[x]

Does that make me Different?I wear make up. Does that make me fake?
I cry. Does that make me emo?
I have male friends. Does that make me slutty?
I smile a lot. Does that make me weird?
I laugh loud. Does that make me preppy?
I have anxiety. Does that make me a freak?
I have Bipolar Disorder. Does that make me abnormal?
I respect people. I change for me, and only me. I have a past, but I know I have a future.
Does that make me different?
Maybe.
But at least it makes me
Me.

FrostbiteNumbness
I can’t feel my toes and at first I think
It’s just my toes.
I can cover them up.
I can warm them.

It spreads, like fire,
Like ice.
I glance away for a second, it seems, and my feet are cold
Pat –pat
That’s funny, I didn’t feel that
Maybe I’ll cover them up too
I’ll warm them up.

I’ll take a nap
Maybe a short rest will make it all better, warm them
Up…
What’s that? How long has it been?
My legs… are you still mine..
Why has my breath left me, short?
Has everything but deserted me?

What about you, are you still here?
Are you still with me?
Hello?
And before I can say goodbye, I think my thoughts are leaving me too –

You'll Never Understand...You'll never understand...
But I'm glad you don't.
Because that would mean
You'd have to go through my pain.
And I'd never wish that
For you.

Dear fucked society,Dear fucked up society,
Why do you take our rights?
Our human rights?
To who we love?
To who we are.. To our image?
Tell me.

You force images down our throat;
Images of airbrushed, false looking
people. You want people to look
more skinny and cause anorexia,
More along the hidden line that
you dig under the ground like
a dead forgotten body yet always there

You show us that its not right to be gay,
lesbian, bi-sexual or transgendered..
And then wonder why the suicide rate is
so fucking high. You cause the nightmares
and terrors of our family not accepting us
our

Sleeping Beautyshe’s in love with a character who
never existed but in the labyrinth of her head:
a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words
she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living
day in and day out, reliant on the salvation
of a man made of foreign wishing
and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance
of the less than ideal perception of self she’d
come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point
where daydreams were a standard for survival

(real living is for the purposeful of heart,
he loves her in her sleep)

I don't fight fair...Cut, bruised, scraped, forgotten. These things I have all been at least once in my life. But it
hasn't made me stronger, just more determined in my fight to live another day.
I know the ways of my attackers, studied their movements, learned their tricks and gleamed
their true motives. I have seen their weaknesses, their faults, theirs flaws and I have kept
them close to me, ready for use when the next time we meet.
They are cautious of me, they have weary from my adaptive ways, knowing that I can fall only
so many times. They are scared for I have the key to their defeat; not by sane ways, but by
the ways they fear to tread.
One look, one stare, one gesture and they will run in fear for the truth is upon them: "I won't
live restrained anymore."
"I have seen your errors an played on them like strings on a violin. Moved you to place were I
make the rules. Put you on display for all to see what you have done, and what will be done."

You ha

UneditedWe cry.
We scream.
We fight for our dream.

We scream.
We cry.
We're just waiting to die.

The same emotions
with a different drive.
Sometimes dead, sometimes alive.

The same in one way,
different in another
brother and sister, sister and brother.

So close in feeling,
so different in the end.
Falling apart, or finally on the mend?

Which am I?
Will I ever know?
Fighting to stay or ready to go?

Maybe I'm both,
in some impossible way.
Emotions oddly mixed everyday.

Wouldn't surprise.
I'm such a freak.
Excuse me, I laugh, I should call it "unique"

Happily AloneHonesty,
She does not have,
Personalities,
She has many of them.

A million shields,
a million personalities,
She's always changing,
to fit every person around her.

If one were to ask why,
she would answer with,
I will never reveal my weaknesses,
because she's evil.

She hates everyone,
stupider than her is barely tolerable,
smarter than her is too scary,
She hates it all.

She leaves the world behind,
To one she has dreamt of,
No color,
nobody else.

Then,
she will smile,
why,
because she is truly happy alone.

She is not evil,
She does not hate you,
She is not dishonest,
She simply wants to be alone.

lifelinesI fear the sound of sparrows
and the density of leaves
against dew-muffled blades
of grass,

and I'm drowning
in the sky.

My skin has learned how
to peel itself off
without causing a commotion
in my marrows or
even show the slightest hint
of pain,
and my heart has learned how
to hush the stars in their wake
and keep it all a secret.

There's a sea in my mouth
and I can't swim.

There are lifelines
cast like these and it will
all end with the same tragedy.

the carbon footprint of an arsonistyour crystal promise
rings drip off your glacial
fingers into global

nothings. the geodesic
dome you used to live in
is a hell you keep

clean-shaven and concentric,
spiraling away from you,
wrapping your unborn

children up in paper goblets.
for minimum wage, any geryon
would cling to the terza rima

inkblots on your
collarbones, his spongy molars
diving into your right

angles, his familiar laughs
killing your skin with
shivering cuddles and you

shudder, being self-diagnosed
at center of the universe,
your hair a nest of radio

waves, the one cosmic
principle drumming on the ancient
heart of mystery.

but amateur porn always
made you cry

of seafoam thronesFrom Atlas’ hands she wept to me,
atop Africas and South Atlantics;

this is one situation unaffected by
ember eyes and windy lashes
(it has no anatomy).

You are sparrows stranded
in tiny crevices and cliffside love,
though you rebuke flight
in the fear of chipping feathers.

So what do you do?

You reach for my soul,
coveting flight with shaking
dainty arms…

and perhaps I’ll let you:
With flytrap lips and
glass shaped hips…
you are unfit for anything but
sight.

(But beauty isn’t everything)

The WaitingBones hang from trees
Hollow windchimes rattling
In the sullen breeze

Dark clouds make noonday dusk
Rusted buttons on threadbare coats
Sorrow drips like rain

(From the fingertips of this dead-rose day)

Hoofprints kill the grass
Where the dark horse steps
The rider unsmiling

The tired and ill amble about
Cattle awaiting the shoulder tap
To sleep, but not to dream

(To become whatever the second birth dictates)

We are the King and Queen of Broken DreamsStanding still in a mine field, staring at all we have left.
We were so young, we didn’t stop to think.
Now we’re in a car crash, teetering on the brink.
If you were to leave me now, I don’t know what I’d do.

It was a whirl wind romance,
A light when all was black, a spark of something when all was bleak.
You swept me off my feet and made me feel brand new.
I thought we could live forever and I’m certain you did to.

We built a house without foundations
And now we’re falling down,
Everything’s crumbling around us, time slipping through out fingertips.
People used to walk past us but they were to drunk to see,
That our lives are coming apart around us, there is no light as far as we can see.

There was no fire to start with,
Just two broken things, the world had left behind.
The casualties of other people’s dreams of power, money and control,
Spat out onto the curb to rot away and die.
We never stood a chance or so

Ashes on the SandWe put you in
a crystal box
small enough for me
to hold in my
hands
(and that thought gives me
chill bumps)
The tide was high
where we took you
and I remember thinking
how pointless it was
(you were just going to wash
up on the shore)
Everyone was quiet
and some people cried
and as you were tossed
out to sea like so
many grains of sand
I thought how much
I missed you
(Now I think how much
I hate you
for leaving)

A Charmed LifeDoll-faced men and sinkholes, ancient tombstones
Leaves piled ankle-deep, falling down
Old wells, old graves, old friends lost
Pirate adventures in Neverland
Don't go into that barn

Ponchoboy and Rangergirl rise from the ashes
From the cold river, from afar
Remember before they were born, how they
Held hands and jumped into the world
Don't go into that school

Ladybugs, pennies, notes from the dead sun eclipse
Scrape the inside of your skull for clues
All the old dreams are still there, petrified
You are a rock of ages gibbering
Don't go into that factory

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stereoscopic.Never touch a flame
burning your soul;

take away these candles in the night.
531 seconds before dawn;
I want to feel your skin,
take the breath, draw away my heart
in the rainbow colours --

slide into monochrome
with no regrets,
slipping past the sides
of my lacking
stereoscopic vision.

still.They had been long, the nights of summers past. They felt as if they never would end, but this was the final curtain call. Everything was almost entirely without change since the last time I'd seen it, nearly thirty years previous. I could picture the way the dust would fall out, a lethargic explosion, as the heavy curtains were opened; or the way the motes caught the light in the actors' eyes and glittered in time to the audience's applause. Watching it all from Row M, seat sixteen.

"Is it alright?"

James Hornsby was leaning against the wall behind me. He barely resembled his jovial father, the man who had once welcomed guests with great g

fly on the wall.A small black speck marred the plane of white; it was little more than a bluebottle, resting itself upon the living room wall.

As the front door slammed and the shouting turned to silence, I wondered how much it had heard, and whose side it would take. But before I had time to ask it, it took to the air and left me, too.

I guess that was an answer in itself.

sunday morning (lie-in).I love making a cup of tea.

The familiarity of the cupboard's soft wooden frame underneath tired fingerprints; the slight hesitation before the vibrant boxes; the moment of darting forward with speed to caress the cardboard before I change my mind. I like the noise of the kettle as it boils. No longer a traditional hob-and-copper affair, but the hum and trembling hiss and the soft blue glow telling me that the water's uncertain surface hasn't melded with the air quite yet. The way the mug fits into my hand, the cool comfort of palm against china, tracing the designs on it with impatient fingers as steam begins to swirl into the midmorning ki

shiver.Rocky ledge and coated edge
of enclosed infinity.
Missing you alone and empty, jump --
a house of broken people is all that's left.
And in the end it all comes down to this:

adrenaline fights the elsewhere,
wind destroys the avalanches
(pretty, petite)
which we built upon empires lost.

**

March past the gates of Hell, my love
and don't forget to ask the time of the devil;

f-stop 68 and blurred edges,
our focus falls directly on the vacant black.
Space's vastness holds vessels to promises
and we float in a boat made of paper cranes.

**

Your bullets caress the dying, O Lord;
trickling down their souls,
anaemic grey eyes, holl

i (don't) love you.In this house of ancient drapery
lies a single musty, dusty memory;
rotten and decayed.
Creaking away down woollen corridors
in the eerie midday sun;
the showers of dust from the release
of our souls will fall
in due course.

So will you join me,
take a seat by my side,
at the dinner table?
There'll be no menu but the crack of the clock
and the sound of the electric air.
Choose your chair carefully, my dear.

They say the way to say, 'I love you,'
is to kill yourself.

Suicide.
Side-by-side.

(It can't be right --
but they told me so,
they told me so.)

So will you join me,
in seats suicide?
Or take a look through the menu,

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fall.

by ~91816119, Nov 15, 2012, 2:11:53 PM
Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Free Verse

All these proofs of my existence,
my
humanity
are just ghosts
scattered across me,
in living memory,
in loving memory --

farewell to that scribbled name,
innocently standing on the precipice,
a mere shade
of the darkness that falls over it.
In the end it seems that
that name
isn't me;
is me;
in no way relates
to every fibre of my being.

You see, my darling,
the strings have been cut,
all of them severed;
the tears have run their course,
a silver pathway;
and the dangling sword
begins to fall.