just a few.

this time

i remember why so clearly now
i'm not going to succumb this time around though
he may have inspired me
once
but now it's going somewhere else

trick question

if you ever broke down
fog filled lung cavities
are they on fire
or just relaxing?
please don't pound
in my head.
i want you, do you feel the same?
is my heart so see-through
like my pinhole lens
remember ellis island
when they spread butter on bread.
separate the fruit flies
before their nap is over.

spaceball

telling the truth apparently doesn't always warrant respect.

writing while drawing compilation

parrots not carrots
pencil thin
yes'm
god is subjective
why do your nipples taste like candy; why do your veins taste like licorice
cracked bloody lips facial wounds rips and tears. all they see is lower down
wendy elliott
pontoffol pock, where are you?
ode to the faeries of yesterday and the common garden sprite
wheels grinding day and night never knowing when the cause is right never sure if this is the right way to stay on track trying do hard not to stray
burnt paper wings and no limbs to crawl away with
one size fits all
pleasehelpme

Where do I write from?

I write from memories, from current emotions. I write under the table
and over my head. I hesitate because of what my sister said. I write
from deep down to just beneath the surface of my skin. I write from
happiness, from everything lodged inside. I write because of the way
you judge and the remarks you make. I write to keep myself from saying
all these things out loud. I write as a resource, a mechanism. A large
pool of hope and promise lies beyond every page, yet when I reach it
I've already been taken by sleep's gentle grasp. I write for freedom
and for organization, for regimen and for control. I write to
understand my appearance and why you can't. I write so that I no longer
stain paper with salt water. I write so that red may lose its shine and
so that I can be at peace again with lackluster flesh. I write when the
tablets have lost their effect and when the sun has just begun to rise.
I write when my ability not to has worn off, faded away.

incomplete

In the evening when my moms been drinking
Telling stories without thinking
She acts so immature
I have to leave and shut the door
Alone in my dark room
This place is becoming more like a womb
The blinds are pulled tight
I cant tell whether its day or night
The screen illuminates my facial features
I feel like some hideous creature