Honest to

I am driving
with my best friend
to the top of a mountain,
the snow and the road
become a blurred vignette portrait.
I catch myself, teary eyed,
with the warmth of the dashboard under my hands,
as I nod my head to music,
to some hateful man,
screaming about monsters
the monster he has become.
Reoccurring daydreams,
they don't end with me
riding off into the sunset
quite like they used too.
In my daze, I see myself,
begging someone to shoot me.
Anyone to tear me apart,
because I, more than them,
want to know what I'm made up of.
If all this bitterness has housed within the depths of me,
or if it's temporarily house sitting,
until the best of me has been returned

to stay
I beg my true self

("please stay")

I see candid photos of me then,
and I loathe the woman I was.
Happiness radiating from the core of my usefulness,
my desire to live another day,
the cure of my own personal cancer,
still, remains a mystery,
It consumes me,
developing, and spreading within the most mortal parts of me.
Hanging over my head like a dreary cloud,
reigning upon me,
stealing my thunder,
making me sleep,
until I lose track of the moments I know,
from the moments I think.
This trip to the mountain top,
It was proof to me,
that no matter what beauty has been laid at my feet,
or has fallen from the sky,
decorating the ground,
like a cake I'd surely consume,
(& eat my fill)
I will always remain true to my heart,
no matter how miserable and moldy it's become.
I answer to her first,
beating so tribally within the containment of me,
my ribs a cage,
my heart a bird.
Wings beyond clipped-

now, entirely removed.

I allow myself a moment of honesty
a moment to speak,

("I don't trust anyone.")

I heard once
the truth rattles cages of liars, of burdened souls,
and in this moment of honesty,
the mountain fell,
and left me alive.
So I stood,
tears, hardening to my stale cheek.
I don't need anything to capture this,
(no cameras please.)

While I shed the masks of insanity,
I remember first,
who's face I met in this snowy bank,
My own.

It's been a while,
but I'm trying.
buried 10,000 feet below a bed spread of snow,
it's going to be a long journey home.

I just need honesty,
honestly.

Holier than thou

He sings to me at morning dusk,
and it's nothing beautiful,
I would certainly never give him my trust,
But he holds my hair back while I vomit up excuses,
Pierce my skin with my own nails.
He understands that we are all sick,
and I am certainly beyond the exception to the rule.
I know he wants to help me,
watch me sail away to a new place,
and while I'm busy forgetting him,
he's speaking to nothing,
watching the shadows waltz away.
But I know he'll soon forget me,
like all good men in suits do.
He'll want to tame something within me,
that he can't even grasp.
Cut me away,
until he finds the anatomy I lack.
I don't blame him,
really I don't.
I'm a tough game to understand,
but I'll crack him first,
and watch him melt through the cracks
of his expectable approach.
like a caved wolf,
I'll stay hidden,
feasting off of the thousand insecurities
he wanted so badly to project onto me.
But me?
I'm done sir,
being the cracked shell in the sand.
I'm tired of being set back on the ground,
by the hands of some greedy man.
I know you want something bigger,
and I know I could never fill that void.
Just drop me down,
until you find a sand dollar wholer than me,
Holier than thou'
so much holier than me.

Traveling man

I carry burden,
close to my heart,
so close now,
I can feel it beating my heart beats.
smothering the only organ capable of love-
in a sort of malicious way.
I suppose I admire the burden,
for never letting up,
in a way,
its the only thing constantly tearing me down,
and in turn
the world tells me,
I'll be stronger.
But why trust the world?
when it's so incapable of loving,
why believe a thing anyone says.
You should only follow those
closest to the truth,
and the rumors around here, are far from it.
That's part of breeding in a small town,
when you kiss me,
you're kissing California.
And when you kiss California,
Washington is bound to hear.
I guess that's why the people I kiss,
get so homesick.
They call on me, miss me, love me,
need me...
But I know better by now,
I know that nobody misses me,
they miss the feeling of home.
And the burden of housing
several soul suckers
becomes beyond overwhelming,
meanwhile it drags me into a spiral
I am ill equipped to survive.

It's taking one, to know one.

Well, you could distort time,
lay it at your feet,
walk all over it,
and feel the numbers fall apart at your touch.
There is so much control
in one harsh edge,
that you fall in love with the thrill of the kill,
and I know it well,
so well that I can recognize the desire to be free
unleash your hurt to the rest of the world,
I understand,
so be free.

A piece on peace

I have spiderwebs interlacing the thoughts I speak
with the thoughts I keep,
I stayed locked down,
like a basket case, with no place left to weave.
Life hurts, like a knife upon knife showdown,
grazing my shielded temper,
if it gets much worse,
I know I'm bound to blow.
But I've never claimed to be peace and love,
No I've never branded myself.
I understand in the blood of the battle,
I'd be the first to admit that.
I see people, dressed in colors
they don't even know how to represent.
Outlandish designs from "peaceful" times,
you carve the sign upon your wrists,
and highlight it with dark ink-
your ignorance of the word
becomes permanent and apparent.
At least I can know then,
you have no idea where to start,
because all of you liars
are the ones that need to wear it.
But the peaceful ones, the realistic and the wise?
We just speak honestly,
it's in our blood, it's bold and clear-
in moments declared useless,
in moments declared dark.
A worldwide sign,
murdered, and robbed of all meaning.
Yes, the peace signs, they shine like fresh bruises,
on every single one of you,
marching in the wrong line,
hitting that pipe,
burning the pages of a bible in a fresh spun joint.
warning: "Hello, I'm wounded."
you kids are so transparent,
watch it glisten like condensation after the heat of the moment,
when you've punched a kid,
for being
not quite as good as you.
High and mighty,
you're sure to be seen
throwing up the peace sign,
and peace the fuck out.
And still you sit there
and tell me that this was what John Lennon was talking about?
Argue and fight for rights
you only came to understand after "across the universe" came out.
You fake ass hippies,
with your fake ass minds.
Unravel those dreads,
take some pressure off that brain, because
This is a piece on peace,
a revolution for those truly asleep.

Fact

It's scary when you find yourself awake,
face first in a pillow
writing tomorrows poetry
on the insides of your eyelids.
I write poetry,
like you count sheep.
It's even worse when you can't remember falling asleep
not because you're intoxicated,
but because your mind
just can't differentiate
the feeling of awake,
and the feeling of sleep.
And these are the things that keep me from dreaming,
Cursing my hands for their need to flow
Smothering my brain in a fabricy hell.
I was a romantic,
before someone blew my cover,
and told me I was a cynic in disguise.
And maybe I am everything
everything people say I am.
At least I can know,
they are sleeping soundly with their
cruel assumptions.

Their hands grasping the horns of lies real tight.
Liars just want to be liars,
and I am a light set forth in a world
that is simply craving light.

Maybe,
just maybe,
it would be safer for me to BE everything they want me to be.
If I am in fact heartless,
falling in love could become difficult,
and it might feel good again.
And it's easy, truly
to put on the masks you all want me to assume.
I am egotistical
switch.
I am cruel.
switch.
I say what you want to say.
switch.
I am your ego coming unglued.
Because in a world where girls get naked
just to prove they can be somebody,
I suppose it's okay for them to blame me.
Somebody has to fall for emotional shortcomings.
Somebody has to be the brain behind the breast.
So feed me,
like a fire,
roaring at your feet,
The elements of my mind,
could run circles around the elements of the world,
So why envy me?
Why not love me?
embrace me, know me, feel me,
anything to prove that I am real-
Maybe this is why I don't sleep.
Because I'm caught up in cowards and whiners,
stealing away beauty from within the air tight seal of the truth.
inhale it,
breathe it in,
and it will get you high,
but when you live for it,
You'll know that an honest soul
is worth more than any of your lives.

Lady Luck

There is a woman made of porcelain, her hair, strung together with gold, braided with copper. She comes to sit, to remove burden from her delicate body, and rest. She crosses her ankles over one another, and casts her inner daily demons away within one prolonged sigh. She has lines in her face, too deep to reverse with any cream, or collagen. She reaches into her bottomless purse, pulls out a cigarette box marked "lights", and lights. With her first inhale, she closes her eyes, and lets the sun warm her housed skin. To the left of her, there are 4 children marching in lines, chewing bubble gum with every one of their tiny teeth. Among the four children, there are three boys and one little girl. The little girl marches daintily, cautiously placing her feet into dirt and mud, worrying that her mother will scold her for scuffing up her new school shoes. She is wearing a pink dress, fresh with morning creases. The three boys are certainly not in love with her, but one of the three boys secretly loves the color pink. He accidentally favors her, he doesn't rush her strange shoe checking routine. Not that he doesn't want to march as fast as the other boys, he's just too transfixed on the moving pink blob in front of him to remember girls have cooties. Out loud, one of the boys, the red haired boy, curses the mud for taking to his feet like quicksand. He quickly decides that the marching game will be a short-lived trade and marches all the way back to the playground. The third boy, a tall, awkward, and strange boy, moves his head side to side with every corresponding footstep he takes. He picks at his head, due to the infestation of lice dwelling within his jungle hair. Sometimes he gets lucky, finds a bug and squeezes its guts out between his pointer finger, and his thumb. There is a slight moment of his satisfaction, then a dull realization of shame. The doll woman, still sitting down, breathing slowly and seriously, notices a ladybug has landed on one of the children. Then, just as slowly as she sat, she stands, walking over to remove the bug from the pink collar of the little girl. The little girl, still dedicated to keeping her shoes clean, doesn't notice the woman at all. In fact, she was completely startled by the womans shadow, and only noticed it because she suddenly felt submerged in darkness. While the woman went to pluck the ladybug from the girls dress, the little girl reached for the womans hand, and pushed it away. The woman was alarmed by the rudeness of such a young child, and rolled her eyes. But children are much more observant than adults when it comes to the little things. The little girl looked up at the woman, shielded her face from the sun now shining down on her blonde curls. The girl frowned at the woman and said "Don't you know that it's good luck for one of these to land on you?" The woman, jaded by her days work, her sore feet, and her headache, chuckled slowly and said "I hardly believe in luck anymore". The little girl, who had started to twirl in circles, stopped dead in her tracks upon hearing such terrible news. She then cupped the ladybug in her tiny hands, looked at it, closely, like the bug was a long lost friend, then set it on the womans shoulder. After the two exchanged glances, the little girl looked down at her feet and asked if the woman would like to play in the mud. The woman, still staring at the ladybug inching up her arm, thought for a second, then agreed. She took a few steps until the girl told her to take off her shoes first. "My mom hates mud in my shoes, doesn't yours?" The woman smiled, and slid her feet out of her heels, felt the ground beneath her, closed her eyes, and thanked the ladybug for reminding her what it was like to be alive. "How lucky." She said, and stepped toe first into the mud.

He loved me, years ago.

I tried to take my life,
in my mothers bed.
I laid in the sage green blanket,
and closed my eyes,
I fell asleep,
picturing her arms wrapped around me.
I slept so soundly,
it was finally over,
all moments silenced,
all regrets
were pasted upside down,
and erased.
until she arrived home.
When she saw me,
lying in her bed,
she crawled next to me,
and stroked my hair.
this I remember,
because it was the stroke
which brought me back to life.
I opened my eyes,
and thought I was staring into my own,
but it was just her,
looking into mine,
until she realized,
something was not right with her baby.
She screamed,
and lifted me from the bed,
I closed my eyes,
because I knew I was safe.
Safe from myself,
safe from him,
and all reasons to become overwhelmed.
I hear clouded sounds,
and see nothing.
Just the feel of cold water striking my face.
Just the pleas to god,
just the phone call to poison control.
the phone call to my brother,
the cries of my uncle,
the rage of my mother.
The feel of her hand bruising my face.
The tilt of my brain as I fell back into nothing.
The flowers that blossomed and consumed my brain
like jade ivy,
weaving its way in and out of my body.
In the arms of my mother,
I rested my hand against her cheek,
I aked for my grandmother,
but she had passed years ago.
My mother asked for me to hold on,
but I had passed years ago.
When I finally arrived
at destination nothingness,
I felt my body clam up,
my brain hault,
and for once it was beautiful to not remember.
it was a sunset in a hallow life.
it reminded me how it felt,
to have a whole heart.
And when I awoke the next morning.
To the eyes of my family,
I cursed their names
for ever letting me return.

There is no sunshine
in a sealed mind.
So maybe,
if I close my eyes real tight,
the light will vanish,
and leave my pale skin be.
I want to be everything you leave behind,
I want this drive you take,
to be the last time you think about me.
Because I can't stand the feeling of burning ears
I don't want to know you're whispering my name somewhere.
Let go of my name,
and let go of my heart,
I simply cannot bare to house you here anymore.
I don't want you touching my dreams,
I don't want you intruding in the peace I will surely find.
I feel helpless,
I feel miserable,
Then I feel nothing at all.
I want to cleanse myself of you,
Peel away my skin,
because at one point, you loved it so.
I want to see you on the street,
and recognize nothing.
I want to hear your name,
and think of some actor,
but never you.
Never you,
never you.
Never.

Windows

She was so...
Unnatural.
I watched her hair break off in clumps,
while she fell to her plastic knees.
She held onto her strands
left handed,
she softly touched it to her face.
I never knew a hurricane could break,
that's what she was,
a hurricane of a woman.
I stood over her,
a building in her eyes,
and buried her with songs.
She screamed at the top of her lungs,
but the sounds were muffled
by the own capabilities of her throat.
I heard the blood break through,
like a dammed up river,
and explode through her eyes.
When we met,
her eyes were pastel blue,
gorgeous with fear,
ripe with any chance of love.
She would press her lips against windows,
to heal the cracks within the skin.
She told me the cold felt good
in contrast to the pain.
I always noticed her teeth
because they were always biting her cheeks
and her cheeks were already so sunken in,
that the pull of her skin
made her look edgy, like a model.
In the morning,
she'd break glass around the house,
and while I'd sweep,
She'd walk across the pile of broken edges
In her bathrobe, holding a cup of coffee,
her blonde hair,
messy, and piled upon the crown of her head.
I could hear the glass piercing her skin,
breaking through the many layers of her.
She'd throw her head back,
and I could hear her breathing,
her smile would sharpen around the edges,
and under her breath she'd say her own name.
She was turned on by her demise.
I recall a moment,
when she wasn't so strange,
but still stranger than me.
She collapsed her legs at the top of a hill,
dressed in white,
with dirt in her fingernails,
with grass pressed firmly into her skin.
Holding onto a daffodil,
Keeping her eyes North,
She spoke quitely,
Yet I couldn't help but feel the ground shake with every word.
I asked her why she would bother praying now.
After all the self loathing,
self mutilation, and hate.
Her organic eyes,
the only thing still remaining pure
on her tired, ruined face.
Locked onto mine,
and for a moment,
I saw God.
And he was just as starved,
just as bitter,
just as pain seeking,
just as angry as her.