now at three.
Repeat for tomorrow.
Another shot from a bottle.
one tablespoon after the other.
Downing the pain with an one to one ratio.
Do not mix with alcohol the label reads. Directions of course that must be followed.
Now all a blur, the bright light, the stars, the moon, the sun, the same.
A word, a name, a call, the same.


Who's the fairest of them all

The mirror on the wall reflects the world as it sees it.
"I am silver and exact"
No gimmicks, no lies, just the harsh cold truth.
"Unmisted by love or dislike"
The mirror tells me nothing more than that what I already now. Unfaltering from truth, I wish to look away.
Somewhere softer, where these words can no longer see.
The moon casting a darkness, granting me a shadow, a moment, a brief second of sanity.
Where the image wasn't real, but virtual.
Then reality hits, drowned in this vanity


Sing Sweet Nightingale

A word, a thought, a sentence; all visible to no one, and not even known by me. There's nothing left, not one ounce of sincerity. Everything now, fake, made-up, an act. Playing a game of dress-up, locked in my own perception of what this storybook should be. Left on my hands and knees, singing as if I were the caged bird.
I just want out, even if only until the clock strikes twelve.
The glass has broken, no proof is left, the caged bird goes back to singing.


Grand Opening

An obscenely large pair of glimmering scissors are taken to a ribbon. One snip and the ribbon falls, unleashing whatever false anticipation was wafting through the air.
The secret is out.
The game is over.


Over looking

I stare out my window every morning and night. A landscape dying, green fading and brown over taking. Yet, I look not for what is gone, but for what is there. Always there, perched on a tree branch is a bird. It comes and goes, but always returning. The colors of this bird standing out from my decayed world, a beacon of hope, the spirit of life. However, each morning and each night, the bird takes flight, leaving me with nothing to see, nothing to look for.
I wait for it to return to its place in my world, the place where it rests. This relationship we share, one depending on they other, was getting me through my days. Id blur through the hours, waiting, just waiting for the bird to come back, to brighten my surroundings. But then I realize the bird doesn't need me like I need it. I'm only one of thousands of branches and mine are dying. They aren't something delicate, they aren't something to want.
One day the birds not going to come back, and I still need it.


Just the 6th

Ok, so this whole resolution of mine, writing and what not is really not keeping me going. I did promise myself this one thing and it seems I cant even follow through with that. Its simple enough, go online and blindly type with little thought. Yet, even when not thinking I can't force myself to write out the demented stories that play out in my head.
At this point I'd say that I'm failing miserably but, i have this little thought in the back of my head. The idea that writing everyday about anything and everything is for stability, something I and someone else need. But even more I feel, as artificial as the feeling may be, that i write for someone else. Giving a brief relieve to a world that all too quickly is ready to swallow you whole, diminishing you to nothing.
Wonder if im the only one that realizes this.


Get this out of my head

Oh listen Tender Lumplings let me take you by the hands.
I'll take you from this hell-hole to the Promised Land.
But don't blame me, oh children, if those promises don't keep.
'Cause promises like lives, can be bought so very cheap.


The art won't be done today. Two hour delay. The day counter starts over.

One week?

Working on my art piece after 2 weeks of abandonment.
Lines, lines, lines, They're driving me crazy. Not sure if its the 47 ounces of caffeine pulsing through my veins making me antsy or the longing and almost feel of betrayal.
If I finish this today it will mean a week. One long week.
The end.

Anyone but My Walls

I need a best friend. Auditions today?

Happy New Year to Me

The New Year has come and gone, leaving me needing a resolution. It's that word that everyone throws around this time of year.
"I vow to quit smoking"
"I'll get help with my drinking problems"
However, these so called promises are never one I have had for myself. I never felt that I had the need, but a couple of days the way I've been living is quite the eye opener.
Children usually form material bonds with meaningless things, a teddy bear, a favorite sweater or even a blanket. They need these items to function, to breathe, to sleep. I never understood this until now.
*edited just for you