POETRY

-Black Depiction-

Untouched sheets of canvas
White eyes burning holes in me
My brush reluctantly approaches
But cowardly it backs away
Her woven strands of course cloth
Spread out naked before me
Her body's open to my interpretation
All she's taught me I've come to be
Each thread wants to be clothed
But my colors are cracked and dry
My wrists are now unbound
Though they continue to deny
Spilt turpentine rests on the table
The wood absorbs its rusty smell
She just sits and stares upon it
Yearning to soak it in as well
Her chalky skin looks inviting
But my hands are scared and hide
And I can hear her calling for me
The silent voice that never lied
She lay before me uncovered and bare
Stilled and ready to surrender
I would give her my whole world
But that isn't much to render
My thoughts are now inconsistent
I stain her with my watery black
I run my fingernails down her
And shove her in my tiny shack
She'll gather cobwebs in that place
Until this world is worthy of her
But for now she'll remain in darkness
As my painting, as my lover.

-Dirt-

Can't seem to wash this dirt off my hands
I scrub
Trying to carve it away with my fingernails
They prove to be insignificant
My hands begin to bleed
Or so I think
But all I see is dirt
I feel it though
Feel the pain
The kind of pain that always renders blood
The dirt is thick
Thick like honey
Caked on
Like six feet of dirt on a grave
This room
Empty
No bathtub
No toilet
This room
Purposely made unusually small
To protect me from myself
Void creates fear
To my left
Just a wall
Stained with cigarette smoke
And a silhouette of my dying body
I hate how my shadow mimics me
To my right
A door with no doorknob
Apparently it has fallen out
Just a hole there now
A hole to provide air for me
I feel a breeze
Cold
I envy it
It's body fluid and formless as the water running over my hands
In front of me
The door to the medicine cabinet
Wide open
Hanging by one hinge
Inside
On a wobbly shelf
Lays a razorblade
Rather dull
I slam the cabinet door shut
Adding another crack to the mirror on the other side
The mirror is filthy
Perverted by the light that enters from the equally filthy window behind me
The way it perceives me
Is hideous
It splits my face into three
And each of these
Three versions of me
Can't seem to wash this dirt off my hands

-Runaway-

Hid on the roof last night
Tired of hiding under the table
It's cold and dirty down there
When I feel around
For my well-deserved comfort
I only find myself
Wrapped in a tiny ball
Begging for a violent shove into sleep
With constant thoughts
And restless eyes
I hate how you make me runaway
Up here it is not much better
The roof provides little temporary sanity for me
I can still hear your lies of loving me
I plug my ears
Doesn't even seem to muffle them
Love
What an intense emotion to fake
What a cruel thing to pretend
You wrapped your cold body around me
The smell of you
Soaked into my skin
And it will never be returned
Your deeds, your arrogant pride
Still seem to affect me
My body
Like a sacrifice to you
Create me
Mold me
Make me into exactly what you want
Then change your mind
Throw me away and start over
With someone new
A lover for three months
Now, a friend
No, an acquaintance for the rest of my life
Constant thoughts
And restless eyes
Have thrown me into insomnia
Thoughts of when you kissed me
You acted as if you were doing me a favor
Your touch so condescending
Your voice chases mine away
You aren't worth fighting for
Not now
Not anymore
I can't forgive myself
For falling so helplessly into you
This anger burns me deep
Deeper than your love ever did
Now you make me runaway
And hide upon my roof
To fight the night
With constant thoughts
And restless eyes
Lying awake
I watch the scenery disappear
Always wondered how the moon looked
At 2:47 a.m.
Lying awake
Your lies are still all I hear
Always wondered how the sun looked
At 5:17 a.m.
The air is chilly
But the coldness of the roof
Could never compare
To the coldness from your lips.

-Plaything-

Take me away
Leave me behind
Tell me to stay
Tell me I'm blind
Love me then go
NO mommy NO
Leave me to die
WHY mommy WHY
Mommy's gone mad
So hard to please
Hands on my head
Scrapes on my knees
Leave me alone
Put me away
Lock up my cage
Fuck me your way
Slap me around
Keep me outside
Rusting my joints
Nowhere to hide
Abandon my body
Ignoring my cries
Neglecting my needs
I'm dead in your eyes
Come back for more
Undress me and play
Don't comb my hair
I like it that way.

-Beautiful-

She walks in torn jeans.
Ripped from being tugged on,
And climbing out of the window last night,
To gaze at the stars.
She grins.
A hint of cherry lip gloss,
Chronically being licked off in secret.
No one has to know.
A fountain of tangled hair,
Pink I think.
Or was that a shadow cast upon her head
By the crimson Sunset.
Her plastic rings coexist with her
Chipped charcoal nailpolish.
Chipped from being chewed on.
Hoping he calls her back.
Impatiently waiting
She walks into the rain.
Perhaps to dance with the moon,
Or merely to get away from it all.
She breathes in the intoxicating air,
And presses her lips together.
She smells of delicate skin,
And her boyfriend's cologne.
Which always seems to rub off
When he holds her.
She thinks of her life.
Walking in torn jeans.
She licks her cherry lips,
And grins.
She is beautiful.




RAMBLINGS

-Popular-

Who are you? Who cares. What matters now, is whom you know... or rather, who knows you. Identity means shit. Be unique, and be labeled a misfit. Our harmless cliques have evolved into cults of bubbly blond girls who only hold hands with Hermiston High's finest football players. Those gorgeous girls, with their little pink panties tucked ever so neatly into every boy's mind. And their nonchalant nails dug into the heart of every quiet girl. So where do I fit in? Me, a raging individualist who actually has brains, and truly desires a bassist. I don't fit in anywhere, and it's becoming evident that even comfort is out. Wanna know what's in? Christianity. A bunch of beautiful boys singing "holy, holy" with a dirty magazine hidden in their bible. All you Christian boys telling me I'm an ugly little girl, but when we're alone you still play with me. You're NOT a demi-god just because you can make me cum. Who will save you in the end? Maybe you should have saved all the pearl necklaces you gave me and given them to your god to make up for all that weed you smoke after church. Your whole life is a goddamn lie.. at least I'm genuine. So who fuckin needs popularity anyway.

-Typo-

Can't think. Drop my head. Eyes strained from the white computer screen. Blank. Hands on the side of my head. Massaging my temples. Staring at the keyboard. All the black has been rubbed off the "L" key. Do I really use the "L" key that much? I have no L's in my name. Is that finger heavier? I put my hands on the home row keys to investigate. I press the "L" key three times. Doesn't seem heavier. Going through all the keystrokes that involve the fingers closest to the "L". I hit the "I" key, the "O" key, the "P" key. This seems to be getting me nowhere. I hit the backspace. Hmmm. I hit it again. "AAHHAAA," I exclaim and hit the backspace once more. I see. Every time I hit the backspace my ring finger moves. Incidentally rubbing the L right off the "L" key. I do hit the backspace a lot. I guess I make a lot of mistakes. Well that problem's solved. I lower my head back to my hands. And massage my temples again. Computer screen blank. Except for three L's.

-Lava Lamp-

This monstrosity, humming your sins like a song, as each glob of some one's soul floats around it. A dimly lit lava lamp of disgust, now cracked and perverted by the living, is created by armies of putrid soldiers who place them in your room. It invades all your private moments, as its neon simplicity rolls around the iris of your eye. As it mimics you, your reflection hanging on its surface, you try to enter it's transparent liquid. You stare but won't be lured in. Its soul roaming aquatic landscape refuses you. Each mass, circling the gauzy fluid like planets underneath its pseudo sun, is unique in shape, but all the same color of blood red. Fingerprints seem to stain its hard atmosphere. When you take the power away from it, its deformed souls rest to the bottom and hesitantly join together as a thick glaze settles on top of them. All light goes out completely and the liquid takes on its own glow. If you look closely you can see the withered faces within those blood red, mutated souls, that slave around your macabre machine. It is your lava lamp, your cocaine, your sinful entertainment. Now you stick it metal fingernails back into your padded walls, and follow its black arm to its body where it gazes upon you. Hardly moving now, you are interested, too interested perhaps. Maybe you should stop having late night conversations with your electric hell; your white padded walls may be derived from your fixation on your morbid apparatus. You try to get in, but it won't take you. It rejects you, and you can't except it. So you stare, eyes half open, lips unmoving, but thoughts drifting aimlessly. It's all a mind game now.