Compton, New York
West side, East side
Nope.
Just a white girl from Mississippi,
Nah, it's not a joke.

My true self, my true words, my true pain.
The world shouldn't have to cope.
The world shouldn't have to think it's alone.
Cause I'm with you,
Oh, I'm with you.
All that hate that you own.
I used to feel some too, but the kind that you evoke?
All that racism that makes you choke.
I'm with you, but you don't have to cope.

Before you let counterproductive words slip from your mouth,
take a minute to think of me. Don't let our fight go South.
I will make a pact from my soul to yours,
I will not let them make racism into another "war".

I don't know what it means to be normal.
Does society control what is really formal?
Combed hair, and church goers,
anything less, is your bar lower?
I want piercings and tattoos,
I like punk music and rap too.
Ripped jeans and Vans Shoes,
is my style still taboo?
Look at the kids being themselves.
When society locks them in a jail cell and says look,
"You are abnormal and your weird,
if this world was a painting, you're a smear. You're not one of us, so we'll look at you funny and then maybe you'll become one of us one day, sunny!"
But no, it can't be like this
since when do we take what's not ours and throw it in the abyss?
I'm confident in who I am
and I'm proud of who I've become.
I'd rather be me everyday, over what you prefer the outcome.
-n.s.

i'm holding your breath
so you won't leave me
and i see you slowly suffocating 
i'm too selfish to let go
so instead i suffer with you
i feel your lungs straining
and i ask you to take me in
like i'm the last drag
of your last cigarette 
let me fill your collapsing lungs
the ones that are crumbling into each other
the way we did
i was always your nicotine
and you always knew 
i'd be the end of you
but you couldn't quit me
i always knew
this would end
i'm an addiction out of style
we always knew
we would consume each other
in the worst of ways
so i'll tear you apart
from the inside out
we've always known 
that the smoke in your lungs
has my name on it
i've become a disease
i guess that makes me cancer
or at least 
something just as vile
just as ruthless 
just as deadly
just as selfish 
at least you'll remember me
i guess that all describes me
and i guess the smoke 
describes you too
and it describes us
how we drifted into each other
stealing parts of one another
and setting off again
losing ourselves
but gaining new parts
and maybe the point
is losing yourself in another 
but if we're the smoke
then we're the cancer
we're just as vile
just as ruthless 
just as deadly
just as selfish

[holyoak]

She believes in benevolent strangers.
She believes in seclusion,
She believes in chaos and confusion.
She can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Knowing that it's a mirage,
She happily believes in the disillusion.

She believes in dreams, she believes in hope.
Even when the situations are too difficult to cope.

She is bubbly. She talks a lot.
Of random things, Of vague thoughts.

She asks - "Who art thou?"
Can you connect to your darkest, blackest fantasies & thoughts?
Have you made a life for yourself where you can feel them, experience them?
I have . . .

I believe
and
I am crazy.
I see a picture to what seems hazy.
Yes, I am odd.
But, I am free . . .

Don't listen to me; my heart's been broken.
I don't see anything objectively.

I know myself; I've learned to hear like a psychiatrist.
When I speak passionately,
That's when I'm least to be trusted.

It's very sad, really: all my life I've been praised
For my intelligence, my powers of language, of insight-
In the end they're wasted-

I never see myself.
Standing on the front steps. Holding my sisters hand.
That's why I can't account
For the bruises on her arm where the sleeve ends ...

In my own mind, I'm invisible: that's why I'm dangerous.
People like me, who seem selfless.
We're the cripples, the liars:
We're the ones who should be factored out
In the interest of truth.

When I'm quiet, that's when the truth emerges.
A clear sky, the clouds like white fibers.
Underneath, a little gray house. The azaleas
Red and bright pink.

If you want the truth, you have to close yourself
To the older sister, block her out:
When I living thing is hurt like that
In its deepest workings,
All function is altered.

That's why I'm not to be trusted.
Because a wound to the heart
Is also a wound to the mind.

I didn't see it coming
but I felt it in every ounce of my being
an impact so heavy that fragments of my fragile self was scattered throughout the street

dizzily I tried to piece myself together
resulting in such a mess

inanimate reflection of distress

so I tore myself a part again and figured I'd lay there in the world
on the pavement
pieces of me in cement
floating away like rainwater, caught in the flood of duress

susceptible to the elements

but I couldn't stay scattered about
being walked upon and forgotten
sweet apathy I didn't care
but care came back all a'sudden
so I tried to sweep me back together this time
more patient
more diligent

armed with scissors and tape and glue
some pieces gone forever to the deep
some pieces too withered to renew
but there I stood

all askew
no more the one I thought I knew
But the one I chose to keep