i'm going to silence myself
calm my insides down
and mend my bones
gradually dig my grave in solitude
bury myself in unwashed sheets and old goose feathers
suffocated by my own smoke
hardened by chemicals
and bad water
we can't see in the dark
but that's what i'm going for
so shut the blinds
say, "it's okay to be this way," it cleanses
and confronts an illness
we all choose what we want out of life
this is my desire
a means to an end
an end, to a beginning.




if anything
i'd like to be an inspiration
good or bad
it doesn't matter

some say I dance a wicked dance
some say I waltz along
the fine and crooked line of morality
I say
I walked my dangerous line of love for you
And I've never loved so freely



I feel like my heart is in this constant state of pouring itself out. The faucet is running, and the handle controlling the flow is broken. I'm sick. I'm blah. I'm whatever. I can't even help myself anymore. And the more I talk the more vulnerable and pathetic I fell. kids. kids. kids. Why so glum. Pass the time. Pass the time. Pass the time. Pass the time. Pass the time... smoke another cigarette. BLah blah blah. This is ridiculous. This is outlandish and somethin' else. Today has been pretty consistent, however. Not so up and down, left and right and write. Your eyes did the talking.

i'm freaking out lately
always thinking about bones and babies
you make me
pump blood
i make me
b
l
e
e
d
blood
and cough up lung
i want to be smashed in
i want to fall out
sitting here,
filthy and blind
let's either live large
or not live at all
because i itch all over




fever blisters and sweaty palms
it was your eyes that did the talking
and they spoke so much of nothing
despite it all
i loved you sort of
i couldn't tell anymore


I was so depressed in my poetry class today I had to let my hair down, let it cover my face, so no one could see me. Like I wasn't there if they couldn't see my eyes. I just wanted to be sleeping. Then I would very randomly explode about something someone had said. One man said that prose poetry wasn't poetry, and I freaked out at him. But what really got me was someone commended Wordsworth for revising his poetry years and years after he wrote it because he felt differently about it at 65. Okay. No. I don't think that makes any sense, because how you feel when you are 20, greatly differs from how you feel at 60, and this is obvious. But you can't change how you felt at 20, you can't go back and change the thoughts you had at 20. YOu can't make it a different experience than what it was. In the giant history book of your life you cannot go back to chapter 12, when you are at chapter 35, and change anything about that because people change, and life is a giant revision, and we change on a weekly basis. What I wrote a week ago is different in some way than how I feel NOW! Let alone, the poetry I wrote in Jr. High now seems ridiculous, BUT THAT IS HOW I FELT then!!! And it makes sense to put it in context of being 14 years old. I can't change how I felt at 14. I know more now, but it wouldn't make any sense to pretend like I had 20 year old thoughts at 14. IT IS IMPOssible!!! so whatever guy in my poetry class! You are stupid and don't know anything and you listen to contemporary christian music!!! SO what do you know!!! ABout life and poetry and your god and everything else. GLK;ljkdjlkf/.