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
creating
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
candies:
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 www.sweetslyrics.com
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.

Obsessed

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

Irony

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.
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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.

and FUCK EVERYONE

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.