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.
outsiders,
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.

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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.