I'm Sorry Nobody Is Honest In This Town

And you would all have her feet on the ground, her head down bobbing among the crowds--but this kid is meant for the skies, her entire body up in the clouds...

She hopes for a man who can appreciate her passions, someone with gauges in his ears and nice hair and maybe some guitar callouses on his fingers. I feel like it's okay for her to want that. It's her future. It's her life. It doesn't have to be anything like yours; you should be praying it's even more.

She dreams greater than you ever will. The places she goes while standing still are better than any vacation destination you can get to. She's got a good, beautiful head on her shoulders.

Her heart is bigger than she realizes. The world goes for people like that (in a fang-to-throat sort of way.) She's vulnerable beneath her indie-punk exterior. And that's okay: it's wonderful to be so innocently breakable... I want to protect her, but it's not my heart to guard.

She likes the parks and the playgrounds. Swinging makes her feel like she can fly, even after you've all clipped her wings. Let her go, let her be in the places she's happy so that she can come home and respectfully bear your pecking, because one day she'll break out of the cages and you might just lose her, she may not come back.

People would have her believe she's odd, that she doesn't fit in. People would have her think that it's normal and fine to have hopes and never see them through. "Dreams are harmless as long as you don't expect them to come true." They would all like her to keep those feet on the ground, so one day she can come all the way down and marry a suit and be a mother for two and a half kids and maybe just idly strum her guitar on the weekends. People would tell her that that's life, settling, settling down.

They all just envy the girl who can soar so much higher than they can.

Let's Pretend It's Selfless

Even the sweetest rays of sun can't manage to get a vine to grow out of the ground; even the most lovely, gentle rains haven't coaxed a sprout out of this soil.

Don't curse the land!!

... And don't wait forever for it to yield something, anything. Because it won't give back but weeds, no matter how determinedly you tend to it.

Pack the lean-to and the plow and find greener hills on which to sow things worth feeling.

___________________________________________________________________________

 All the lovers are addicts, looking for a fix for their loneliness. All the boys and girl are addicts, searching for a high to feed the inner egotist.

You can all be bought with cliche's and compliments. 

You all give and accept gifts of self-portrait filled lockets.

The Fate of the Mediocre Word Artist

Pages blank, leather unbound, quills stilled in the inkwells

Musty books stacked on rickety shelves

Are draped in cobwebs covered in dust themselves

He is nothing now but a skull on a desk

All of his work rots...

The Pride-full of the Pitiless

Brothers, strip the carcass of everything ugly and leave the bones to bleach in the sun; skulk off with bloodstained paws and maws. Our dirty work is done. Don't bother to remember the fallen one!! He was too weak to go on. Move on.

Boys Consistently Suck

Because you'll hear a thousand of his words before you'll hear one of mine, because he's the one that sends tickles up your spine, because I'm just a friend, because you don't want it to end...

I should probably learn to shut my mouth. (I guess I'll be forever holding my peace?)

It Was Never Meant To Be A Canvas...

He had a corner apartment at the corner of town, a world of hard lines, a world without round; he didn't know colors, and he'd never seen shades--it was black or was white, a world without grey.

Paint his heart red. Paint your eyes blue. Paint his cheeks pink when he looks at you.

"You got your palette all over my sanity."

Where They Meet in the Woods

So dance, dance in circles, all you thieves, willing to make the others' hearts bleed for the sake of the thrill and the pleasant feelings, dance, dance, all you thieves.

Thieves in the night with no moon as a guide, dance, dance 'til you die, chasing the breeze of the person beside, yes, the blind lead the blind.

And the jingling of "treasures" stored in their trousers, (compliments, lies, petals of dead daisy flowers) make bell sounds to dance to in the silence of night, dance, flatter, you thieves.

Knives up their sleeves, they quickly pair off, entwining their fingers, each knows it's a rip-off of something quite real that the regular men feel, but they're only the pitiful thieves.

She'll bat her lashes and he'll kiss her hand, on the edge of a cliff, the thief couple stands, each holds a blade and plunges it in, topple into the sea, start dancing again.

Allegro, allegro, the tempo, the beat, water is churned by the thrashing of feet, both laugh so loudly as both their hearts bleed, they're dashed on the rocks, the sharks come to feed.

So sink, sink to the depths, all you thieves, having a romance that neither believes for the sake of the thrill and the fake pleasant feelings, dance, dance, all you thieves.

If it ever comes to it...

Feel your bony hand in mine, waste away, waste the day, cuddled on a couch with an arm around a waist and a guitar sitting on the seat close by. We've got a little one-bedroom shack; drafts come in through cracks, but all the quilts keep us warm, so it's okay. You don't cut your hair, you smell like me and you; I smell the same, too. Indie, artsy, Tacoma, lazy. I don't want anything but your bony hand in mine.

This is my sub-sublime fantasy; simplicity.

high school romance

whims sway like branches in the breeze, never catching frost, too animate to freeze

and hearts flutter like firefly light, touching on a tender moment before taking flight

these words have the weight of snowflakes, like down, said with a nervous smile, remembered with a frown

the remains are like skeleton trees after the fall; dormant branches are what's left of it all

blossom valentines can't make you happy forever, and no, neither can being together

so fancies shift like snow before an avalanche-- it's a midsummer night's dream sort of hopeful rain dance

let's cast lots and see who falls to love in the worlds driven by seasons sporadic

Confusion Is Sky-Blue

Every one of your words hangs in the air, my atmosphere; I try to breathe you in, but this air seems thin, filled with gossamer clouds and their linings of aluminum.

Fake

I've always been a liar hiding beneath the guise of "I just don't want to hurt anyone..."
Mostly though, I don't want them to hurt me back.

Trypophobia

This isn't a metaphor.
Even when I was little,
"Certain textures, like if they look like bugs could be in them, creep me out."
It's not like it's a crippling fear,
So I guess it's not really a phobia.
I can look at honeycomb
or hole-y wood and concrete
without running away screaming--
But it makes me all itchy,
Then it lets butterflies free in my stomach.
Nobody ever gets what I mean when I try to explain.
It's a real thing.
And the sight of lotus pods makes me sick.
(Especially lotus pods photoshopped into people's skin.)

Do Not Pass Go

I always think it'd be enough to just love
And be liked, maybe loved, too.
But in truth, I want to monopolize--
I'm sickeningly selfish.
I (half-heartedly) apologize.

Religiously Prodigal

I want to believe You are love... But then I think about Hell.

And I get these terrible blasphemous thoughts.

Jigsaw

I don't know how I got into this box.
You're all part of a picturesque seascape.
And I'm just all sorts of messed up.
I don't seem to fit.
... But it's okay.
Maybe they'll lose me under the couch.
Then I'll make friends with the dust bunnies.

Jerks.

Your immaturity hurt her and now I want to hurt your faces.

That Guy That Sits Next To Me

Thankyou for making me feel noticed. <3
Happy birthday.

I couldn't throw it away.
It's tacky.
But I felt bad, putting it in the trash.
Broken things go in the trash.
It's not broken.
So I hung the ugly thing on my door.
Even though you told me to throw it away.

"Be Pure." Sure.

Purity talks don't seem to be doing any good for anybody. I'm sort of tired of them.

Kids still have sex. No matter what you say, they're gonna have sex. I don't think you ever make much of a mark, running in circles telling us to stay outta bed.

And a lot of us kids in private school? We don't get sex ed. So we're taught about it by our tv or the Internet. Not the best teachers. Often inaccurate.

I'm sick of this separation of boys and girls, your insistence that girls do it only for the emotion. Because a girl that wants it is a whore or a slut, right? You're just perpetuating the labels of society. "He's a stud, but she...?" I won't be talked into sex by any guy, just because he grabbed hold of me emotionally and led. If I was going to have sex, it's not because I was a pushover or pressured or I thought it would bring our hearts closer together or something like that.

And I know it's not all about sex, as in straight up doing it. It's about looking away from the Victoria's Secret commercial on tv, too, right? I get that. But it's hard to feel pure by your definition. Doesn't everyone think about sex every now and then...? Or am I the only one who wonders? It feels like your standards are impossible to reach, so no wonder many don't try.

Soon enough I'll be done with high school, and even though you won't be preaching messages at me anymore, my reasons for not having sex have nothing to do with any impact you left.

I just don't want a baby, man.

... What am I missing?

I have a few issues that make me a bad sort of partner.

I make a mess of everything before it gets too serious. I'm quite honestly terrified by commitment.

I've got jealousy that seems to come on so easily. Sure I hide it, but sometimes I get a bit clingy. I'm a tad possessive. When I don't have your attention I start to feel lonely. I hate that about me.

I have something of an inability for honesty. When I'm hurting I won't let you see it. I get all afraid so my stomach turns to knots and butterflies; I'm afraid of your replies to my worries and so I lie. "I'm really okay."

I can't do much right. I'm the artsy type. I can't cook you anything, and I hate cleaning. I lack motivation for things I don't find interesting.

In the end, it comes down to something simple--I'm not all that great.

And in conclusion: I'm never getting married.

ICU and Hospital Food

Crack open the ribcage and remove the heart; even surgery can't fix the things that keep it beating, beating against the chest, banging its fists on the bone bar ribs. Need a needle. Thread. Sew up the lips of the already undead. Keep the zombies silent about questionable practices.

I'm sorry I'm a mess. I'm sorry I'm not honest. I'm sorry I can't forget all you mean to me and all the things in the world we had planned to see. together. I'll just google image search the sights and imagine we went there. If I half-die on the table tonight, they'll sew me up so you can't hear me scream, if you're even still listening.

... I can't read your thoughts, so maybe I'm over-thinking it. But maybe I'm not. Doctor, schedule me an open-mind surgery.

Answering Machine

I'm sorry, I can't get to your heart right now.
I'm too busy breaking mine.
I'll call you back when my chest is empty.
Please hold on till then.

So Enjoy the Show

stripedtents and tophats and l-o-s-e-r-s
our freakshow is made up of gimmicks

Adrenaline Is All That Makes This Heart Beat

I trust that the knife in your hand isn't for anything but buttering your bread as I turn my back to you for only a moment- not to ignore you, but to ask you to watch it. You say you've got it.

So please don't think any differently of me, don't rip me out of your picture framed memories, don't forget who I've always been. Don't give me any dull-blade-made scars to remember you by, if you have to let me go.

Wood Chest

I love you more than rainy days;
I need you more than sunshine.
You uproot me with inhibitions,
But keep your nest in a trunk that isn't mine.
I hate you more than lumberjacks;
You hurt me more than herbicide.
You drill holes with dull pretenses,
Still, Woodpecker, you worm your way inside.

These Gates Are Chained Shut

I set fire to your Trojan Horse and the ashes are raining down on my stone guarded town as I hear you scream, everything inside you stripped naked before this locked away city-- you tried to deceive me with the face of a sweet wooden pony, when all you really are is rotting beams.

I won't let you in