Santa Doesn't Love the Suicidal - 12/19/11

Santa doesn’t love the suicidal
Nor the chronically depressed
He only loves the ones who smile
And he forgets the rest
 
Because good kids don’t run with scissors
And good kids don’t cry
Because good kids’ thoughts don’t linger
On each and every lie
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now
 
God doesn’t care for the schizophrenics
Who hear his voice in their head
God doesn’t love the young maniacs
Who joke about being better off dead
 
Because good subjects are seen, not heard,
Good subjects slowly die
Good subjects aren’t the boys and girls
With the courage to look God in the eye
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now
 
Coach don’t care for the nervous
And Mama don’t want the insane
And no one wants to be friends with
The strange girl who’s always in pain
 
But Coach loves my fake smile
And Mama ignores all the signs
And everyone want to be friends with
The quiet girl who tells perfect lies
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now
 
So if I’m not here tomorrow
Please, don’t cry or worry
Just know I went to find the Devil
The only one who loves me for me
 
Because sometimes I need to cry
And sometimes I need to scream
And sometimes parts of me want to die
But you can see which won this scene
 
You better not cry
And you better not pout
And you better not scream
And you better not shout
And you better fake a smile
And shove your emotions down
If you want anyone
To love you now

Alive Today - 12/17/11

She’s got a pretty smile
She’s got an ugly soul
She’s a poet in denial
Fighting for control
 
He’s got a brilliant mind
He’s got a worried heart
He met her dark side
And it tore him apart
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
If this was just a girl in love
It’d be a simple story
But she’s not angel from above
Just a demon who got lonely
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
If you want to meet the soul
Behind the mask
You don’t have to ask
She’s far beyond control
So come and say hello
It’s not like she’s well hidden
Escaping every minute
But has not better place to go
 
Escape the sleep deprived insanity
Self-starvation and misery
That girl’s a catastrophe
Run, Boy, do you hear me?
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
She’s got scars on her pretty thighs
She’s got lies in her pretty eyes
Pain in every sentence
Screams in her hesitance
 
She got a pretty smile
She’s got an ugly soul
She’s a poet in denial
Fighting for control
 
Run and find a starless night
To help me off to sleep
Run and find a Friday fight
To end this miserable week
Run and find a sharp edge
To draw out all my pain
Run and find a cliff’s ledge
To keep yourself sane
Yeah, she’s alive today
That’s the best that I can say
 
Yeah, she's alive today
And that's the best that I can say

Letters From A Very Bad Week - 12/10/11

I.
Open fire and flames.
Open fire and flames and fumes.
Open fire and flames
And forgotten fame
And fever.


II.
Dear Mr. Devil,
We regrettably inform you that we will be unable to make this evenings ball due to the inconvenience of being alive.  We have heard many great things about your parties and were looking so forward to this one.  Please know that we mean no offence and hope to join you next time.
Sincerely,
The Young and Tragic


III.
If I could be anything
I’d like to be a candle.
A simple, quickly-over life,
Nothing much to handle.
Set alight one day,
Left to brightly burn.
A beautiful travesty,
A rose’s bloodied thorn.
The candle killed by kindness,
Just trying to spread light.
The happiness is seen
But the bringer out of sight.
And as the day passes,
The wax evaporates,
Until there is nothing left,
Gone without a trace.
So bring me structured poetry
And overly-lyrical verse,
For I have images of blood
And stars and a polished hearse,
Because I am not a candle
Who will slowly die,
But a bit of dynamite,
Waiting to ignite.


IV.
Dear God,
I noticed the rain.  It rains often here and it’s hard to not notice, but what I noticed was that it wasn’t raining.  And it hasn’t rained in some time.  I know your subjects think the rain is you crying, so I can only imagine that a lack of rain is depression.  I’ve been having trouble crying lately too.  Trouble washing away all the darkness.  It gets bottled up, becomes acidic, and starts to chew away at my soul.  Which is okay for me, because I’m mortal.  But I don’t want to live in a world with a God whose soul has disintegrated.  So come down to visit, and we’ll drink orange juice and cry until the oceans flood.
It’ll be fun.
My best,
The Atheist


V.
You pretty little whore.
You filthy little doll.
Your dress is much too short,
Your ego much too tall.
I think it’s time to take a hit,
I think it’s time to fall.

You know you’re not immortal,
You know you’re gonna die,
So where’d you find the insanity
To look fate in the eye?
So where’d you find the courage
To laugh instead of cry?


VI.
Dear Ms. Dickinson,
You are bad luck.
Sorry,
The Heartbroken


VII.
The lighter met a candle.
Tall and thin and pale,
A girl of only seventeen
Who’d skipped too many meals.
The lighter didn’t know her secrets,
He didn’t know her pain,
He thought that they could be friends,
No reason to refrain.
I don’t know what he saw in her,
The ugly stick of wax,
With a wick wound so tight
She never could relax,
With poorly crafted body
That had cracked too many times,
With  a soul of blood and lust
That thought in verse and rhyme.
And when he found those verses,
Soaked in carnage and tears,
The silly little lighter
Found something to fear.
The girl was a cheater,
Dynamite in disguise,
Who smiled far too brightly
For one who hides such lies.

VIII.
Dear Scissors,
I’m sorry about last night.  It was wrong.  But I was lonely, and sad, and afraid to cry and God wasn’t around to make a joke.  And the Devil wasn’t around to play the right music.  And Blood would not shut up.  It was wrong.  But Poetry had failed me.  But cats make me cry.  But it wasn’t raining and I ran to you for comfort and found it.  It was wrong.  And it really mustn’t happen again.
But I can’t stop thinking about your embrace.  You can be the arms I’m longing for, the kisses I’m missing, the best friend who understands.  You accept me.  Treat my the same when I’m making art or breaking skin.  You don’t look at me like I’ve sinned when all I’ve done is freed the needs I have.
It was wrong and it really mustn’t happen again.  But don’t worry, because I’ve always been one for breaking the rules.
I love you,
Misery and Madness


IX.
It’s a little scary, at first.
That first moment in the water.
Time freezes and you think
You’re drowning.
And you really are drowning.
Forever and all eternity.

But eternity ends
A second later
And the words come
And it’s all over.
Forever and all eternity
It is over.

But eternity ends
A second later.

X.
Heart: Are we alright?
Mind: Are we alive?
Body: Where are we?
Soul: Doesn’t matter.
Heart: Everything matters!
Mind: Everything has energy.
Body: I think we should move . . .
Soul: What.  Ever.
Heart: The entire universe is filled with love and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Mind: The entire universe is filled with physics and magic!  And you think it doesn’t matter?  Have you never seen a star?  Don’t you remember beyond the universe?
Body: I’m hungry.
Soul: I’m leaving now.

The Pencil and the Eraser - 12/09/11

The eraser had a lovely day,
Providing a clean slat.
He wiped mistakes away.
He unraveled fate.

The pencil, on the other hand,
Has had a tiring week.
She tried to fill too many demands
And ended up growing weak.

For every time she was wrong,
For every time she failed,
The eraser came along
And cleaned her tragic trail.

That history made her,
Those lessons made her tough.
The eraser thought he’d saver her
But only made the day rough.

Breathing is Easy - 12/07/11

I fell in love for 10 minutes.
I feel in love quickly, painlessly,
like finishing a math test.
In those 10 minutes,
I didn’t feel alone.
It wasn’t quite happy.
It wasn’t anywhere near the feeling
I’ve been grappling for,
euphoria.
But there was another being
who I felt close to,
who I thought understood,
who I was okay with loving.

Duct taped chips of red and blue,
smeared in my chest,
stopped begging,
“Be careful,
stay sweet,
don’t fall in love,
ever.”

For 10 minutes, I was in love.

But it turned out that I was understood,
but still alone.
It turned out that the world is beautiful
but I am ugly.
It turned out that he found my poetry,
understood it,
and began to worry.
So I can only think that
- he only talked to me to make sure I was okay
- he only stood up for me
because he feared I’d kill myself
- everything that I perceived as flirting
has been a check in,
seeing if I’m still breathing.

Well, to him,
and to anyone else who might ask:
yes, dear, I am.
Breathing, living, thinking.
But not the way most do.
I’m not eating or sleeping
or loving -
except for 10 minute intervals -
or smiling sincerely
or relaxing.
But breathing, sure.
That’s easy.
So easy, it’s hard to stop.
I’ve tried several times
and can say firmly,
for the record,
breathing is easy.

Dance With Me, Langston - 12/07/11

She stands -
the potent lyrical potion
palpable in the air,
tossing her soft hair
from restrictive bobby pins
her mother pinned in.

She leans
against the anachronism of a bar
until her young head falls
in a beam of artificial moonlight,
a stream of liquid sunshine,
dusty souls fall through her.
She is Heaven.

Heaven waits -
hanging off the trumpet’s hiss,
lounging in the bass’ lisp,
tethered to the saxophone
and his bleating, bleeding, blurring
baritone bombardment,
bullets of notes blistering
past Heaven’s wholesome stockings.

Open This Soul - 12/07/11

Open this soul
Run a scalpel down the chest
And reveal the toll
The world has impressed
On a young and simple soul.
Open this soul
And reveal a cage
Shaped from a mold
Of the heart it traps
And holds.
Open this soul
And free these words
That none have heard,
Not even the body’s
Own ears.
Open this soul
And let the years
Of silence fill
The caged soul
The tears and fear
Of the moments that escaped
In those silent years.
Open this soul
And heave the monster out,
Remove its chains,
Its shackles,
Its restraints,
And let it more about.
Open this soul
And let sunlight tame
The bites and slashes
Of the monster’s rage.
Open this soul
And free insanity
In a way never meant to be.
Open this soul
And show the mind
That there is no need to hide
From monsters
Locked deep inside.
Open this soul
And see
That emotions do not start
As beasts
But transform
When given only darkness to eat.
Do not
Open this soul.

To A Cat Purring On The Rocks - 12/06/11

I screamed,
completely unintentionally,
but louder than anything
I’ve ever meant.
We were standing around,
 my best friend and I,
talking about Emily Dickinson
and the many physical forms death can take.
We were waiting for the bus in the cold
with a fuzzy, warm cat across the street,
the same colors as the fallen leaves,
except for that white belly,
like the snow we were wishing for.

He forced me to look away
as I stood frozen in fear
eyes locked on more than a single space,
but a single time as well.
And then we waited
for the bicyclist to clear the body
and for the body to stop twitching.
And even then,
the image still seared in my head,
I had to be forced to look away.
So we waited for the bus,
just across the street
from the first death
I had ever witnessed.

I’d seen close before;
walked in on dead hamsters,
rushed a dying cat to the vet,
sat in a hospital.
But today I watch death come and go.
I watched something die.
I screamed
and covered my mouth
and watched a fuzzy, warm cat
depart the Earth.

All I can think is that
it is my fault.
If I hadn’t needed to pet that
cute, tiny kitten,
maybe it wouldn’t have run
out into the street.
But maybe if I had waited for the light
and gone to another bus stop,
I never would have seen the cat.
But maybe if I had planned
a little more carefully,
I never would have hesitated at the light.

It has not been a good day.
I keep trying to find the good day,
but it has not been one.
I forced all the conversation I could,
but each moment of silence
was comprised of death and guilt.
Each fraction of a second
between sentences
was over-analysis of my faults.

And now it is late.
It is dark.
It is cold and quiet.
And we’re fearing nightmares
and cancer
and our own cats escaping into the street.
And I’m fearing ever crossing a street,
or letting a friend cross a street.
And I’m fearing deciding.
And, more than death,
I am fearing life.

My Buddy, God - 12/05/11

God came down,
all the way from Heaven,
to sit in my little room,
to argue with an atheist
about modern music
and Earth’s impending doom.
And down in Hell the Devil
prepares his party
and opens Hell’s doors,
so that the Angels
who love to tango
are never rejected from the dance floor.
And up in the cloud,
departed souls
read poetry and mourn
the modern scene,
shrines, and zines,
and the good ol’ days of yore.
So I invited God
down from Heaven
to my little room,
so he could have
a day to escape
the ruckus of the world’s gloom.

Somebody Please Tell Me How To Live - 11/22/11

Somebody please tell me how to live because I’m obviously doing something wrong.  Somebody please tell me how to be alive because I have messed up too many times to try to try again.  Somebody please tell me how to live because I feel like I should be dead, I feel like I’ve reached an end, paused to stare at it, and then crossed into it, disregarded everything that could have and would have ever existed to be in a state of nonexistence and spend hours talking about suicide with a sweet young boy who I thought didn’t know me, but who just might have the potential to.  Now he says that he’d only ever kill himself if he had nothing left to learn from life, and I am envious because I want to have only one path that leads to me ending my life instead of all of them.  He says he thinks about suicide the way the President thinks about nuclear attacks: just as a plan, in case he ever needs it.  And then there’s me: telling him to stop it because he better not ever need it, while I’m actually trying not to plan anything so that when that day comes, and I know it will come, I will have to take a few minutes to plan it then, instead of leaping right into it.  I guess some part of me isn’t ready to die if I’m still hoping that taking a minute to plan will be taking a minute to rethink it.  Or maybe I’m just too scared to see where my mind will take me if I let my thoughts continue on down that path.

And somewhere this turned from prose to poetry, from asking for a path to life to looking for the road to death.  And I’m surprisingly happy for a girl who just run a sharp edge over her leg until she bled.  Maybe it’s endorphins.  Or maybe it’s like I said, just chemicals in my head all messed up and mixed up and happy at all the wrong things and sad at all the right things.  And I mean that like I’m happy with the things that should make me sad and sad with the things that should make me happy, not like I’m happy when I shouldn’t be but sad when I should be resulting in always being unhappy, because I’m happy right now.  I just shouldn’t be.

And I don’t think I want to go to college.  And I don’t want to look at cap and gown packages because right now I don’t want to go to graduation.  I don’t want to make plans to go shopping for prom dresses, because my excuse for not wanting to go to prom isn’t that it’s just too mainstream, but that my brain is unfairly unhinging and wishing for nonexistence before I get that far in life.  All I want to do is nothing.  I want to sit with Christopher Robin in a tree and say, “Oh, nothing,” when someone asks how I’m feeling.  And it won’t be grammatically correct and I will not care.

That.  That right there.  That is what I actually want.  I want to not care.  I want to not care so hard that grammar flies out the window.  I want to not care so hard that I ask that boy out before his computer crashes.  I want to not care so hard that I could drive off a bridge.  I want to not care so hard I die.

Red Pen - 11/19/11

So I think I’ll write this poem in red pen
because today
I am feeling like the
stereotypical emo kid
and I feel as though my hair
should be in my face
but I have it clipped back neatly in its place
the same way I confine all my emotions
to one tiny space
and force my cheeks to stretch and crease
into a giddy smile.

Let me tell you about this day.
It has technically been great.
Speech tournament,
a dozen finals,
a guarantee to the top three.
And even I:
timidly doubtful,
nervously condescending,
truthfully falsifying praise;
have managed to honor my team
and hopefully be in the top three
in Poetry.
Because Poetry is my thing.
My calling.  My purpose.
My soul’s freeing.
And it would be rather insulting if I wasn’t good
at my thing.

Now, tell me,
if everything is going so great,
why do I feel the need to run away,
hide in a window ledge,
and write poetry in red
like the stereotypical emo kid
my soul thinks it would be so great to be?
Tell me why my thighs
have once again been mutilated,
degraded,
and consistently contemplated
to be worthless,
except as a cutting board
to prepare my soul to be eaten?
First you have to slice it out,
open your skin and draw your soul out of your blood.
Now beat it,
with skipped meals and minimal sleep,
and cruel thoughts, and hateful, self-directed speech.
Now eat it.
Eat your soul,
tears dripping from your lips,
hopes churning in your stomach,
dreams caught in your esophagus.
Wipe the corners of your mouth with blood-stained nylons.

You see,
now that I can talk to my ex without wanting to die,
I wonder what he would do
if he saw my thighs,
splintered by poly-carbons crystallized
and then fractured,
brought to the skin like rapture,
spilling hot lava on cold, pale streets.

I tried,
oh I tried,
to take ten minutes for myself
to gently kill myself
with words that maim myself to write.
I tried to take ten minutes,
just ten little minutes on my own,
to unload a long day of pain,
but two sweet young ladies
came my way
and asked to sit with me and chat.

They wanted to chat.

I sat in a corner
writing suicidal verse in red pen,
trying to free myself from
whatever curse
fate had bestowed upon the
chemicals in my brain
and they wanted to chat

about boys.
about their events.
about their parents.
about their siblings.
about their friends.

They wanted to chat
and they wanted me to listen
and I could have done that
but it wasn’t just that.

They wanted me to speak.

I sat in a corner,
writing masochistic verse in red pen,
contemplating scars and sex,
and they had no idea,
so they thought my thoughts
might be as the always were:
clean.
kind.
contained.
restrained.
It took quite and effort
to lock my verse away
and spend my ten minutes of freedom
sweetly listening,
appropriately nodding,
and sincerely responding
to those sweet young girls.

So now I take a few rushed seconds
to lock myself in a bathroom stall
and, in the most cliché way possible,
unload this poem,
unlock my madness,
unhinge my sadness,
before returning to the world
and my façade.

But I’m Always Thinking About Blood - 11/11/11

I think it’s kind of
steamy, kind of
sexy, kind of
pretty, and kind of
wrong.
I think it’s like make up:
shouldn’t we all be beautiful
without it?  But since it
exists, we aren’t.
But it heats me up
in a way it shouldn’t.
Makes me shudder and
smile and cringe.
Makes me
close my eyes and think about
loose sheets and blood.

But I’m always thinking about blood.

And sometimes
I think I need it.
Other times
I think I’m addicted.
But mostly I just think
about it.  I think
about it
when I wake up and get dressed
and see lines on my thighs.  I think
about it
when I skip breakfast,
because all guilt is
the same guilt.  I think
about it
in class, when my mind
wanders off.  I think
about it
on the bus, staring
off into space.  I think
about it
in the shower.

But I’m always thinking about blood.

I Do Not Know How to Apologize For Something I'm Not Sorry For - 10/22/11

Christ, what a long title,

what a mouthful,

what an overly-explanitory,

non-poetic,

pompous,

boring title to a poem.

But it fits the feeling,

the bluntness of the throbbing pain

on my jagged thighs,

colored stripes that evoke the same feeling

as biting into a crisp apple.

That sweet sensation

of tangy juices flooding your dulled mouth.

That apple makes the same sound

as the splintering of the plastic fork,

the very weapon

who made those stripes

whose color perfectly imitates

the feeling of the sound of

a bite of a crisp apple.

But while my imagery is lovely,

you –

if you understand the meaning –

are sitting there wondering

“What in the hell is wrong

with this girl?

How is this even possible?”

How indeed.

You would never know because

beyond this team

the delicate seams

of the buttons I’ve sown on for you

and the winnings I’ve helped you to

wither to passing nods in the school halls

and none of you actually knowing

who the hell I am.

Because that is the question at stake here:

Not, “What is wrong with me?”

simply, “Who is she?”

So allow me a moment to explain

in a way that you can actually understand,

because you are debaters,

not poets.

It is not about Ethan.

It is about the constant reminder

of a lack of someone special

to hold me and tell me,

“It's going to be okay,”

as the world falls apart in clumps

like alpha decay.

It is not about loosing.

It is about thinking that I was good,

about getting my hopes up,

about forsaking my modesty.

It is about looking down on the lesser

only to be looked down upon.

It is about guilt

over letting my coach down

and regret

over not telling the girl in the round

who wouldn't clap for the nervous newbies

what a bitch she was.

It is not about the mess.

It is about how all of my stress

makes my obsessive tendencies hard to suppress

and how none of you teenagers

can throw your own garbage away

and I am left to pick up after

over-grown infants in suits,

because I need our area neat

in order to think.

And it is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

while 31 teammates

order pizza and laugh so loud

the devil gets annoyed.

It is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

while 31 teammates

who would have fallen apart

had I not been there

to accommodate their every whim

all partying and rejoicing

in a social structure

that I am too scared to enter.

It is about sitting

in a hotel room alone

on a Friday night

and thinking about blood.

I know all of your names,

all 31 teammates,

all of your events,

all of your worries,

all of your triumphs,

who you hate

and who your dear friends are.

You see me, however,

the same way US factories see Mexico:

your toxic waste dumping ground,

your cheap labor provider,

your back-alley drug dealer,

your personal playground.

All of your abuse is causing

my babies to be born without brains,

just hallow skulls that die the same day.

Those dying babies

drive me even more crazy,

making me anxious

and irritable

and scared

that I will slip up

and someone will see

the gruesomely honest side to me.

That my 31 teammates

would recognize

that I cannot handle

providing for all of them,

that I cannot handle being their

debate mother,

that I have my own problems

and cannot fix all of theirs.

Why is this such a bad thing

for them to discover?

Why don't I want them

to give me a break?

Why don't I hope that

they'll understand?

Why do I wish

that they never read this?

It's because of those stripes on my thighs.

For those who aren't poets

and who have never had

fleeting thoughts of suicide,

allow me to state quite plainly

that they are self inflicted wounds.

I sat in that hotel room

alone on a Friday night

while all of my teammates laughed so loud

that the devil was annoyed

and my breath wouldn't come

and my eyes were a burning numb

and my hands were shaking

as I felt my blood pulsating

under my delicately pale skin.

I had already taken my walk and cried

so I sat alone

and tried to tell myself

that it was now time to hold

those tears inside.

But the noise of my teammates

laughing so loud

while I tried not to make one single sounds

gave birth to a baby born

without brain or heart or blood

already pumping

in veins too tiny to see.

I ran to the bathroom,

looking for a razor,

but there wasn't one.

I was going to be content,

fain relief that no such relief

by means of self mutilation existed.

But I remembered,

from a tournament years prior,

how sharp plastic forks are when broken.

But I remembered

the black plastic utensil in my lunch,

just waiting to be thrown away.

But then I remembered

how much easier it is to break

than to fix.

Now, I suppose you are wondering,

“Why the thigh?”

which returns to the matter of why

I do not want my 31 abusive teammates

to read this poem,

to understand me,

to give me a break.

I don't want your pity.

I don't want weird looks.

I don't want shame.

I've' dug this hole for myself

and I will dwell in it.

Such is the fate of those who live to serve.

Believe it or not,

I never cut

for your sake.

And, now, your narrow-minded stereotypes

are begging to understand

what other reason I could possibly have

in inflicting such pain upon myself

other than grappling for attention.

You see,

while my 31 abusive teammates

have social skills

or noise-canceling headphones,

I now have a ziplock bag

of splintered black plastic

to draw my mind from my soul's stress

and force it to the body's bleeding.

And I suppose that if one of my

31 abusive teammates

did read this poem,

I would apologize for my crime

with the deceptive “I'm fine”

but though I may be ashamed

and afraid

for what I have done,

I am not regretful

and will not say, “I'm sorry,”

for taking care of myself

and putting myself

back in a position to take care of my team.

I don't have to figure out how to

explain my actions to you

because I will never again

apologize from something that I am not sorry for.

Who Was T.S. Berczynski And Other Questions I’d Like Answered - 10/22/11

Poets don’t seem to live very long lives.
The author inscribed on the marble set in earth
lived to be 34
or maybe 35
depending on what month his birthday was in
and what month it was when he died.

Scientists, however,
seem to drag on forever,
earning their Nobels when
they’re old and withered.

I think they both do the same job -
Scientists and Poets -
musing about the meaning of the universe,
but answering in different ways.
While Scientists build colliders
to recreate the beginning,
Poets take their lives to understand its meaning,
but neither passes on any discoveries to the living.

Would a Scientist
with the soul of a Poet die
young, old, or middle aged?
 Or would they cancel the mathematics
with an impossible rage
and find immortality
on both anthology and lab report page?

The Thoughts I Cling To - 10/16/11

I am not as naive as you may think.
I know the reasons
why people talk to me
and they reasons
why they do not.
I know what you want from me
when you ask who my English teacher is
and I know the conversation
at that point
is nearing an end.
And although I do not appreciate it,
although it makes me sign,
although it makes me want to cry,
although I hate to let go,
I do, because I know the reasons
why people talk to me.

But for each rejected friendship,
each abusive overuse
of my accommodations,
each time I allow myself
and my patience
and my fragile, lonely heart
to be taken advantage of
for no reason other than that is the reason
why people talk to me,

but for all of this,
I can list ten better things
and lie so hard about how
they make me happy
that the lies become true and
I smile.

Tea and cookies
and kittens
and squeaky cat sneezes.
Math homework,
half-naked college boys,
400 level physics classes,
chocolate bars, and facebook notifications.
When the perfect, mood-fitting song
comes on shuffle.
Best friends,
watermelon,
snow,
and understanding Shakespeare.
Exclamation marks and video games
and poetry
and the thought that
you might someday find this poem
and apologize.

She's Very Pretty From Far Away - 10/15/11

This has probably been said,
in a previous poem,
but on dreary nights
such as this,
when I return to old poems
with a gloomy music backdrop,
I relive those
feelings, those
thoughts, those
moments of futile sadness.
It is in those bleak moments
that I come to understand
why he wouldn’t want to talk to me,
the real reason I don’t care about prom,
the best course of action
in my social life.

Maybe I was meant to be
a scientific poet,
mixing physics equations
into verse
and observing love from
a cold neutron star
light years from the feelings.
Dead stars don’t care
if you’re awkward, or nervous,
or helplessly sad.
Dead stars don’t worry
and stand back when they see
your dark thoughts.
Dead stars don’t feel,
it’s as simple as that.
Dead stars don’t care,
can’t.

Should I accept that fate?
Should I step away from the scene,
float back to the star,
watch his movements
and never speak up?
Something keeps nagging
that I should,
telling me it’s best
but for once I can’t figure out
who it is.
Certainly not the heart.
And the mind is lonely
and bored
and overrun with hormones.
And the soul is
exasperated and sad.
The body’s voice is obvious,
if obnoxious.
So who is saying no?
Who bites my lip until it scars
and says “Never, never, never”?

There’s a part of me
that doesn’t want
to be happy.
I don’t write very well when I’m cheerful.
All my fantasies
are smeared with blood.
All my thoughts follow suit.
And my only dreams
are horror scenes.

I know that part,
wherever, whoever it is,
I know it is wrong.




So why do I listen?

Musings - 10/15/11

I suppose
I could love
Being in love
Just as much
As I could
Hate it.

I’m not too afraid
Of being hurt,
And love could
Be worth
Any pain that would
Inevitably come

Synesthesia - 10/15/11

I had no desire
for anything to do with
your heart, your mind, your soul.
You were cute,
that was all that I wanted to think.
You were handsome,
that was all that I wanted
running  through my mind
when I blushed as you walked by.
I wanted a lobotomy,
a heart transplant,
and a computer with a sex drive for a soul.

And you stood up
with a binder full of poetry
and read.

There is magic
in the universe,
particles smaller that electrons,
dimensions I can’t see,
physics I can’t understand.
There is music in the cosmos,
vibrations of heart strings,
sighs at frequencies yet unimagined.
You read poetry
and I heard the space’s symphony.
You spoke art
and I saw sound,
colors replacing noise,
filling the room with swirls
of painted vapor.

So pardon me
if I flirt,
despite knowing your heart
belongs to another girl,
because I saw pixie dust descend
over a classroom
and I felt light enough to fly,
because I tasted music and poetry
and would have swallowed it whole,
given anything more than the aroma,
because it doesn’t matter
what comes of longing and looking,
only that I can enjoy the view,
because life is too long,
love is boring,
and although I cannot
control feeling good,
I can try my hardest not to care.

Roses - 10/21/11

I married a violet rose petal
and a fallen autumn leaf today.
I dropped them in a luscious stream
so that they might together enjoy
the flow of life.
But their marriage held no water,
for the violet rose petal
dropped straight and true to the surface
while the fallen autumn leaf
fluttered through still air
in a chaotic path,
landing in the thorns on the river bank.
So the violet petal
swam the river in solitude.

Now, upon the cement siding
of the bridge -
from which I wed the rose and the leaf -
that crossed the rive -
into whose flow only the rose fell -
there walked a
spherical, spotted, scarlet bug,
a lady in all rights.
This lovely lady lingered
on the cement siding of the bridge,
clasped vertically
by anti-forces
I would love to find control over.
This lovely lady lingered
through the chill
that wafted up from the river.
She stayed through the shivers,
shaking spirals of autumn leaves,
through spirited static,
the waves coursing through the structure
as many a man walked by.

I remained.
Many a man walked by
and I remained.
The wind blew away the leaf,
plants floated down the stream,
and eventually the lovely lady bug
walked vertically off.
I remained.

Near that bridge
that ran over that river
that flowed majestically
through the center of that campus
is a rose garden
where bloom roses of
pearly white,
gaudy pink,
friendly yellow,
loving orange,
biting red,
and the violet of the rose petal
that I married to the leaf.
It was in this garden
that the petal was plucked
and brought to short lived marriage.

There used to be a moral here,
but I lost it as sanity bled from my ears,
so take from this what you will.

Tea High - 10/11/11

I sip smooth silk
from a sheep-shaped
tea cup,
mellowing green one round,
drowsy apple cinnamon chamomile
the next time I pour
smooth silk
to a sheep-shaped
tea cup.
Two small spoons of sugar,
a dash of half and half,
sip deeply,
drink kindly.
Eyes droop slightly,
the tea opening your soul.
All around, the family
snaps and clashes,
bordering on fights,
but all I can say is,
“Tea makes me happy.”
And how it does.
Smooth silk
warming frosty heart,
soothing sad insides,
relaxing the over-active,
ever-worrying,
constantly-running mind
with the sweet of sugar,
velvet of a dash of half and half,
and the chamomile goodness.
Glorious green tea needs a refill.
Set the rusty red kettle on the burner,
wait for the whistle
to answer your prayers
of the drink you
need to keep calm and happy.
Bring forth genuine joy
despite the devastating dirges
and boisterous bellowing
echoing in the tiny kitchen
for this smooth silk
from a sheep-shaped
tea cup
has brought onto my soul
a blanket of herbal drugs
that mellow each sharp word
so it hits my ears as cotton.

I should drink more tea.

Long Days, Longer Nights - 10/06/11

There will be relief soon,
and lightness of heart.
Throw out the old art
and make a new start.
And when you open
your dew drop eyes,
you will see that there
is a sun in the sky.

Take the flame
to the photograph,
just get it over with.
Terminate all connection,
change all direction,
and someday the road will veer
somewhere pleasant
and you’ll be steered
to a serene connection.

There must be something,
fleeting and faint,
somewhere out there to taint
this lunacy
with a hint of fallacy,
and open the cloudy night
to the star’s light.

Painful tickles
coursing through your throat
send coughs and sputters
to every inch of
grape-skin thin packaging,
your bones and muscles and blood
close to unwrapping.
It wouldn’t be so bad,
take the tip in hand,
quick slips, soft drips.

Such a Waste - 10/06/11

If you could be a frozen butterfly -
Rainbow shrouded in ice,
Glazed over,
All hues masked to white and blue;
A frozen beauty
Held in the grasp of the ice
Preserved
Petrified
Perfect under the microscope
Crystalline structures dangling
Like jewelry
From gossamer eyelashes,
Purple from the frost -
Would you leap into the nitrogen
Entrap yourself in glaciers
To be thawed in hundreds of years?

The pretty, frozen butterfly
With her heart chained to her wrist
A sliver in her chest
Singing a bloody ragtime
As she sleeps
A deathly dream
Her blueberry wrists
And raspberry thighs
Sigh longingly for the warmth of wrath
To awaken them
To a murderous tendencies

I’ve Been Having This Nightmare - 10/05/11

I.
It all begins in red:
the world does not consist of black and white,
nor shades of gray,
nor bruised purple,
nor tearful blue,
nor nature green.
It begins in blood.
The universe bursts at the seams,
platelets squeezing through,
and so they escaped to form galaxies and stars.
From the womb was blood,
from the first day of school was blood,
from the first moment was blood.

Red and sticky,
dripping,
splattering, pattering,
thumping, dropping,
congealing,
drying, and then
picked apart until it is blood once more.

Love is bloody,
lust is bloody.
Winning is caked in layers
of dried sanguine
and failing is soaked in its gory liquid.
Peace flaunts it just like war,
mercy frolics in it,
serenity licks it sensually.

And my nightmares relish it.


II.
The pressure knocking
against the back of my eyes
remind me of the nightmare,
sending me back into the night
whenever I rub my eyes.
The burning pinch in the front of them
shakes me
with the paranoid vision of a needle
piercing my cornea.

September Chill - 09/26-11

Your empire spans the continents
Transverses seas
Engulfs the globe.

Mighty, strong, ever-present.
It see all,
Hears all
Consumes all

It is ever thirsty,
Ever lurking in the shadows
Behind the sphere,
On the edge of the umbra,
Waiting for the turn of the Earth
To feed it.

Your Empire of the Dead,
Your control over graveyards
Your legacy of corpses



The flower blooms,
Perfect petals release perfume
Designed to entrap and entreat
The scent smiles upon your soul
And caresses the deep aches
The smell is the closest thing
Your nose will feel
To the melancholy the ears dread and pray for
Of a Dewdrop Sonata
Elegantly crafted to strike tears within seconds
As if specific
Just for those ears


Heavy boots
Young men
Bold heart
Red hearts
Bleeding hearts
Exposed organs and brain matter
So pretty on the petals



The September chill has set in.
My bones chip of icicles each morning,
I yawn and shudder and keep moving.
The empire slows me not.

Crushed By Nothingness- 08/29/11

What do you say to the stars?
What do you say
When they see your scars?
What do you do when their light bombards
The cracks in your head
You’ve been hiding so hard?
And how
Do you
Ever come back
From the black hole’s trap
Once you’ve seen such darkness?
How do you live
With the pretty, rich kids
Who smile with softness?
Where do you go
When the sad music plays?
Does your head spins out of control
For days?
When the vacuum takes you,
Where do you stand?
Firm on the stars
Or sinking in the sand?

Free As A Word - 08/29/11

The wind in my hair
And the sun on my face
A beautiful smile
In the right place
Freedom of heart
Lightness of mind
On cloudy days
I now find sunshine

I've broken the chains on my heart
Free as bird, but where do I start?
Fly up north to the beautiful snow
Or down south for the sun's glow?
I could fly East to friendship
Or West to new love
Or I could stay where I am just because
I can

I tried feeling sorry
I tried regret
But I’ve decided
Each new day should be the best
I’ve finally kicked
Every tear from my eyes
Headed straight forward
No fear of goodbyes

I can’t be hurt
And I can’t be wronged
And I can’t be stopped
From singing every song
About how happy
I’ve made myself
By leaving your side
And jumping the shelf

I've broken the chains on my heart
Free as bird, but where do I start?
Fly up north to the beautiful snow
Or down south for the sun's glow?
I could fly East to friendship
Or West to new love
Or I could stay where I am just because
I can

I’ve no more worries
About what you’ll think
I’ll write what I want
And let your heart sink
I don’t give a damn
About the whole wide world
Call me a bitch if you want
But I’m just a happy girl
I’ll live my life for myself
From here on
Accepting and loving
Whoever comes along
With the sun on my hair
And the wind in my face
I’ve finally found
A peaceful, happy place

Princess - 08/29/11

O, princes
What are you waiting for?
Don’t know
You can climb your own hair?

O, princess
Who are you waiting on?
Turn up the music
And dance with yourself

There’s a whole big world
Filled with science and art
Don’t waste your time
Mending your heart

Can’t you hear
The evening calling?
Can’t you see
The stars falling?
Run to the clouds
You can fly
You can glide
Float to the stars
You can sing
You can sigh
Look down below
On all you can hold
The world in the palm of you hand
You can take the lovers you want
Leave the ones you don’t
Yes, you can
Yes, you can
Yes, you can

Starshine - 08/09/11

Sometimes it seems like
The lights on the edge of the world
Fade further every day

I'm chasing down a star
Wondering how it got so far away
Aren't you lonely, little star?
Would you like a friend?
Well, I'd like one too

But if you can hear me
If you can feel me
If you wonder what's she like?
You're too close
Take a few steps back
She only like the stars

It’s All My Fault - 07/28/11

Don’t bother to throw any punches
I’m already taking on myself
Tumbling 'round this memory
Knocking happiness from the shelf

You don’t have to say anything
Go ahead and leave
But if you ever want to speak up
I’m just to proud to say please

Please believe
I never set out to hurt
Please leave
Things are getting worse

It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
Just walk away with battle scars
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
Get back to the living stars
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
And I know you think it just the same
So get away from this rigged game

Every line’s active mine
Every compliment has another side
Maybe you should just speak your mind
Tell me it’s all my fault
Rather be mad than nothing at all

Please believe
I never set out to hurt
Please just leave
Things are getting worse

It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
Just walk away with battle scars
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
Get back to the living stars
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
And I know you think it just the same
So get away from this rigged game

If everything is falling apart
Then maybe you should let it go
You can’t fix this broken heart
Don’t deny what you know

You’re never going to be immortal
You’re not going to last forever
Your memory will lose to time
Just like every heart and lover

It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
I know you think the same
But try to give it another name
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
Everything dies in time
Every atom, every star that shines
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault
It’s all my fault

Honey, What Do You Know Of Hiding? - 07/27/11

We have all become
The shadows of our aching love
The ghost of who we strived to be
Souls left to find greater things
Bodies piled empty
The starless evening sky
A black dress in sweltering, late July
Run away from realty
Run while you can
Stuck in the same routine
The same little lies
The same short words
But it keeps you alive
The jungle is dangerous
Especially alone
But the jungle can creep
Right into your home
And when home isn’t safe
Where do you go?
Back to the safety
Of one soul alone

End Of An Era - 07/24/11

Sitting there in King’s Cross station
Punk rock music always playing
All your heroes are dead and gone
But the radio still plays their songs
Is this the fate that I will find
When I reach the other side?
Are you somewhere looking in
Wondering when the revolution will begin?
To fight our own Dark Lord?
Perhaps we’ll win
Perhaps we’ll all just fade away
Like we never mattered anyway
Perhaps there’ll be nothing to say
No memorable quote on our grave
But those who were really listening
Know the grave is only the beginning

Gold - 07/24/11

Oh, my darling, look at the streets of gold
Wonder where they go to, wonder where they end
Wonder if I’ll ever walk on normal streets again
Couldn’t we walk on this road forever?
Watching lovers come together
On such a beautiful road

Forget the road less traveled
It’s so dangerous there
You never know what we’ll learn
About each other
That might catch us in snares

So stick to the golden road
Stay with the pretty lies
Stick to safety
Stay with happiness
All in your lover’s eyes

It Takes an Original Mind To Save the World, Their Prescriptions Will Kill You - 07/24/11

All the pretty chemicals
From caffeine to Prozac
Are running through
Your lovely head
Preparing an attack
On everything you think you are
On everyone you want to be
Changing the very molecules
That are the minor difference
Between you and me
You’ll never be the same again
You’ll never know your soul
Your mind will be like every other
You’ll be under control
The blue pill will keep you happy
But the red will get you killed
Refuse them both
Run for your life
Insanity’s a skill
Hurry, child, hurry
The world is coming down
You’re gonna be consumed by these drugs
If you don’t make your decision now