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