I've got prose
in different area codes

This is the kind of poem I wish I had
an old rusty typewriter for
so each disgusted clack crack and punch
hit like your shatter jaw swings
But this will have to suffice
and
yeah
okay
fine
It makes you feel better
to put things
in such a stark black and white
that ugly gaudy stale whole-half-truth you
claim to love
then
yeah
okay
fine
All the ill forgotten pill hurts were all my fault
and we can pretend all the long scarlet letter
scratches you carved on my back were
from someone else
So burn my name to the ground
and put your cigarettes out on
my pictures
and all it will amount to
is your last denial
of all I had to give

Locked innocence in chains,
Manipulation speechless in the reins,
Grown compassion crashes and burns,
Deceitful visions run alone cold drawn hands,
Soaring promiscuity caught on fire at each turn,
Never spoken, never learned;
Thoughtless boy with cruel intention,
Melted the copper caressed in dwindles affection.

Day 1
He walks in drowning in his own shame.
He tilts his head down shifting his hair slightly out of place.
He freezes and his eyebrows dance with the melody of his words.

Day 1
She walks in, embarrassed of her ways.
She grasps her hair, trying to sneak it into place.
She breaks and her feet withhold to carry any further.

Day 2
He gazes over his shoulder looking for a faith.
He shades his worries and looks to the ground.
He questions all morals and paces backwards.

Day 2
She whispers hate to herself and lives it.
She touches her hand where it colors of polished purple and blue.
She protects her anger and stashes aside the defeat.

Day 8
He runs from his fear of ignorance.
He struggles to keep composure as he dreams to be ordinary.
He wants himself, he needs himself to be sound.

Day 8
She finds every excuse to dive into the crashing seas.
She jitters in the face of nurture.
She wraps herself in expression of calamity.

Day 11
They disapprove where hearts rest.
They ****** themselves with society etiquette.
They dig further and further into holes of deception.

Day 11
They were never quit on the just track.
They continue the pursuit for justifications.
They surrender their will to hang on any longer, they reach for the final glimpse of light.

My brain is much too foggy
And much too sporadic
To need stimulants,
Much less depressants.
I can dance all night
To the beat of my own rhythm,
And not need a reason
To act so rebellious.
I am a free spirit.
My brain isn't jealous
Of ones that need guidance
To make it see demons
And feel ecstasy, feel high.
I can get that on my own,
It's in my chemistry.
I don't want it to start,
But I'll go for a ride.
But your pills are cute, sweetheart.

i want a messy eyed boy to
drag his tongue upon my sun filtered skin
and lay me out in a field of wildflowers with
wide fingers and veined arms
wandering all over my aching body.

i want him to whisper things to me
in a light voice as wavering and deep
as trickling water
and windblown leaves.

i want him to feed me vines and fungi,
psychedelic plants,
and watch me trip into the
winking sky,
a wandering abyss.

i want him to growl all over me,
holding my bare body in his arms,
fitting his skin in every crevice that is possible
in these mundane bodies.

i want sweat sliding off me,
and the feel of bodies in motion. i want
him to
stroke my skin and paint it lavender
with crushed flowers and
put soil in my hair, while i
wiggle my naked feet
in the air.

i want him to swallow me
like i am overfilling liquor
in a crystal bottle,
desperate and excited.
i want him to leave
pink bite marks on the waiting flesh of
my collar bones,
and breathe into me;

i want him to write on my skin
in the fire of the dwelling night,
my soul is enigmatic and
it draws him in
like art.

i crave hands around my waist,
colors on my tongue,
the earth in between my toes,
and somebody to kiss me under
the lightning storms.

Sometimes, the Healing process
hurts more than the injury, itself.