Hooked on Phonics

I know the type,

Sitting in the corner of my classes,

gathering pencil scraps to set my only escape,

on fire.

Carving initials of prettier names into the underbelly of seats

Wishing the crusted gum would come together in a steel like manor

to silence the squeaks of so much burden.

Yes, I know the type.

Candle opera

Life should be observed by candle light.

Imperfections disappear in mood lighting.

Spring

I never wanted to be perfect,

I just wanted love.

I fell into an oak, and woke up speaking in poetry

I am a rapid fire lust machine.

Beautiful things make my spine melt into waxy figurines,

they glisten in the passion of my spring heat.

Reminding the sun that I remain

the beautiful light in the transition of season.

I am the forensic in an unsolvable case,

setting the truth at ease,

then letting the restless

rest in peace.

I am a goodnight in a forests hallway.

tall, unbelievable tree skies.

oaking my mind with splintered dreams,

they wither within my skin,

and call my cells home.

I have cured a handsome cat of his ego,

by stroking his mind instead of his head.

And in his misery of discovering who he truly was

he purred his last tale, and ceased to exist.

I am terribly delicious,

ruining the alleged "vanished" sexism,

and giving men something to dream about.

I am above the ecosystem,

beyond the things you called to warn me about.

I am justice with a vengeance.

something you can't live without.

The beautiful things I say,

melt you into another piece of me

I will eventually recycle, and sweat away.

Sweat away in the heat of my spring,

sweat away in the mechanical breakdown

of my listless, and lustful retreat.

My mechanical innards,

they spew jasmine songbirds

into the pupil of your heart

illuminating the creation of love,

and turning you into

another minion of mine.

another sweet nothing

to dote about in the winter,

when all my romance has run dry.

When my mechanical lust

turns to lifeless rust.

too much

I love him.

Growing up

The beautiful things that sprout from hardships decay, more than reminds you, that life, though unpredictable, is a creature of habit just like you or I. It will forever do the same things; blossom and wilt. But in the wilting comes new growth, nurtured by your already tenderized wounds inflicted by life,all its uphill battles, and downfalls. But, in your weakest moments look down at your hands, the same hands that feed you, the same hands that ruin what you will them to destroy. Think of the possibilities you hold in those islands of skin. Allow yourself to inspire, and ignite the world. Remind your troubled mind that, though you may see pain as black and white, there is far too much beauty in the world, and there is far too much color to ignore.

I'm afraid

I climbed to the tip

of a tower in my sleep last night.

I dropped

arms out

I didn't wake.

I didn't wake this time.