is freedom far from here

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I go to bed, I wake up and it’s still on my mind

There are small spaces in time, like when watching queen and slim at midnight

Where I’m puzzled by the thoughts that drift by

Life is short and then, it’s long when we work that 9-5

I repent, I cry out, asking him to save me and bring me to the front of the line

Where the water is crystal clear and I know in my heart that my mother will never again cry

We all stand together strong, even though we are all broken and we have all been wronged

And it’s so familiar, but we stay sane

And we laugh to translate the pain and we dance and we sing

We call out and we scream names

We say, that we are indeed emotionally unavailable, dead inside

Quick to cut people out of our lives, use them for our own pleasure, our dark delight

But no one wants to be used, and once upon a time the abuser was abused

All they desire is to be the first and only choice

All anyone wants really, is to be loved and have that love reciprocated without uncertainty, without thinking twice

I asked everyone around me, who it is that they wanted to be

And my favorite answer by far, came from the elderly man, who said that, all he wanted was to be free

The right to be mad

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It runs deep, it boils from the chasmic spaces in-between your bloodstream.

They say contain it, they say smile.

Their lips form shapes that spell out the words, calm down.

Calm down.

How can I possibly be calm?

Must I pretend that the climate of this world, doesn’t put me in a state of distress?

Why is it that only the expression of happiness is deemed acceptable ?

But then I remember they do not want you whole.

They tell you that your anger and your sadness is something that must be purged.

But do not let go of your anger.

For emotion is a thing of wholeness.

But display your anger in such a way, that they cannot call you angry.

Use your anger and show them that you are determined, you are definite.

Even with your anger, you are wholeheartedly whole.

For what is a human without their range of complex emotion.

Many will say you don’t have the right to your anger,

But the right is yours and yours alone.

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I’m slowly forgetting the sound of your voice, the curve of your lips. I’m slowly forgetting the feeling of your arm hair brushing just slightly against mine. And with it, all these small inconsequential memories. I’m slowly losing interest in everything. I don’t listen really, I don’t listen to anything or anyone. Nothing excites me anymore, no small sparks of passion to keep me on my feet throughout the day. I don’t even really enjoy music either, not like I once did. The sound of it leaves me feeling, a tad bit numb. All I can do is write words, words that when formed together aren’t even good enough to be typed onto a blank page. But that’s all that’s left, a vacant space, a hole. I often wonder why it has come to this. It’s no one’s fault, but my own really..Why did I allow myself to fall in? Why must all beautiful things end in tragedy? Why must they end at all? For what is a writer without beauty? For what is a poet without tragedy?

For a poet without a muse, no longer has a reason to write.

But write they must.

And I will,

even if it means, no longer writing for you.

Give them a smile

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He stares into the mirror. Unable to recognize the man, who looks back at him. The joke. Dreary eyed, the skin of his eyelids so thin, they appear transparent. His lips stretched and black, form a smile curling to the tips of his ear lobes. His eerie laugh transitions from laughter to a painful screech, lastly fading into a soft distorted whimper. He knows that he must wipe his tears. “The show must go on.” He muttered. He applies the chalk white powder onto his already dried, lifeless skin. Smearing black circles around his eyes and red paint onto his lips. He smiles, remembering a time when his teeth were not rotten and his spirit was youthful, filled with life and passion. Those days are long gone now. A red curtain behind him is all that lies between him and the act. He exits onto the stage, filled with fraudulent laughter. The audience loves it, but does he?

boys

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i hate boys

some make me feel like im not wanted

some make me feel like a toy

some think my soul doesn’t add up with the body that my spirit decided to enjoy

some think im a weirdo, they’re right i am

some are intimidated, they run away because they are scared

some no matter how much i do, don’t seem to care

some want me physically

none want me spiritually

so ill hate boys until the death of me

I wonder what it’s like to meet a Man.

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It’s the rain

It’s the sun

It’s my messy handwriting

It’s that never ending search for the one

It’s the plants, that hang down from the wall

It’s my favorite flower of the sun, she stands tall

It’s how badly I crave to find someone who will listen to it all

The good, the bad, the dark and ugly

The foolish nonsense that it involves

My mind, a terrible place, but once the pen starts, it doesn’t stop

One click of the key is all it takes

So it’ll be the rain and then the sun

It’ll be whatever it takes

To make sense, where there is none

The Romantic

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Water spewing from the fountains in Italy or maybe it was France.

Another place, another time.

Somewhere on the Northern Hemisphere, where we met.

Surrounded by many,

but like none.

They didn’t know it,

but I did.

The sunlight kissed our skin from the heavens above.

Honey and pastel hues of pinks and blues,

back to the days, when I loved you.

What sweet undertones with ever growing addictive fumes.

There were many assorted delights,

in our picnic of two.

Where I enjoyed the simplest things in life,

like the presence of you.

Easily saying whatever it was that came to mind.

The feeling of your skin on mine.

The taste of strong ales and rosé,

my guess of your favorite type of wine.

In this moment time seemed to stop

as if you and I could forever control the clock.

The perfect rhyme, a pleasing hymn, for a ever so bitter, but lovely end,

to the tale of the romantic and her imaginary friend.