I Could Have Lied

He was the boy who
Spoke like flowers grew from his lips
Smiled like my happiness depended on it
He looked at me through hollowed eyes
I just got lost
I could have lied
And said I’ll be yours thru the
Summertime

As Sure as The Sun

There is a place in between my awake and my dreams where I don’t know what is real. I question everything and feel like I am going mad. Senses fractured. I don’t know if I am lying down here or walking somewhere out there. I don’t like how it feels, when I don’t know what’s real.

I have dreams where I go mad. The pull that I feel inside my gut and the sensation of the flesh as it melts delicately off my white skull. All I can do is try to bear through it until, hopefully, these feelings can all come to an end and I am left feeling numb. I never want to be there again.

TV Time

An empty room mocks the clocks and the angry boy who lives and breathes by its tocks. After a while of mindless, empty stalling, he starts to rummage for the remote to the television, he looks for a good half an hour, just to kill his boredom. It’s small and if unhappiness were a color, a shade of grey, that was the color grey it was. He flips it around in his palm a few times and picks at the duct tape over the batteries. He knows that eventually it will lose tack and the triple As will fall out. He knows that this will aggravate him dearly; but he could care less. All that matters is the Twilight Zone is on.

The New Contraband

Ideation moves over my skin; moves like I’ve dived into a pool of electricity. The fluid waves spark my palm as they billow synchronically with the wave of my hand. Forget the traditional, I long for the abstract. To submerse into the layers of a subconscious mind would be… quite electric. I want to know what the inside of my own mind looks like. I hope it’s not… traditional, because that’s all that seems to spit out of my pen. It spits out blanks in blue and red. My pen. I want the latest contraband. Ideation, take my hand.

Grow Up, Stop the Sadness

Nineteen bullets for my mother

Just because she loved me less

When she said no one was listening

I screamed loud, it took my best

To swallow my pride

And reverse those hits

That she sunk in me

I’m done with it

House of Poisons

We were waiting for a cloud

Of turnaround

I’m in the back of a shop

With no one around

And so I am, killing blind

Those nights of days feel sublime

In this shop full of bottles

I’m dropping coins, mostly pennies

All alone, I walk the aisles

Small glass vials, rows aplenty

Speaking quiet to the ground only

Because it makes me feel less lonely

Small glass vials

Solid white labels

On shelves and in drawers

In tidy stacks on tables

They look so fresh

But feel so old

I see the demons sitting pretty

On the bottoms of the bowls

They seem not to notice

Furrowed down and looking shrewd

Killing faith, granting wishes

For the hopeless and the lewd  

DSM-IV-TR

Brains are sick

I blamed my father

And his before

Cause this mind’s bothered

From bratty years

I made my brother

“You look so sad”

Says my poor mother

Miss Take

Away with the progress

Speed up the process

I’m living in recess

Life under completeness

I don’t want to waste your time

So believe all your lies,

And in her mistakes

Pretty Girls Don’t Light Their Own Cigarettes

Pretty girls drink to get drunk. It makes them feel good. But they’ll never drink alone so that others, who are also drunk, will fawn over their beauty. Pretty girls love to be admired. They often, speak of their own beauty. They can make crazy faces and relay repulsive phrases because no matter what they say and do, if it comes from a pretty girl, she’ll look cute doing it.

Pretty girls don’t light their own cigarettes. They’ll pout and look superiorly at others while they exhale their smoke with narrowed, cat-like eyes. They take long glances in any reflective surface and are photographed by other admirers of their beauty. Pretty girls speak with a glance. Eyes scream, “Love me.”