You say you want access to the thoughts running through my pretty little head.
What happens when you can’t stomach them?
When they fill you with shame, hatred, lust?
Where did your faith in pretty girls go?
Peek on in, do you like what you see?
I’m a whore, a liar, a cheat
I’m a con artist, a chameleon
I am not real.
Tell me, are you still there?
Shall I continue?
How many men have I trapped, seduced, set aside?
How many nights did we sip scotch while your wife was away?
I fucked you, and I ate your soul. I am your desire.
So see? You told me you wanted access to my pretty little thoughts, in my pretty little head.
How fucking pretty am I now?
My dark little girl
your slate eyes level me.
Those cruel thoughts that swim about.
I drown in your loathing.
I swim in your desire.
We are the unmentionable.
The wicked laugh, the harsh tongue.
Far too removed to love-Far too close to hate.
For we are what they think of.
The ones who prey in the black of night.
So silence all
Cry a noiseless cry.
Level me with your gaze.
Do you think about me?
Do you watch me trace your old rollerblade routes, like a lifeline?
I skate your routes in hopes you will appear. I feel you here, in the wicked whip of the palm trees, in the angry crash of the waves. I smell you in the sea soaked air.
How do I hold onto a ghost?
I wish I could hold your hand again, but I’ll settle for the coarse grains of sand creating indents in my palm.
Like messages from above.
The dark is a place for indiscretion. In the dark we are simply animals out for carnal pleasure. Hunting, Judging,Preying. For in the dark we are emboldened. No longer do we creep around pleasure. Dive into ecstasy. Explore one another, no longer two but one. For where else can synchronization be so rich? Hushed moans, sweat, shivers. Skin to skin, attraction to reaction. The dark is a place for indiscretion.
You call me baby when I make you cum
Only all I feel is numb.
Your gratitude is palpable but not sincere,
It’s the hollow in your eyes that makes me fear.
I can’t help but to feel,
the torrid relationship we have is nothing real.
I want you to see me
Not my hips or thighs,
But the sea green of my eyes.
Look at me and call me baby
I wish you wold feel something for me maybe.
I grieve the loss of you every day,
though I have you so close in all the wrong ways.
You call me baby when I make you cum.
Anger can be beautiful but so fucking destructive. The rage just builds up so goddamn hard and a surge of violence just shocks every fucking fiber. Being lit up like waves of electricity coursing through a whole being. Smash, over and over again. Bam there goes a wall. A bloody bruised fist. Weak and shattered. When the anger dissipates and the sorrow takes shape. An animal unto itself. Sorrow is the fucking team of demons dwelling inside. Waiting to attach and feed on the shame and weakness. Soul food for demons. Like fuck, anger is brutal. Emotion is too raw and masking the anger is a joke. Be angry. Be hurt. Fucking scream.
Don’t let the demons win.
I am tired of living every one else’s truth. Here are some of my own truths.
-I want to waitress, I want to make tips and wear a heinous uniform.
-I want a dingy beach condo, that smells damp and sandy.
-I want to learn to play the guitar, I don’t mean just learn a few strings, I want to be Pink Floyd proficient.
-I want to publish poetry. Not wishy washy poetry, but beautiful gritty poetry. The hard to stomach type that revolts and delights all in one.
-I want to do something dangerous.
-I want to see Iowa, I want to walk around and leave a mark on Iowa.
-I want to be in lust, feel the fear and desire in my stomach. The clammy hands and the want.
-I want to be in love.
-I want to go see an underground concert, get caught up in the madness of it.
-I want to sleep in a damp bathing suit, and not worry about being called “musty”.
This is a list of things that I need before I die. Sometimes I think I might die.
Sometimes, I feel so fucking happy I could burst. Seriously sometimes the happiness swells inside of me so huge I just feel like I can’t take it. I want to run and explore the world and love and laugh and make memories.
Sometimes, I feel so fucking depressed I hurt like no tomorrow. The day drags on and I feel alone and abandoned. I walk around in a bubble, wondering when it will burst and I won’t be so depressed.
Sometimes, I feel so fucking inspired I think I am an artist. Inspiration is drawn from people, through people and with people. Inspiration is in music, literature and porcupines. Trials and tribulations create beauty. I am inspired by imperfection.
Sometimes, I wonder if I am crazy, so crazy that I need to be locked away in a high tower. Then, I realize that I am the epitome of youth and rebellion. We all are. Don’t ever feel crazy, you aren’t. You are perfect, we are the inspiration for the future.
All the time, I am ready to live.
My head nods willingly,
my body goes through the motions
my mouth smiles, but my eyes remain dull.
My heart beats with no specific call, my mind
understands I am ticking time bomb.
I am ready to break free.
Let me be me.