a way to cleanse my soul,
a cure to my diseases.
writing is my angel.
when my mouth becomes at fault
to organize my words,
writing is my savior.

but sometimes a haze
covers my analytical abilities.
like a cloud casting shadows onto earth's ground.
writers block is poisonous to my fragile brain.

i hate that i forget how to rescue myself.
i'm drowning in my lack of awareness.
struggling to speak through my hands.
i'm afraid it is too late
to save my once poetic mind.

even this makes me horrified
that i may
have lost my voice

Please don't try to fix me
With glitter glue and scotch tape
If you try to mend something that isn't broken
It will surely break
Please don't try to fix me
I am who i'm suppose to be
Please don't sand my rough edges
I'm growing restless
Just dont fix me

Music is a powerful thing.
     She laid, hoping to sleep.
She had her headphones in.
     The music took her somewhere
No dream could.
The sounds, the lyrics,
      Each flowing directly to he drums,
Took her away from the world
For just long enough
So that she'd feel
Overwhelming joy.

is the title of my self-published poetry book-- it will have stuff not seen by anyone or hello poetry, so tune in, if you wanna.

sometimes i hate being a poet, because i write about everyone but no one writes about me. i am the one spilling my heart out with ink; suffering, quietly, crying, and aching. why does my mind feel the need to empty itself and write? my words don't always heal this ache, they just make my chest bleed even more. why can't i be an empty person, who can let go and doesn't let their fingers fly with passion and remorse and spite? sometimes i hate being a writer, because all of these cries feel futile, they just keep reminding me that no one is listening to me.

I am the author of stories unwritten.

Of memories forgotten, and love birds smitten.

A lonely puppet on ethereal string,

but beware the lessons my stories bring.



For each story that you devour,

I'll take not seconds, minutes, or hours.

For each lesson learned, two more are lost.

Prime entertainment, this is the cost.



So be wary of words, as sweet as the sky.

For the faster you read, the quicker you die.

Techno-blurts bleed between neon corners.
And she walks among the flashing lights,
an illuminated epidemic.

His name is Arthur Brunswick,
or so the rumor goes and goes.
Art. Artie. God of Death.
With a hand on a gun,
the other on the pulse of America --
redundant --
his eyes slide up and down
her shimmers of symmetry.

If there's another place, somewhere,
he said bedding tobacco behind lip,
Let me know. Hell, let yourself know.
There would be no greater shame
than becoming a mystery,
even to yourself.

Whether or not she is nameless,
she strutted around body of the room,
untouched by the God of Death.
Stopping, her stare turned towards his,
Your name isn't Arthur Brunswick.
I know this, you know this.
Whether or not, you say my name,
you know who I am.
No matter who you say you are,
I have known what you are
since we were created
to be in this room.

They both turned their heads towards the ceiling,
waiting for the author to acknowledge them.
But he couldn't -- wouldn't -- for whatever reason
he told himself over and over and forever.

He grinned, Arthur of course, before saying,
This may not be entirely original, but you
cannot, will not be saved. Even by him.
There are a thousand girls like you,
nameless, an object of a wanna-be
pseudo-provocative, pretentious, poem --
Too many P's, big guy; let's tone it down.

Listen, this ******, he said as he pointed up,
wants to be David Foster Wallace;
all soft-spoken, trying too hard to be smart --
which came effortlessly to Wallace, not him --
but I can tell you what he doesn't want to be:
The person that saves you. Your messiah.
Are we using any words correctly, yeah?


Either way, he doesn't want to save you.
You are meant to die -- you're going to die --
know how I know that? Because. Because he...
He, Arthur pointed towards the ceiling,
He is telling me what to say, and these words
are leaving my mouth. You die, I die -- **** --
I die... I don't want to die, but we die.
Maybe you could have all of this dialogue,
but it's common for his males to, well,
you know, be interesting and somewhat developed.

Her body, pearl and on the verge of objectification,
had glimmers swim across her moon-crater-pores.
Looking up, as she had throughout her
line-by-line life, she asked the creator what next.
And, before she was given another breath,
the neon of the lights dissolved into her skin,
burning her alive, eating her alive;
her body falling apart, disintegrating.
Fatty rain drops of blood, bile, and memory,
gathered at the danced-upon tiles.

Arthur, frozen in the now disco heat,
swung his face towards the stripped away ceiling,
a lava sky staring back at him, waiting to choose.
He said *******, He said Just ******* do it,
and, at first, he was to live, out of spite,
but the temptation of choosing death over life
was too great for the author.

Arthur's skin flew across the room,
in differing shapes and sizes,
clinging onto the lights, revealing
the God of Death: the reader,
the absentee father, the scarred brother,
the crooked teeth heart-breaker,
the author, himself.

The pearl girl woke up, next to the author,
in a place in a space in his head,
telling him that she had the strangest dream.

To an aspiring author,

You may not realize it yet,
But you are a legend.
These words that you are writing,
These words that are a reflection
Of your soul
Of your beliefs
Of your passions
They will become your legacy.

These words that are falling from your pen
Like meteors falling to earth
Like snow falling to the ground
Like rage and sorrow and joy and hope
They will inspire millions in years to come.

My dearest author,

You may not realize it yet,
But your words are eternal
And your stories are everlasting.
As long as they are on paper
As long as they are on a screen
As long as they are written
They will become your legacy
And your legacy will become you.

Author,

You may not realize it yet,
But though your life may fade
And your breath may perish
Your words will last forever
Graven into paper
Etched into the world.