Rapid Eye Movement: Projected

program.

2009-10-06T05:51:49Z

I. Hate. Math.
I've never thought of life
As something to be measured
Or calculated
Or programed.
I never looked at my reflection and saw a number
Though I've been the one people count on.
Never been much for physics
But I'm the one they turn to for answers
I'm an axis, I'm a lever
To launch words I hope will stick forever.
If I ripped my pants for every tear that's left my eyes
I'd be wearing a strip of denim approximately the same length
As the time it takes lightening to go from sky to ground.
It moves as my mind does when no one's around.
When I'm left with myself to think
Think
Think
Thin pink slips sink deeper in less-than-understanding unconsiousness
And fire me the fuck up.
Stuck up, sit-fisted scientists reminding me that I'm hollow
A coelom of flesh and bone
Oh, didn't expect a poet to know that term, did you?
Well, this coelom has found its mate
In someone who fills her lungs with, "I can"
Even if it isn't followed by, "I get it".
My scanner, my method, my madness.
Like a program, he says I've got class.
And holds me like those fucking curly brackets.
The lines in my face won't be stopped by semicolons
But the lights in my chest will turn on with a kiss.
I've never seen a heart written in JavaScript.
I've never watched Sun Microsystems set on the water.
But I do know one thing is true
There is a human heart and hands behind
System.out.println("I love you.");
A mind that shouldn't count so much on numbers
And rely more on who to turn to when the axis slips
Program this, bitch.

Thoughts in Responce to a Certain Situation.

2009-09-15T06:30:09Z

So, I'm sitting here, trying to get time to stop so I don't have to go to Computer Science, and I look on LJ, just to see if some random ghost read any of my poetry, and to see if Justin finally wrote anything, and what do I find? A lengthy plea to some leech that knocked me over like a house in a hurricane. Not really knowing what to expect from this, heartache or warmth, I read on...

First, words of longing for pleasant moments of the past. A sharp pang, but no blame. Never blame. I can't blame anyone for being nostalgic around me. I have that effect on people. Then, of being held back, somehow, and kept from moving forward. Again, a pang, but no blame. I've had such things happen to me before. I'll admit, it makes me feel more than a little helpless to stand back and watch a smile mask a phoenix stuck in a cage. I want to let him loose from those bonds. I want him to fly and be free from the past, be in a world where he can keep setting my heart on fire and I can keep dancing around it. I want him to spread those beautiful wings and wrap them around me so I can fly, too. But, there appears to be a memory stealing my fire-flight for the moment.

I've never been one for hostility, so I won't direct this letter to that memory, that concept, that lonely little thing who obviously has all the time in the world to force itself into other people's lives. Instead, I'll direct this to the one I love; the one who is being plagued by this concept, and fears it will affect the way I feel, somehow.

Darling, you will never lose me. Your smile brings light into my world and your laugh is contagious. Every time you look at me, I see nothing but love in those incredible blue eyes of yours. You're more than a decent singer. I get intimidated sometimes when I go to karaoke with you. When you hold me...I've never been closer to anyone in my entire life. And when you kiss me, for the first time, I feel totally content with the world. You give me the strength and confidence I need to go through this hectic life of mine. No matter how crazy, or how stressful it gets, I know you'll be there for me; and that is a feeling greater than most anything.

I love you. I know I say that a LOT, but its only because, for me, it never gets old. It rings truer and truer the more I say it. I thought I would never love again, or know love the way I do now, but you proved me wrong. That woman could come here and beat me senseless; she could threaten my life; she could do anything. The truth is, I wouldn't care. I've never been so happy in all my life, and there's no way I'm letting that go.

rainbows.

2009-09-10T21:04:56Z

First grade.
A world where humans can be necklaces
With a hoola-hoop charm
Worn around the neck of a room.
Where hands can make a storm inside
And lips spit booms of thunder.
The children shift and jump so much
You could almost see the crickets in their feet.
Show me someone my age
Who rides rainbows when told to dance.
Show me someone who, if given the chance
Would happily submit to paper princesses
With crowns of flowers and gowns of grass.
Show me someone who describes the weather in September
As, "tornado-ey" or "volcanoes"
And I'll erupt with joy.
But our sense of play was burned long ago.
The ashes of our imaginations covered our world.
Turned our rainbows to gym room floors.
Turned our flowered crowns to sticks on our heads
And left our tornadoes and volcanoes for dead.
Somebody, please...
Think of the colors in these children's hearts.
Somebody save the rainbows.
Show the boys its okay to dance ballet
Like we showed the girls its okay to wear pants.
Give creativity a shot.
Give imagination a chance.

unprotected.

2009-09-04T16:36:44Z

Its hard to walk
When you feel like your shins are split
And your feet are leather-souled survivors.
Every joint in my legs has been smoked to a nub
I feel the bones grinding together like my kneecaps are drunk
And the party's just getting started,
But this old body will bang out words
Because my intellect is unprotected.
Sure, some ideas are aborted
Because I still have control of my mind,
But the baby bomb blasts are worth the sleepless nights.

paper.

2009-08-27T06:33:35Z

She only fear's your anger
And you think you're going to show this
White
Windblown
Fragile little thing a lesson
This leather-bound journal
Can withstand the gusts of anxiety's pressing hardship
But only for so long
Before the pages in her skin rip free
And blow in the winds of worry.
I'll write letters to myself I'll never return
And embrace the characters they become.
In every stoop and sweep of itallic psudo-cursive
Hides the hand of time clutching at the hem of your shirt
I separate my clawed sentences so no one gets hurt
So, careful how you sling your words
Cause the body of this letter's been around the block
And now she crumples to the touch.
The words on her body, twisted by men who've tried to read her too closely.
Who've held her like a pencil sharped one too many times
Wrapping their fingers around her graphite throat
Just when she was minutes from erasing what was behind her.
They grind her voice to powder
And sharpen her wit only to repeat the twisted shape
Until finally
Her neck is touching her back
And she's curled up in the corner of a trash can
Begging for the burn pile.
Take me up from this collapsed ash of asking
Etch a bird into the skin of my crinkled paper wrist
And teach my words how to fly
To her.

I learned a few things this evening...

2009-08-17T04:12:56Z

And I'll put them in bullets to shoot them in your heads like they were shot in mine.

-Being nauseous can (and does) literally suck the life out of me.

-Feeling like a zombie isn't NEARLY as cool as looking like one.

-I prefer my bile to stay inside my body, thanks very much.

-Dehydration sucks...big time...Drink water, folks.

-I have a morbid, deep-seeded fear of abandonment, and worry about things for no reason at all. I should really try and be less paranoid. Anxiety is bad for my health.

-Waking up next to someone you love really is a beautiful feeling, made even more beautiful when they open their eyes.

-If you find a person who stays by your side at 11 o'clock at night and won't leave until you say you're feeling a little better even though that person has work at 7 the next morning and is an hour and change away from their place of residence AND still has to do laundry before the next day...hold on to them.

-It is in our weakest times that we find the most reasons to be thankful.

violet. (just in case)

2009-08-11T17:21:30Z

Tonight, I'm scraping together all the energy I have
To write you this 2am love letter.
Its edges are tattered
With first degree burns on each of my thighs
Under the purple hearts you kissed into my aura.
Now, the world will see me glowing violet
Like a sunset exploding, spilling into windows and eyes
And souls.
When Horus falls in love with the ocean
Oh, God, he holds her like you do
When you hold my hopes up for me
As they get too heavy on my back.
You pin me down.
I've never felt closer to the ground
Or another's flesh.
Oh, what have I found in this?
I've found my saving Grace.
My beginning, never-ender.
My Justin Case.
My shutterfly eyelids only close for a moment
To blink you into mind.
Phasing in-and
I have to get this out or
I'll never fall asleep tonight.
You'll never know the depth to which I've fallen for you
Because I lost count at forever and a day.
Even when I run out of things to say
I'll let my fingertips do the talking
Through my grapevine veins
To the source of all this overwhelming
I swore to myself, I'd never do this again
But something in you told something in me
I was censoring myself senselessly
So I'm a cheezy love song-loving
Metalhead-banging in the breeze
Till my personality gets whiplash.
My heart is beating out of my hope chest.
You've made my worst my best.
I pray I pass the foresight vision test
And the world will hear the rest.

red light.

2009-08-10T21:35:06Z

Last night, I watched a skyline twinkle.
I saw electric stars in the streets
And wished on every one.
I took delight in every red light
Because I felt like they stopped time
So I could look at you a bit longer.
I screamed till my throat became sandpaper
And built castles out of what remained of my voice.
I felt the tide of your kiss come in when we got home
And I let you wash over me
Until I was bare flesh
And so clean
You could see yourself in me.
Tell the street to keep its stars.
Tell the sky to keep wishing.
Tell your reflection to smile more
Because it looks so much better on you
And tell the red lights to keep their beams heart-shaped
To show that, once in awhile
Its okay
To stop.

central heating.

2009-08-06T04:49:01Z

There's a four-room shack in her chest
Surrounded by a hollow white calcium fence.
Its far from a dream home.
Gives "lived in" a whole new meaning
And its so cold when she's alone.
The dust dances all night long
But she related more to the wallflower cobwebs
Blooming like garbage bags
Under her eyes holding the regrets
Of last night.
She sits in the center of the chamber at the bottom right
Though at the moment, she's feeling left
Out
As she presses her ear to the wall and hears
The dull roar of blood flowing outside
Through her subway tunnel veins
She hears his name
Crackle like the rats chewing aluminum cans
And she is so frail.
Cracked open like a broken picture frame
I can't even make out her face
Through the shards of glass
In that plastic case
I can watch her crash
And read her pieces like braille
Because I can't see her.
She lives in a four-room house in my chest
And she's clawing for a way
Out
Of this windowless existence
But someone's running a stick
Across the planks of this calcium fence
Trying to find
His way
In.

men's department.

2009-08-03T02:54:47Z

Today, I realized
That I got more stares and backside comments
While shopping in the Target Men's department
Than I ever did when I tried to wear a dress.
Unless you don't count the comments that are seen, not heard.
And then there's the content.
In that men's department, their eyes said it all.
What's she doing here?
She can't be in here!
Who's she shopping for?
And when they see me
Hold a shirt up to my chest
To recite the pledge of, "Will this fit?"
And realize I'm not shopping for my brother
They look at me like the wart on a plumbers ass crack.
They go to their gender police and ask for their brass tax back
So they can nail their minds to the cross
And prove themselves holier than my
Heritic, heathen, rebellious, mens department shopping ass.
Someone is murdered in this country every six hours.
A woman is raped in this country every six minutes.
All over the nation, fathers are etching
Notes on their little daughters bodies in bruises...and gropes
Permission slips to grow up to be drug addicts
And all these people can worry about
Is that, despite the fact that I have a vagina
I am shopping in the fucking men's department.
They never think of what my reasoning might be.
It never occurs to them that GENDER and SEX cannot be used interchangeably.
The womens department is filled with uniforms.
Restricting the beauty of woman into the role of sex object
Well, I'm sorry I'm not rich enough to be your eye candy.
For half the price of one low-cut, short, tight shit show shirt made for women
I can have enough shirts to be able to go a month without doing laundry
They say we're in bad economic times,
But the only thing I see receding are hemlines
And human minds...
And I will not fall back with them.
I am the tidal wave of everything that makes people like you uncomfortable
Because one day, you'll look around you.
One day, you'll watch the news.
You'll go broke from your designer dinner napkin draperies.
And suddenly, my vagina won't matter nearly as much to you.
The pen will always be mightier than the purse.

In The Pen Dance Day.

2009-07-29T06:20:31Z

I never took Independence Day very seriously.
Usually, I'd just chill out
Get drunk and watch things explode
With all the other good ol' boys
Who have painted their necks red
Their skin white
And their collars blue.
The same people who would kill me
If they knew what I did for a living
If they knew what beliefs hid under my strapped-down chest
My cheaply-bound breasts still revealing me woman.
The people who shop in a world
Where even the American Eagle is Made in India.
The people who Bless the Bushes who Burned a Nation to the Ground
Yet would burn Buddy Wakefield alive
If they knew who he was.
If they knew what I did for a living
If they ever read my poetry.
If they ever saw what I see.
Saw the fireworks exploding in the air
Become IEDs exploding under the feet
Of a soldier who's mind is bound to Baghdad
But, far as his family knows, he's fine.
He made the mistake of making it out alive
And they can't hear the explosions in his mind.
He drowns it down with whiskey, marking time
And all the while, walking amongst these people
I hold the hand of a man
Who's kiss was a kite string
Sending me closer to heaven than I'd ever been.
And I swear
If I could give this kind of love to the world
I would write it in every line I pull from my throat
As I throw my words back to the stream of consciousness
For not being big enough.
My mouth is in the pen dance today
To a broken record that won't stop playing, "hope"
Despite the noises of hatred and ignorance
Fucking on a creaky mattress above me.
In the time it took me to write this poem
A God in a book created the world.
A world full of people who take their lives for granted
Drink themselves stupid...er, take advantage of a couple people
And think they'll make it in the sky by saying sorry
With apathy nailed to the crossed fingers behind their backs
And smiles as straight as Matthew Shepard's face strapped to the fence of
I hate you.
I wish I had the shrunken heart to hate you.
But I am the little white hope in a cotton field
And when you strip me of this dirty, tough, brown cover
You'll find the softness of a cellophane spirit
Wanting nothing more than to be your window of words to this world
Of lost wits
And slit wrists
And silence.
Deadly silence.
The kind of silence that hits the dinner table like a bad dream
Gone real, just then
When the parents look at each other
And wonder if they'll ever eat with their oldest son again.
The silence of a newspaper
Staring back at his mother
Mocking her tears with, "Mission Accomplished" banners
On air craft carriers five years before
The day she got that letter
The day she fell apart
The day he never got better
The day the fireworks exploded her heart
So burn me with her.
Burn me like an IED.
I'll blow your legs off
And watch you try to crawl to God.
Go home,
Look at yourself in the mirror
Say you're sorry to his mother
To Shepard tending his flock in heaven
And mean it.
Because we all may not get to drive the hearse,
But we all end up the fallen passengers
And I'm sure we would rather see your blue collar begging for forgiveness
Than mercy.

helen_earth @ 2009-07-09T20:10:00

2009-07-10T00:29:20Z

"I mean...I can't shower you with gifts...I'm not eloquent with words. I just want you to know, to experience the depth you've captured me."

Justin, I've known you for so very little time, but I have more of a connection with you than I did with men I was dating for over a year. They all seemed so distant, so jaded you could see the stone in their speech. But, you know, I'm not going to spend this whole entry talking about the past, because I get the feeling of future when I'm with you.

I never get tired of talking to you, of hearing the music of your laughter and seeing the artwork of your smile. Every time I see you, my heart starts skipping in circles around my lungs trying to catch the baseball of my breath, but to no avail. And you know, its okay, because I've never felt more alive, more excited about the future. You make me feel so incredible, and I never want that to go away. You don't give yourself enough credit. You're intelligent, handsome, kind, gentle, sweet and strong. You can be serious when you need to be, but at the same time, you've taught me how to laugh at life again. You're my boyfriend, my friend, my lover and my biggest fan; and you already know I'm yours.

I'm happy we found each other, too. And I thank Destiny every day for bringing me such a wonderful man.

Independence Day Weekend

2009-07-09T04:44:20Z

July 6th, 2009-

I suppose I could say that this Independence Day weekend was filled with the kind of fireworks that only figuratively explode in the human body. I was sitting at work on Friday, waiting and calling for Justin to wake up from his, "I stayed up way too last last night" coma, pump some caffeine in his veins and go to visit me. He showed, eventually, making 3 hours late fashionable as he has the habit of doing. He sat next to me and rubbed my shoulders as I worked until my shift was done. It was the first time that a back rub hasn't made me laugh hysterically from tickling so badly. Now I know what all the fuss is about.

He followed me back to my house in his Ford Taurus infected with some kind of paint-job melanoma. I liked it, though. The fading and clearing of color on the body looked like the clouds passing overhead.

At my house, my sister was waiting with a chicken pot pie just coming out of the oven. She has no job, so she cooks to pass the time. I guess the economic recession, while tragic in most every other way, makes for some delicious food when I get home. We enjoyed dinner and I showed Justin what the upstairs of my house looked like. We journeyed back downstairs and played Rock Band long into the evening. He drummed out the pulse and I sang the poetry. After a few rounds playing songs like, "Battery" and "Painkiller", we found ourselves battered and in need of the latter. We retired to bed, where we spent some time reading the braille on each others bodies. My sister knocked for a moment to tell us to keep it down. My bad; I didn't know I was reading aloud.

I almost thought I was dreaming when I woke up next to him, his blue-green eyes an open window on a summer day, and we bathed in the light of our smiles for awhile.

After sitting at home for a bit, talking to my mother about a range of different subjects, Justin and I left for the Indian Head Village Green to try and do the impossible; get parents to shell out 200 dollars so a 19 year-old can teach them that keeping their imagination alive is actually a good thing. After spending about 5 hours at this, we visited my non-biological, dick younger brother, Ronnie (who, ironically, is older than me) and his fiance. She's a brave woman, and will be good for him, I'm sure. After bidding our so longs, we headed on our pilgrimage to Glenn Burnie...or so we thought...

It was on this journey that my opinion that the names of streets should be created by poets was enforced. Who knew that there would be two streets, miles apart from one another, with the exact same name. But, being a firm believer in the journey being the best part, I named it adventure. When the sun was still awake, we went to a Taco Bell to have lunch. While there, we convinced a probably-drunk man and his girlfriend that I was from England and that Justin found me on a boat, which was amusing. However, the food I ate there proved to be my downfall.

As soon as a few minutes after we pulled away from the restaurant, I could feel the seeds of a gastric Anti-Christ germinating in my belly. I attempted to ignore the contractions, thinking it would pass soon enough, but as they got closer and closer together and we got farther and farther from the road-that-had-a-tree-for-a-name we were supposed to be on, I quickly came to the realization that a trip to a porcelain delivery room was in order. I'll never forgive the state of Maryland for not requiring a public bathroom in every public place as long as I live. Give me the petition for that, and I'll sign it without hesitation.

Justin handled the situation in the sweet, gentlemanly way he does, holding my hand as he sped to find somewhere that would allow me to sit on a throne for twenty minutes or so. He spoke words that formed a blanket around my body and made the pains more bearable. Finally, after what felt like forever, the Anti-Christ was born in a Burger King bathroom somewhere in the Twilight Zone. I could've sworn my system was detoxifying itself of every pain in my past as I felt my insides explode into the poor, unfortunate toilet. When the torment subsided, I walked out of that place looking as though I had just run a marathon, my arms lifted in the air in victory. I got back in the car and gave Justin the most thankful kiss my weakened body could muster. He made me put the seat back and rest until we finally made it to the location of the get-together, four hours after it had begun.

My stomach didn't fully recover until around four in the morning, so I drank very little that night. Much to my disappointment, all I could manage to stomach was a little beer before the wheezing in my gut told me to stop. The evening was not lost, however. I watched a few of Justin's coworkers throw large fireworks into a burn pit and make the backyard look like a shooting star. I made a wish. Some of the group decided to go streaking across the large field behind the fence. Of course, one of the few people who still remained clothed besides myself, stole their clothing and hid it somewhere. After laughing at their drunken confusion and leaving a few hand-shaped ass bruises, their clothes returned and the party continued. We sat around Justin's phone and sang songs by The Lonely Island until all had left or gone to sleep except me, Justin, and a co-worker of his. We lost ourselves in conversation until finally, at 4am, we decided to return to the dormitory on the Air Force Base Justin is forced to call home. After going out to the Shopette, a charming military 7-11, and watching the sun rise, we finally fell asleep in each other's arms at 6am.

I realized, before passing out from exhaustion, that this was the first 4 of July I'd had in years where it never rained. I smiled.

We awoke Sunday at around one in the afternoon and spent much of the day laying in bed. I'll probably write more about this later, because it was the most celestial lazy afternoon I'd ever had, and could probably only be done justice in poetry, but I will say this much; love is a war, ladies and gentlemen, and we left with purple hearts kissed onto our shoulders.

On our way out, Justin introduced me to his friend Phil, who I swore was something straight out of John Lennon's journal. He described himself as a "law-abiding anarchist" and was one of the rarest people I've yet to meet. He walked with a cane and spoke with the rasp of a smoker prophet. He showed me his journal (and I was honored to look at it, as I knew showing one's journal was akin to showing one's heart), which looked like the poetry of a man with the soul of an EKG machine. The pulse was thready, low and high, and beautiful. The smoke from my last clove cigarette wound around my lips and faded into the daylight. Phil expressed his envy of how cute Justin and I looked together. I only wish I could've expressed the envy I had of his writing mind, but the words just wouldn't come. After listening to him for a couple hours, and getting the most amusing driving tour I think I've ever had (complete with a beautiful sunset), we departed the Base. I knew I'd be seeing that place, and Phil, again soon.

I hadn't eaten anything since the Anti-Christ left my bowels the night before, and Justin was hungry, so we decided to stop for food. It was around 9pm on a Sunday, so needless to say, organized religion left nothing open. Knowing I liked sushi, Justin decided we would get pre-made sushi at the Safeway and eat it at his work (where he had to take care of some things anyway). It was the best date idea ever.

We got to his work at the Davidsonville Transmitter Site, watched Family Guy and ate. While there, I met a few people he worked with, and even ran into someone from the party the night before. He showed me around and tried to explain what everything did, which I didn't really pick up that well, because my mind runs on poetry at night. As he drove me home, we had one of those in-depth conversations people always talk about, but rarely experience, where we revealed a bit of our pasts and focused on the desire to be in each other's future.

It has never been more bittersweet to arrive at my house at 1 in the morning before. I didn't want him to leave, of course, but he was going home to New Jersey for a week to see family and get his car fixed, and leaving as soon as he dropped me off, so we said our long goodbyes, as is typical of us, and kissed more times than Hendrix kissed the sky. As I put on the A-shirt he had left for me and retired to a dreamless sleep before returning to reality the next day, I thought only one thing to myself; "What on earth did I do to get so lucky?" I thanked Destiny and any God that may be in the sky and drifted to sleep, knowing this weekend would make a great story.

kinetic.

2009-06-28T17:41:35Z

Exactly five days ago
I was thinking I was full on dyke.
Cause I was tired of looking for a miracle I'd never find.
A man who would make me...whole and stuff...
Thinking, "Men think they're worth their weight in gold,
but they aren't even worth my life."
What halted my thoughts from dreaming this?
I don't deserve it.
I don't deserve to touch any other life-giving beautiful creature
Besides the one I see in the mirror
And even then, I don't call me in the morning.
I get up and leave to my own snoring
Wondering how much tequilla I had the night before to fuck THAT thing.
I wandered around myself in passing
Exchanging glances
Body casting my mind in the stereotypical role
Of the best friend who never gets laid
Never quite fits in
Until...I met him.
I know people always say these things
But something in me changed
The day you decided I merited talking to.
Its so strange
So out of the blue
I was wondering if a switch of branches
Would be a wise thing to do
Because the last two military branches cracked
Under the weight of distance.
This dance I'm twisting out
Doesn't make sense
And I'm fine with that
Because for the first time in years
I am kinetic.
You said you loved the way I moved
And I said I didn't deserve you.
I still don't.
You made my butterflies shake the cobwebs from their wings
You are my sunrise.
You woke me up by shining through the windows in my eyes.
I know, here I go again.
Rising from the ashes of another letdown
But this phoenix burns brighter than any old flame I once called home.
And my veins are scrawling poems on my arms in blue ink
I swear I'll never clip it red. I'll never white it out.
But one thing's for certain
I will always write it out.

firefly.

2009-06-28T17:34:04Z

My hands are hot to the touch
Clutching a cluster of fine rhymes
With no straight lines.
I've got bullets at my lips
And gunpowder on my fingertips
Tempered to protect me from myself.
Smoke rises from my words
From the brilliant burning birds
Fluttering their flash-bulb feathers
To unlock my ribcage
And burn my photographic memory.
Leave my bones to the ocean
Take this paper crane in your hands
And call me firefly
Call me burning bush
Call me never die
Call me turn and push
Just don't call me goodbye.

cross.

2009-06-23T00:26:51Z

a cross hangs around my neck
like a secret
on my mind
but just past my lips
long enough to turn to memory
a 24 karat gold reminder
that there's something in the stars
I need to impress.

I never take it off
because one day, I know
that something-woman in the sky
will need me to come kiss her in the clouds
and I want to give her a handle to hold on to.

my clothes hang on my back
like bad news
can't stretch the slack past in public
so i'm half-dressed in my best disappointments
and the other half regret.

there's something
that keeps this weight on my shoulders.
a mixture of messed up mandated masochism
and the need to mask my moments of weakness
even if it means wrapping my body in broken bed springs
like a ball bouncing across the words of your song
but I get ahead of myself
I'm not used to following along.

a cross hangs on my neck
like a promise to my heart
to forget
like my grandmothers arms
out-stretched
never judging what I've done
the souls I've broken
the flowers I've stepped on
only seeing her sweet little girl

once I was a bundle of promise
now I'm just a bundle of messed up sonnets
the bandwagon was crowded, I never got on it
and that's fine.
when I'm in my grandmother's arms
I never have to rhyme.

mix tape.

2009-06-23T00:26:06Z

I run on poet's time.
So Mr. Sandman is always running late.
I sleep in late, I stay up late
And even my short-comings are long awaited.
I spell things wrong...all the time.
I'm a slam poet
Because I know one day, I'll find
The need to use words that have no rhyme
Like...month.
Month has no rhyme because that period of time
Is torture.
Its just short enough to let you think he'll still come back
And just long enough to occur to you that, "It's been awhile since he called."
Since you leaned your back against the wall
Because his words turned your knees to play-dough.
There's one little inconsistency, though
I'm fun to play with, not to beat, so
Why am I always left feeling bruised.
I lose easy.
I've had too much to think
And I'm not even looking in the eye of my storm.
Because my lightening keeps striking in the same place.
Some nights, I can't look myself in the face
To make a case for why I even bother.
I'm a wreckless feminist who messes with the gender binary
Far too much for his own good.
And you know I'd tap out, if I could
But there's no one spotting me
As I bench press my wrenched-in reality
I'm a malleable fallacy
Molding the shape of your gaze to my body
And, someday, when I have to say, "I'm lying through my dentures"
As I accept my imperfections
I'll applaud my poor sense of direction
Because you know its only an excellent sense of adventure.

taste.

2009-06-23T00:24:51Z

I heard a song today
That left the kind of nostalgia in my mouth
That tastes of wherever its been.
For most, the taste gives bittersweet a section of tongue
Close to the back of the throat
So it makes you sick with each difficult swallow.
Its like a dust bunny dipped in chocolate
Born from the skin of bodies rubbed together
And bound the tears of 3am phone conversations
Heavy with the destruction of something beautiful.
Yes, I'm speaking from experience.
I make it a point to avoid too much nostalgia in my diet.
It gives me the run-aways.
Closes up the tunnels of my veins
Till I can't see a light at the end
But I'm still running
A mouse in my own maze.
But what am I trying to escape?
The memory once cultivated
Or just the bitter taste?

eager.

2009-06-23T00:21:39Z

I heard a song that wished the world was flat.
I wouldn't wish that.
I would wish that time was a fine line.
So I could tie it, fold it, fray it,
Like it does my tongue.
But I've got scissors on my mind.