oil leaks
purple and blue
curving through the cobblestone streets
a loquacious city
punk kids with bruised knuckles
and art made out of broken glass
we walk with an elegant gait
parading the scuffs on our boots
and our cigarette filled lungs
collecting pennies as
the sun dips down
a candy red apple
sweeter when
the day
is
done

i wear the scars on my wrist
like a painter glorifies
the acrylic under his nails.
both are quiet masterpieces
that gain
more
appreciation through
time

poetry is my ******* therapy
coffee is my god
cheap ***** numbs the pain
but hey at least i still made
the choice
to go on
living

its always
strange
when new places
start to feel like home
and you've got holes in your
stalkings
holes in my lungs
where your words
filtered through me like
black smoke
with an intent to burn
and the ash is still on my tongue.
oh mother can you take away the poision
that consumes the waking hours
and the subconscious ones
cause he hurt me bad
and im a cracked teacup
leaking all over the window sill

thanks for calling me a ****.
i feel empowered
by my feminism.
i hope the girls
you bring to bed
can
really appreciate
your way with words
because nothing
makes the
******* drop
quicker

i got really drunk
and
peed
in a bathtub,
and it was
the happiest i've
been
in

a
while

there's an empty window sill
in the falling of the misty gray light
in tattered streaks.
how can the sun be made *****/?/
when the purest eyes blink
softly to smile at the ground
we can feel the ache
between the cracks of gravel
the earth straining beneath us,
groaning
howling maybe
with a wish for the
loneliness to be a white washed
school house
filled with brass bells ringing
and echoing laughter from light hearted children
with their rosy cheeks.
i miss my mother's rocking chair
and her arms,
stable branches in the brittle winter.