Death doesn't like his job,
anymore than some of us like ours,
and when he calls forth the gentle flowers,
to answer for their lives,
he hides his tears.
12:01The clock ticks
at midnight it will have been another year,
of dealing with bull****,
of crying oneself to sleep,
of feeling murderous intent.
Is it worth another year?
The endless suffering,
the constant bickering,
the tiring courses and people,
The people that tear and bite
and laugh and smile,
Is it better to laugh...
Almost fell asleep,
thinking of everything that can be done,
of thinking about the last year,
of thinking of that last midnight,
It's always like this.
The family is there,
behind but asleep.
This happened this year.
Fighting to stay alive.
Should the fight continue?
So much was done this year,
so much more to be done,
Can't let go now.
Not after surviving,
and living and seeing and
Gender or OrientationIt takes courage to say something different.
But does it matter to know yourself,
when others don't acknowledge your hard work,
and laugh as you declare something they...
don't think is true?
That StoryI've tried to write that story,
in so many ways
and in so many words.
New words, old words.
I've tried to write it funny and cute,
with fuzzy kitten slippers for the mind,
to drift to sleep in.
I've tried dark and mysterious,
horror and pastels,
even that of realistic fiction.
But I've never tried to way it was meant to be written,
the way that if I wrote it,
it wouldn't sound all wrong like the others do.
It would be a story of heart break and loneliness,
of wanting and desiring to fit in but never doing so,
because the real world isn't like that.
You try and try but nothing changes,
you have to leave,
to explore to find new things in the real world.
Take a leap or dive off a cliff,
but the heart break of being an outsider in ones own heart,
their own mind betraying their every emotion,
the idea of submission to the deep pestilence of self-esteem,
and the wondering queries of whether it's okay to not be okay.
I cannot write that story,
as I live it in every waking moment,
Burnt outburnt out,
a synonym for exhausted,
tired and worn out,
done with life and seeing the world,
can continue without your work.
Too much is asked for,
too little is given,
too much to do,
too little time to do it in.
mentionings of that being laziness,
or just un-adaptability.
When it is never the fault,
of the one whose mind
has been destroyed.
Old and newPeople try to forget their daggers,
the ones imbedded in others' hearts.
They turn and look the other way,
laughing, making jokes and...
They think, that,
just because it's been so long,
the dagger has disappeared.
But everyone knows that the world doesn't work,
based on someone's whims and whimsy.
Instead, it lets the knife rust.
The rust cakes it in,
and taking the knife out now would be useless,
because the hole is now permanent.
Kept open by the rust that makes the heart throb....
... in remembrance,
and chemical allure of false
If only they thought to pull it out,
when they'd stabbed it in,
because everyone knows a fresh wound,
is easier to deal with than an old one.
/It's who we are,
we sing and we stomp some more,
not thinking of the other ways,
people might take our play.
Because who knows,
what's going on above or below,
with time just churning,
and rhytmns burning,
as we forget,
what we are,
and think to ourselves,
that who we are,
is just a thing we get to choose.
AmissThe air was somewhat thin,
and tasted like sweet peppermint,
and because my dear heart insisted,
my love went amiss and un-missed.
Till by the wandering clouds I came,
to the world of my mind and domain.
and my weary soles stuck fast to sand,
and down I went.
The whirling clouds now were purple and grey,
and the air now tasted much different,
more like today,
when the mind felt satisfaction,
as if it were home,
and the book in my hands,
replaced the heart forlorn.
where every greys a different shade,
and no matter what some -
one will be
where every grey is somewhat off,
with fake smiles,
that will -
Black and white,
someone has to feel,
the difference in the air,
in the clothes,
in the hair,
it's death on parade,
someone might -
Candy at a FuneralIn the face of bitterness
I have mastered sweetness.
By the end of this day I will have calculated
exact measurements of cream
to wipe clean the face of gravestones.
I will have learned to soothe the aching
of windswept hearts,
to break open on my part
like a shell of chocolate
quivering open, full of cream.
I will have learned to love grief
as dearly as my own dream.
At the end of my childhood -my dream-
of owning a candy store:
a sweet shop, a bakery….
specializing in the art of the glazed.
The wedding cakes, the brick tarts,
memory of a birthday, of candles, happy catering
for happy occasions of all kinds…
will grow up with time,
and like the end of the day, seeing the look o
SMIH ONE PIECE INTRO
The straw hats had held another large feast after yet another amazing adventure. All of their friends had gathered from across the many Seas to attend this party. The food, was naturally delicious, and the drink flowed freely while music from Brook played long, and loudly. The atmosphere with this large group of both Pirates and a few Marines alike was uncanny and would rarely, if ever happen again in the near future.
Suddenly there was a clinking sound coming from the midst of the large crowd. The laughter and chatter quieted down to hear what the announcer had to say. A certain blond pirate with a swirly eyebrow and a cigarette stood and took a puff before he spoke.
"Never have I seen so many of our friends in one place before, so, I'd like to propose a toast to our friendship." Sanji began as he raised a red wine glass.
Everyone picked up their drinks as they gave Sanji their undivided attention.
"Whether we met on the battlefield, or through Luffy-'' (A small riot of chuckles at th
I wish I would just die.
That I would run out of power.
That the other's would just stop torturing me.
That the other's would just destroy me and all my parts.
I don't belong here.
I'm an outcast.
A nice guard to play with!
Maybe this time I'll gain a friend!
But where'd you go?
All I see is the leader.
I hide out of fear and come back to see you again!
I want to play!
I steal your torch to start a game!
But what's the matter?
You look terrified, Mr. Guard.
Are you alright?
You're staring at me with those big round eyes.
Trying to talk, I think?
Suddenly, blood splatters the walls as the teeth of a certain one sinks into your brain.
It's my fault.
The one turns around and grins at me.
"Not bad." he says.
I stare at the bloody guard.
It's my fault.
It's all my fault.
I make a whimpering sound.
The one stares at me.
"Ya wuss" he sneers.
All I wanted was a friend.
Radioromance Pt. 1Ghost transmissions: echo from the screen
in an empty theater now forsaken to chronology,
with broken pilasters, crooked seats, dead dust,
paint and gold peeling, and the rust
as layers from a dream.
Her face: vignetted and soft in the glow of studio lighting
slowly decays, erased with time,
a living film: always shifting, ever changing,
the infinite and steady stare
of grey and hollow eyes.
Her coat shudders: outside,
in the cold breeze of final night,
and the sky shifts with broken verses,
revealing echoes of moonlight.
the fatal wound, the cigarette,
the silent noir
of the final scene.
the buildings -- corpses, monuments so decayed,
this steady architecture of movement,
these hollow roads: memory.
The distressingly well-heeled and ill-at-ease
Aristocrats of the old Europe, of the Old World
Are passing away
From the streets of Salzburg and Vienna
Geneva and Ljubljana
The places you dimly remember (hence how they are lit)
That have becom
TitanicThere are two things I
Will never forget from that night:
The horrible screams of people
Running from their plight and
The tears running freely
Down my face.
They told us nothing was wrong,
Although their eyes were wide with fear.
Listen to me! my father said,
Everything will be alright, Dear.
But the tears were running freely
Down my face.
The ships unsinkable!
This must be some mistake!
My mothers face was grim
And her hands began to shake.
And the tears ran freely
Down her face.
I stepped into the lifeboat
Not wanting to believe.
I cried out to my father.
He wasnt allowed to leave.
The tears ran freely
Down my face.
I was shaking.
My skin was deathly pale.
The cold drove right through me,
Like a driven nail.
The tears ran freely
Down my face.
From the little life boat, my mother and I,
Watched the Titanic sink down
And thought of my father, back on the ship,
Struggling not to drown.
And the tears fell freely
Down our faces.
Like drops of water we fall
I must be
you might think that
you want to be different yourself
you do not
you want to be special
I am not special
everyone wants to be special
not so special
want to seduce me
because I'm different
I don't mind, but
I've never really liked those girls
I don't really like girls at all
I like sex though, so..
I let them
some will fall
in love with me.
want to beat me up
show me my
also because I'm different
and because they grew up with a strong father figure
I don't really like boys at all, but
I like their hatred
so I don't argue my case
will fall in love with me.
Maybe I'm a teardrop
or one of
because for me
are all different.
but you are not special
and even though I sometimes seduce you
want to beat you up
I don't really l
Twenty: I'm afraid I'm growing oldi.
Coupons and sales magazines
have become more than just junk mail
and the holes in my pants
seem more patchable
and I wonder just how much
my sparse jewelry would fetch
if I said I saw the face of Jesus
in the glimmer of my pearls.
I am beginning to miss the sea I grew up on
so much that I will read bad poetry
just for the mention of a salty ocean breeze.
I feel landlocked and sometimes I'm afraid
that I will never see the world
until I have retired from it.
Faith says her life is full of asking.
I wish mine were full of answers,
but I too have many questions
and only Time will answer them for me.
My mother just turned sixty
and her eyes when she looks at herself
in pictures from the '70s
makes me realize
that my time, however long,
A Clockwork of Consistency
A Clockwork of Consistency 9/23/14
He sat alone on a lonely bench.
Green paint faded and chipped-
weathered by the salty Gulf of Mexico.
It had been there - a silent
watcher of the sea for as long
as he could remember.
He had made a habit of going
here early to greet the sun
and start the day right -
with a small prayer and a coffee.
He had done this for three straight
years - a creature of routine.
It gave him comfort and peace.
A serenity he was never able to
duplicate anywhere else.
He felt less alone with this
bench and the rising sun as
his stable and reliable friends.
Sometimes a tear would form in his eye
when the beauty was too much.
On this particular morning he was so lost
in his thoughts and so entranced
by the vivid colors before him that
he barely registered her - sitting
on the bench beside him.
How long had she been there?
How long would she stay?
"Sunrises leave me in awe.
Do you not agree?" she
quietly asked as she turned to him.
He had no words to say so he
Fourth of September.1.
I am writing a poem about my birthday and candles and alcohol and dead people.
And how I have a really good imagination and every time I walk by that stop sign I see the car slamming into her and spreading her across the asphalt and every time the lights flicker I imagine his brain swelling against the confines of his skull and every time I walk in the front door I am reminded that my baby brother is dead.
I am writing a poem about balloons and dead people.
It is the fourth of September and I am full of longing. I want bare knees and raw elbows, untied shoes, green grass that bites into the tender palms of my hands. I want summer to roll into autumn without numbers. I want to pick wild strawberries. I want birdsong sunsets, lowercase letters.
I want Cooper's pond at night, where there are no atomic bombs or doctor's charts and you can slip beneath its cold surface and live forever.
Tonight I am supposed to celebrate growing old by getting drunk and pretending tha