Sunday, September 4, 2011

Drunken Paper Airplane

Self-loathing outpouring into nothingness.


Craving, but never satisfied.
I craving and (s)He refusing
to satisfy.

I see two standing,
talking, no

I've nothing to offer now but
some shallow self-hate,
and not many are in the market
for that
these days.

I'm eating away at myself from the inside out.
I'm hungry...starving...for myself.

Friday, August 19, 2011

We crave the melancholy.
It pays the bills,
or at least allows us to do the thing
that bolsters our egos.

We create madness,
because our views of the world are so narrow
that we think that beauty exists only in

Our heads hung over toilets,
or rain pouring down our backs
and soaking our cigarettes--
those things are
we scream at the haunting

we slowly chant in the backs of our heads
as we rip ourselves apart.

Or maybe I'm alone here.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Spend just a small amount of time in solitude,
and you'll forget that anyone else exists.
You start doing things you don't normally do,
like making weird mouth-noises
and having conversations with yourself.

Spend enough time alone and you'll feel
like you'll never see another face again.
Maybe your heart will race, or
your legs will get restless,
but you'll definitely be afraid.

Spend time with yourself--lots of it--
and you'll have three paintings
laying across your floor.
You'll have a notebook full of music,
and you'll have knit five scarves.

Spend too much time with nobody around,
and everything you see will be
some sort of weapon.
Every sharp edge or corner
stands out unmistakably.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Drunk something

being drunk alone
feels no different from
being sober alone

every time I see your face
I cringe
it does something to me
every time I feel those eyes
looking at me
I want to vomit
into this bush beside me

each drag teaches me something new
about myself
like the fact that the inside of my throat
can feel burnt

you reached out to me
when I was alone
and I turned you away
because I'm a badass motherfucker

now I'm lonely
and it's 1:38 AM
on a friday
I've sat here for hours
trying to kill time
but nothing's working
not even the booze

my arms and legs tingle,
but that doesn't mean a damn thing
I'm still here
on my bed
under my covers
with a brain that hates its owner

Hello, dear,
why don't you go fuck yourself?

Autosexuality, yeah...

that's what I need.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

From the back inside cover

The world's gone mad but it calls me the mad one
People put shit in their mouths and spit it out,
but I'm insane for defacing a book or two.
Strangers stare at strangers as they dine
in the same room, yet
everyone pretends that his privacy is
Somewhere someone sings a line
from his favourite song, and
someone somewhere else sings the same line
at the same time,
and neither of them are unique.
I ask the world to be different,
but I don't know how that would
make anything better.
I want people to stop being so goddamned stupid,
but would life be much better if everyone were smart?
We, the mad ones,
the "conscious" ones...
we sit in our cars and
talk about things that matter just as little
as the things that
the dopeheads
the gangsters
the rednecks
the hipsters
talk about
but we're convinced that the universe
balances upon them.
I'm sure everyone else feels the same.


Tuesday, June 14, 2011


Birds and bees fuck
like humans
but for us it's "beautiful"
or dirty
or reckless
or casual
or harmful.
Birds and bees eat
and shit
like we do
but our food is tasty
and our shit smells great
we are:
We are not animals

Monday, May 30, 2011

I am a shape-shifter
my face changes
in form, in color, in elasticity
my face sags
my neck sags
my eyes sag
my eyelids are heavy
there are lines around my mouth
my blemishes are red
and I am ugly
when I'm alone.

When I'm with them
I am young
I have bright eyes
a nice mouth
radiant skin
I never see it, but I feel it
at times
when they tell me that I look good

My face when I am alone
is that of a woman aged 50 years
aged by bitterness,
by apathy,
and I am ugly.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Seeing people fills me with some kind of wretched anxiety—
no, terror—
and I get dizzy,
and my breathing becomes sharp,
and I watch the woman engulfed in blubber
sitting on the bench with her five children,
playing paddy-cake or

The fat disgusts me; why?
The swollen neck,
and the stomach that falls over the thighs
like a sack,
like a fanny-pack:
it makes me vomit.
I think about the fact that humans shit,
and I vomit twice.

I see an old man walking not two feet in front of me,
and my heart races,
and my muscle stiffen.
I blink five times and my eyes start to roll back into my head.
He has a hole in his back pocket,
and I think of all the things that may have fallen out.
He turns around,
and I think that he is going to speak to me,
but he simply bends down to pick up a half-smoked cigarette;
he finishes it.

The couple holds hands and a baby.
The man has a mullet.
The woman has a butterfly tattoo.
The baby is naked, save a diaper.
I want to murder them.
I want to drown them in a river.
I want to carve out the woman's tattoo.
I want to drag the man by his hair and
scrape his face across the asphalt.

I know what is going to happen.
It's only a matter of time.

Sunday, May 22, 2011

Thursday, May 19, 2011

I want to vomit all the bad out of life.

Purge every anxiety, every moment of overwhelming sadness, every betrayal, every disgusting thing I've ever done and seen done, every short-lived depression, every day without affection, every shitty thing they've said about me, every shitty thing I've said about everyone, every time they've touched me, every humoring comment, every text message, every hit of that, every fucked up dirty thought, every sob, every sense of extreme guilt, every shameful act, every thoughtless word, every fight.

I want to take a scalding hot shower and burn it all off of me.

I want to go to the river and throw it all in with a thousand-pound weight attached.

I want to pour gasoline over it and set it on fire.

I want to chop it up and make soup out of it.

I want to wrap it up in garbage bags and send it out to sea.

I want to bury it twelve-thousand feet deep.

I want it out of me and away from me and I want to be able to go more than a day without it rising to the top of my throat and being swallowed back down. I'm metabolizing it, slowly; it's going to run through my veins. It's going to be an inextricable part of me and I'm going to become the shit that I hate.

I want to vomit all the bad out of life.

I want to taste the good again.

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

you're gonna take everything away from me I just know it

Monday, May 16, 2011

I wrote this while high, Okay?

There was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.

The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--

but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.

He cried, because he thought that his idea was so brilliant yet unwritable,
and while he was crying, a bird flew into his room through a window.

"Birds have to be in stories; they're really cool and stuff," the bird said.

"No, silly bird. Birds are often in stories, but they don't HAVE to be in stories. I could name at least 100 stories in which there aren't birds," said the story-writer.

"Go ahead, then, do it," challenged the bird.

The story-writer couldn't think of a single story without a bird.
In fact, the only stories he could think of were stories that specifically mentioned birds:
Cinderella...well, okay, Cinderella was the only story he could think of at all.

The story-writer ignored the bird and continued brainstorming ideas for a story.

"I know!" exclaimed the story-writer. "I will write about a girl who has a wicked step-mother and wicked step-sisters and has to clean the house all day long!"

The bird chimed in, "Oh, no, that story has already been written. It's called Cinderella."

"Shit," said the story-writer. He couldn't get Cinderella off the brain.

He sat, and he thought.
He watched the clock for thirteen hours straight.
He sipped on some whiskey.
He read books and watched films and drew pictures and went fishing.
He did everything EXCEPT write stories.

"Say, now, why exactly do you call yourself a story-writer?" asked the bird, snarkily. "Have you ever even written a book?"

"I believe you meant to ask, 'Have you ever even written a story?' dear bird. And the answer is 'no,'" replied the story-writer.

"Then how do you get off calling yourself a story-writer?" demanded the bird.

"Well, I certainly am in the process of story-writing. Therefore, I am a story writer."

"I see."

The story-writer decided that his original story idea could be plausible with a bit of modification.
He would write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story about a story-writer trying to write a story...and it would end there.
Then, there could be some realization of plot and perhaps even a climax.
Maybe the innermost story-writer would realize that he was part of a story being written by a story-writer, and his universe would implode.
In fact, a resolution to the problem of the infinite story-within-a-story could be that you have to begin with the infinitely innermost story and work your way backward, to infinity, of course.
The idea was a little scattered, but he decided that he would run with it and see where it went.

Just as he was putting his fingers to the keyboard, a woman entered the room.

"Now, woman, what on earth are you doing in my room?" chastised the story-writer.

"I was written into this room by the story-writer who is writing a story about us.
In fact, I am here to deliver that very news to you: you are part of a story being written by a story-writer who is part of a story being written by a story writer who is...well, I think you get the idea.
To infinity, and stuff."

"Well, I'll be."


The story-writer realized that the reason his ideas were scattered was because they were fragments of the ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him, and the ideas of that story-writer were fragments of ideas of the story-writer who was writing about him...and so on, to infinity, and stuff.

"Your universe will implode when I shut the door on my way out," the woman warned.

"Yes, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing my story will implode after that, and the universe of the story-writer who is writing his story will implode after that...and so on, to infinity, and stuff. Right?"

"Wrong," said the woman, just before slamming the door.

As she did, an infinite number of universes simultaneously imploded. The timing of the women's entries in each of the universes was so perfect as to cause a simultaneous implosion so impressive that the result was an explosion which birthed an infinite number of universes.

And in the innermost of those universes...

...there was a story-writer, and he always started his stories with "There was a..." because he wasn't very original.

The story-writer wanted to write a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a story-writer who was writing a story about a--

but then he realized that doing so was literally impossible.

So, instead, he wrote about a baboon that danced to "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole to earn money for his dying owner's chemotherapy.

It was a best-seller, especially in the cancer-having, baboon-owning demographic, and the story-writer lived extravagantly until the day that he died.
"The End" is a really sad bunch of words to hear, no matter the context.

It can make you cry even when it's "happy."

Friday, May 13, 2011

to be continued indefinitely

I can finally write my masterpiece.

Words are spewing out of my mouth and it doesn't make sense and I can't stop them I'm in a haze. My head is buzzing the words are echoing but I can't stop they just keep coming. 'You know, you know, you know, you know, you know, you know...' I see that face from the corner of my eye just stop it just stop talking why can't I and bullshit seeps between my lips and i'm talking in circles with too many 'um's.

the slide is the boat and you're on top and you're holding my arm and i'm hanging. i don't think that i will really die but i do and i don't want you to let go. you do and my heart jumps into my throat but it lasts less than two seconds and i'm in the grass and you say 'let's do it again.'

the bed is bigger than mine and the tv is in front of me and everything makes me think of sex. the bed post is a giant phallus and i rub myself up against it. i kiss it now it's a man and we're kissing; the tv is on and he has just flung a meatball down her dress. the bedpost has my bite marks in it. a statue of mary sits on the end table. mary watches me rub myself against the phallic bedpost and my grandparents are in the living room.

the crows are on the fence and i run back and forth along it with my dogs and i think of 'the raven' and edgar allen poe even though i don't know what or who that is but i've heard it. the crows scare me as i think that they are going to peck my eyes out and i hope that they do. i look at the sun for too long and i want to go blind because i want to know what it's like.

my baby brother sits on me and i hate myself but i'm only a child
the guilt and the shame ruins me

we sit on the bed and i'm scared because you tell me that you want to go to hell because you know that your mom will be there. you don't want to be without your mom and i write you a song as if i know so much. my grandma hates me and she always has but she loves you and so does my mom and that is why i have my scar on my knee.

that boy kissed that girl and i'm angry and i hide in the tunnel and throw rocks at the inside and it makes such a nice clang but i know that i'm making a fool of myself but i don't care.

french fries taste good when you're eight and find out that your best friend got killed by his dad. but he wasn't your best friend but you tell everyone that he was and you've convinced yourself that he was too. the play place isn't good on a day like this because you always hole yourself up in there and don't come out and your mom worries so much and today you would really hole yourself up in there. the second half of this memory is a lie.

squeeze my hand baby, please, squeeze it quit being so unresponsive quit being so stiff i see that look in your eyes please squeeze it don't take it away before you squeeze it because i'm going to have to do it if you do because i promised myself this is the test just squeeze I feel you flinch please.

the pillow feels good between my thighs and i don't ever want to look another person in the eyes again and I want to sink into the bed and never leave

we race on stick horses around derby time and i can't think about anything but sex even though i don't know what it is but it's all that i've thought about since we watched fly away home and you knew what i was doing there in the sleeping bag

but i hated that blue puppet and it scared me so much that i wished that you would have left it at the church but i didn't want to take it off of my bed because i felt bad for it. i hid under the blankets while you were in my room and played with myself and i knew that you knew but i fell asleep before i could care and i dreamed about the giant blue puppet and it terrified me but i told it that i loved it when i told my bears and dolls because i thought that it would kill me if i didn't

dad took me to see a man all the time and he traded baseball cards and had a big white beard but i don't know his name and dad doesn't remember doing this and i wonder why I do. i remember the castle and the bag of chips that i ate there but i will never know what it was or who that man was or why my dad never made me do schoolwork.

the babysitter called me a pig and i sobbed as i shoveled down my cottage cheese and choked on the curds and felt myself balloon and heard myself oink.

you wrote me a note 'if i'm dead tomorrow it's all your fault' and i didn't know what to do so i told on you. we're not friends anymore and i'm sorry but i think that you're a bitch.

'times of sex 1000000000000' 'kassandra what is this?' 'micah wrote it i don't know what sex is'

the commercial is anti-abortion and I say 'that's terrible' and you reprimand me for knowing what sex is and you get mad at me when i talk about gay week at disney because i'm not supposed to know what that is either because i'm in third grade

surfin' USA on my swing and so many times we sat in the chair swing and talked about nothing i miss the sun and i miss my back yard and i miss lauren and britney and michael and chad sams and feeding britney feces on a stick because she thought it was chocolate. her house smelled like ramen noodles and i hear that she has a baby now. the roly polies were so fun to play with after a game of tornado.

you sat on my bed and we wrote in my diary together and i write something but you scribble it out, laughing. i remember it but i won't tell because i know that you wouldn't want me to. you can still see it underneath the scribble marks.

i've always hated my ga-ga and she has always hated me but i don't know why but she did something to me and i know this because of how much i hate her and never want to see her evil face again.

"she's helped me more than you ever could hope to, and in ways that you could never comprehend."

this isn't over just wait it will last forever it cannot end.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

If you want everyone to love you,
then you need to be mysterious.

The trick is making people believe that you're showing yourself to them and ONLY them...

They want to feel special, as though they've found a secret treasure-

-but they can never know your face.

If they're allowed to know your face at all, then it can only be a silhouette,
or a hand-covered profile,
or a shot with red highlights and blue shadows and no green
and no face.

(for no one is as beautiful when fully exposed)

Your name might be an alias,
but it has to be interesting.

(but probably not alabaster; it's a bit too overt)

You should speak in riddles,
and you should make them try to
figure you out,
all the while laughing at the fact that
you never actually say anything.

You should be separated from them by a glass screen.

They should never hear your voice; if they do, then it should be low,
and distorted by eerie tones
and music box melodies.

Because the truth of the matter is this:
the more you know of someone, the less you can love them.

This is because we are all

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Everything is all up inside me
If bloodletting were an option for the psyche,
then I'd run with it.

I think thousands of things that I never say.
I may mean to,
but they won't come out.

...there's just so much that you don't know.
"Hi, my name is Stacie."

"Hi, Stacie."

"I've been sober eighteen years now, and man, is it a bitch.
I crave the bottle every day.
I'm irritable, and it's hard to be around the people I love.
I can't stand being sober anymore.
My thoughts consume me;
see, I'm left to face all the uncertainties of life,
all the messed up shit in the world,
all the things I hate about myself,
and I've nothing to lessen the blow.
I want to better myself,
and I want to have meaningful relationships,
but all I can think about is how much I fucking hate sobriety.
I hate being 'of sound mind,'
because for me that means insanity.
I don't know what to do anymore.
My choices become more and more evident every day.
Do I drink myself into a daily stupor,
or do I choose to end it now?"

"How old are you, Stacie?"


Tuesday, April 19, 2011


I'm surrounded by a wall
with an electric field, and
so many barbs,
and lots of nasty prickly things.

The littlest things make me scared.
I run to the corner like a child,
and I shudder.

Feelings wrench your gut,
but you can't distinguish between
legitimacy and

The more often those feelings
prove themselves to be valid,
the harder it gets to
shake them off.

A constant state of heart-in-throat
is likely quite unhealthy.

An incessant tingling of nerves
probably means something bad.

Monday, April 18, 2011

The music swam through the room;
we were in a fishbowl,
and everyone gurgled
and everyone “bloop bloop bloop”-ed.
The strumming fucked the plucking
and the drumming fucked the plinking
and it was one giant orgy
that moaned
into my ears.

Is this 250-word sentence grammatically correct?

The single most important reason Miss Katherine Shallot was, at the incredibly unstable and defensless age of twenty-one, decidedly emotionally unavailable at all times to everyone she encountered and desired a relationship with, she realized, was not merely because she was desperately insecure and unsure of herself, her abilities, her looks, her smell, her voice, her walk, her poise, and her brains, but was also a combination of the many hurts and insensitivities that had been thrown at her by the various people that she had trusted throughout her life who, it stands to reason after the examination of all available and objective evidence, cared less about the permanent (or, in better terms, irrevocable and unforgivable) damages that they may have been doing to her psyche and to her soul, but more about the benefit that they would gain from treating her as—to be ever-so-sincerely cliché—a doormat or a rug or whatever you may like to call it; they treated her on most occasions as someone who is a mere rung on that ladder toward success (which anti-capitalists very much like to attack in their motivational speeches) in a world that not only promotes self-assurance and self-motivation, but also encourages the use of any available, vulnerable human being (quite resembling the work of a puppet master) to gain prominence and success in various abhorrent societal constructs including, but not limited to: careers, education, politics, and general relationships in which a person has in mind something material to gain.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

the only word I am able to think is



being in a perpetual state of screaming FUCK would be really satisfying.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

All of our good souls whizzed before my eyes
in hedonistic splendor.
They were having orgies on acid trips
and creating, and
creating, and
with help from their friends;
never remembering any of it when they were of
sound enough mind
to write it down
or sketch it out
or hum its tune
or whatever else artists do.
They were afraid of reality--
they couldn't get a foot in it--
and they saw stars and
colors and
shapes and
she that was not there.
They were in a Blue Dream Haze
and knew of only one way out:
that final blow.
But they were too scared
of what lay on the other side of the solution
to actively seek it out.
No, they just dreamed of it as they flipped all sorts of
bubblegum, jawbreakers, caramels and peppermints;
dreaming of Sheba
and her carpet ride to a place called Sanity
and on to Adulthood
and Responsibility.
They hated Sheba, so they broke her up,
wrapped her in leaves
and smoked her;
turned her to liquid,
filled the syringe
and shot her up;
crushed her remains,
whipped out a straw
and snorted her;
or whichever way Sheba is best taken.
They gave her magic carpet bad directions,
so they ended up back in Candyland,
where tomorrow doesn't matter.
All that matters is how full you can stuff your face
before puking.

They had both their feet outside Reality,
so they were unaware of the burning books
and smashed instruments
and broken pictures
and spilled fuel
and mass genocide.
They heard about gallons upon gallons of water
and turned to their friends, asking,
"Do you know anything about that?"
and no one did.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

She reminds me of you, in a good way.

She's a cute little thing. Snarky, feisty, whatever. I like her.

Thursday night, everything's fine, except you've got that look in your eye
when I'm tellin' a story and you find it boring,
you're thinking of something to say.
You'll go along with it then drop it and humiliate me in front of our friends.

Then I'll use that voice that you find annoyin' and say something like
"yeah, intelligent input, darlin', why don't you just have another beer then?"

Then you'll call me a bitch
and everyone we're with will be embarrassed,
and I wont give a shit.

My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation,
and I know that I should let go,
but I can't.
And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
I know I should forget, but I can't.

You said I must eat so many lemons
'cause I am so bitter.
I said
"I'd rather be with your friends mate 'cause they are much fitter."

Yes, it was childish and you got aggressive,
and I must admit that I was a bit scared,
but it gives me thrills to wind you up.

My fingertips are holding on to the cracks in our foundation,
and I know that I should let go,
but I can't.
And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
Find More lyrics at
I know I should forget, but I can't.

Your face is pasty 'cause you've gone and got so wasted, what a surprise.
Don't want to look at your face 'cause it's makin' me sick.
You've gone and got sick on my trainers,
I only got these yesterday.
Oh, my gosh, I cannot be bothered with this.

Well, I'll leave you there 'till the mornin',
and I purposely wont turn the heating on
and dear God, I hope I'm not stuck with this one.

My fingertips are holding onto the cracks in our foundation,
and I know that I should let go,
but I can't.
And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
I know I should forget, but I can't.

And every time we fight I know it's not right,
every time that you're upset and I smile.
I know I should forget, but I can't.


Black eyes are a mark of it.
The kind of eyes that are focused on something behind you;
they reach beyond your head and
they don’t look very kind.

The way your soul gets chipped away at
with every touch; every shove;
every cold nudge to the left as he
storms on toward the unreachable.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


You’re describing yourself and you don’t even know it.
Every word can be turned around;
they’re each of the three fingers
pointing back at you.

Every time I look out at the highway and see all of the cars,
and think about all of the people in all of the cars,
handling giant machines and thinking they’re so special,
I smile.
We’re silly things.

I cannot fucking do this anymore.
Why is responsibility something people feel that I owe them when they are lacking it?

Why should I lose sleep and sanity for the sake of "being a good friend," when the other party couldn't give a damn about me?

I've been in trouble, and I've needed your help. Just once, of course.
But I was left to my own devices,
because you've only ever loved me in an "eros" sort of way.
Hello, there, what can I do for you?

I've been needed, and I've been expected to "bail you out" so many times; I've always done it.

But not this time.

This is the time to learn to be big boys and girls. If you can always rely on me, then you'll never learn.

Besides, it's your fault for choosing to do the
risky business.

So fuck you.


Thursday, March 10, 2011

My breath wasn’t just warm; it was sticky.
It felt good against my cold tongue, but bad on my lips.
I got the strangest urge to scream a word,
but I couldn’t.
I stood frozen; not a muscle in my body would move.

Loneliness is only debilitating when you fear for your life,
and at that moment, the beating of my heart—
not like the “thud, thud, thud” of a drum,
but like the “pitter-pitter-patter-pat” of a quick mouse
across wooden floors—
told me that I was very, very afraid.

The fear was irrational, but it had something to do with
a man in a coat (not a trench coat; a normal overcoat)
and a little girl with a dollar sticking out of her pocket.

That dollar was a goner, and I wanted to yell at the girl—
tell her, “Little girl! A man is a coat is going to steal your dollar!”
but I couldn’t,
because my brain told me that men in overcoats don’t steal dollar bills
from little girls.

When I was a few blocks away, I heard a shriek,
and an anguished little voice yelled,
“My dollar! My dollar! He stole from me.”

The pitter-patter stopped.

I remembered the first time someone stole from me.
He stole my
pink bicycle
from the end of my driveway.

Exposure to evil at a young age, and
learning that you’re a victim, and
realizing that nothing of yours is safe:
It ruins you.

That little girl is a goner.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Every secret I've never told...

every wrongdoing I've never confessed...

is hidden in each of these poems.

And I will never, ever tell them in any other way.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

It's Called an Extended Metaphor, Fuckass. Read-Along

A little girl took a walk
to see her new neighborhood
for the first time.
She immediately noticed that everything was ugly.
No matter how newly-painted the houses were,
or how clean the cars were,
they were ugly underneath their fixings.

A little boy saw her walking
and decided to scare her silly.
He got some mud on his hands
and walked up behind her with it.
He rubbed and rubbed her hair with it;
he waved his muddy fingers through it.
The girl was not scared at all,
but she faked surprise
and faked her scared screams,
and this happened every day
again and again,
and she got tired of it.


She walked out of her neighborhood,
and down to the lake,
where there were flowers everywhere:
pretty flowers, gorgeous flowers,
and they whispered, "Darling, you're beautiful.
You deserve flowers as beautiful as we
to fashion into a necklace
and drape over your shoulders."
She remembered her dandelion
sitting in her cup at home,
and these flowers did seem much prettier.
She did agree that maybe she needed
these flowers
to complement her beauty.

The little girl saw an old, log house
and it looked so interesting.
She saw a window that she could peek through,
and she knew that she shouldn't spy,
but she was too curious not to.
She looked through that window
and saw nothing worth looking at,
but she returned every day,
assuming that there must be something
neat in there
if she looked at just the right time.

She went to her best friend's house
(she loved her best friend very much)
and they sat and played with bugs
for a little while,
not doing much,
when a pretty girl with a rich daddy
and a big house with lots of toys
asked her to go to her house and play.
The little girl told her best friend
that her mom called her home,
but it was a lie.
She went to the rich girl's house
and played with so many toys,
but it wasn't fun anyway.

The little girl had a diary,
and she named it Janie.
She wanted to tell Janie everything in the world,
but she was afraid that Janie would be mad,
so the little girl only told Janie what she wanted to hear
and kept everything else locked up inside her head-box,
which was the little girl's way of saying "self."

Saturday, February 19, 2011

I feel inferior

and I'm confused

because it seems strange to be jealous of someone who is basically you.

I fucking suck at writing.

Friday, February 18, 2011


A mind reels with nowhere to go.
It winds and winds and
but produces nothing.
A problem.
I see it, but I will never know
how to fix it.

I’ve always wanted to invent something.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


My fingers tear through a snag and all I can think about is the fact that my face may be pretty, but it is framed by a torn-up bird's nest. After that, all I can think about is how insignificant hair is. I want it gone.
My lips are dry and flaky, my skin is rough and red and bumpy, and my eyes are chocolate-rimmed and smudgy. Nothing about today feels good, and by “feels good” I mean “looks good.”
My mood is set, and based on what?
Nothing too important.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

Oneword; wool

wool blanket draped over shoulders
coffee in one hand; a pen in the other
notebook on lap
you feel a cliche
but you do it anyway
because you like it.

sometimes we stray from conformity
when "conforming" can make us happy too
do we really need to be all that

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I hope someone writes a song about me someday
I hope I can be a pervasive thought
that nags and nags all day.
Maybe I am.
I hope to hear that line that
speaks to me,
tells me, "you know what this one is about,"
when I'm sipping tea in my room or
gripping my steering wheel too tight.

I am selfish, but I want to have to tell someone
that I'm not everything, that it's unhealthy to feel that way,
all the while cherishing the sentiment
in the dark corner of my bed,
where I grip my pillow as tight as the steering wheel,
and sip dopamine
and lavender extract
from my teddy's hands

Thursday, February 10, 2011

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

one word; 60 seconds

sitting alone in a darkroom
is much different from sitting alone in a dark room.
darkrooms aren’t that dark;
they’re very red
very sensual
i would touch myself in a darkroom,
but not a dark room.
i would eat a crimson apple in a darkroom and feel evil,
but in a dark room i would only feel

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Be as cryptic as can be,
because you have no privacy;
there is no room for the honesty
of a bound book of secrets
locked and stashed beneath your mattress.

The honesty to the self is healthy
and necessary,
but your brain is not a tablet and
its storage space is only room enough for bits and
pieces of your whole.

You are trapped inside of y-o-u,
and everything is a blur,
and everything is falsified,
and you don't remember the last time you
had a conversation with yourself.

You cannot trust yourself.
You cannot spill your secrets to y-o-u,
because she never keeps them,
and she would judge you for them anyway.

Lie, lie, lie,
and forget that you want to be "good"
forget that y-o-u stifles you and
forget that you haven't spoken
in a while.

Monday, January 24, 2011

The Flaws of Relating

Words won’t ever fully get at what I’m getting at here:
a casually-tossed opinion mistaken for judgment,
an observation interpreted as vanity,
a spectacular theory on the whole of life,
never to be quite understood.

I know
you think
I mean
that thing
you hear,

But the pictures in my brain are nothing like
the words I spew in half-assed explanation.

You don’t get me;
that doesn’t mean that I’m special.

I am like you are like he is like she is like they are like we.

Not one of us gets the other,
because our minds are transcendent,
but communication isn't.