For weeks, all I wanted was to paint.
It felt like the solution
to nothing in particular,
to particularly everything.
The easel collects dust in the corner of my room now.
An empty canvas rests upon it, mocking me
for thinking I had an easy way out.

Eating my beyond burger with a fork and knife,
drag race in the background,
my Samantha doll by my side.
This isn't loneliness anymore.
This is just life now.

I'm not very good with words anymore,
maybe I never was.
So little has changed and yet everything has.
I still long for love.
I still want to be wanted.
That might never change.

Yet now this lonely world is one I've come to accept,
come to love.
I may be my only friend here,
but that's one more than last year.

Nothing I create is good,
but I'm learning to create anyway.
I'm learning to share my bad art,
at least it's art.
Right?

I dream of slitting the throat of the dog next door.
Someone outta shut him up.
I used to think that was an evil thought,
now I know there's no such thing.

I turn 21 in 2 days.
Math. Yuck.
I'm old,
getting older every second.
Whatever.
I will grow into this skin,
I'm sure of it.
Maybe.

I'm grateful.
More than anything I am grateful for it all.
The pain,
the pleasure,
the guilt,
the anger.

Pills,
family,
friends,
dolls.

No one reads these except me.
So this one is for her.
For you.
Anne,
my love,
my villain,
my biggest fear.

May this year be kind to you,
may you be kind to it.
May you listen to your spirit guides,
may you accept what you never could.

Growth is sticky and wet,
Knowledge is thick and grey.
May you be the light and the darkness,
the cut and the band aid.

More than anything,
be okay.
You're gross,
in a sort of beautiful way.
May you be okay with that.
Truly.




Bad art is still art.
Right?
I think so.
For now.

Existence is shimmering through
A litany of souls,
Ever-bustling and occupied.
The greys blur and blend,
Drowning in an ocean
Without saturation or warmth.
Colors wilt as the petals of a rose,
Perception compromised
Under the spell of deep grief.
Frost creeping up the frame
Like icy fingers
To announce impending frostbite.
And in the vast expanse
Of ever growing darkness
There is a glimmer of life
A sign of hope
Dig
Climb
Run
Jump
Do anything you can to feed that hope
By any means possible
Escape that place

no
i will not do you
any favors

my words
will not mold
to your reasoning

thoughts
from one mind
do not adjust
to another

and mine
are built
in concrete

if you don't
understand
then you are simply
not meant to

and that
is the beauty
of poetry

I can still see you and your Crowne Royal sitting on your throne after drowning in the tequila sunrise you left behind yesterday morning
You are my home, you are my salvation
You are my hell, you are my damnation
And I realize I can’t heal you.

It’s March now and you’ve been drowning in your sorrow for ten months, praying she can keep you from reaching the bottom of your bottle
She is your home, she is your salvation
She is your hell, she is your damnation
And she realizes she can’t heal you.

She isn’t like the woman you’re used to
She doesn’t have that plump, patient, strawberry smile and wide eyes with a wolf howl in her throat
She doesn’t have that serenity and solitude, walking out of the kitchen with Tennessee whiskey and dried up roux on her apron towards her white Pickett fence, reminiscing on the days when the walls were made of barb wire

She doesn’t have her freedom when she roams, barefoot in nothing but your long ***** flannel as she calls the babies in for supper, kicking up red Georgia clay towards the Milky Way sky

But she’s a somebody
She’s a somebody with her long, fake eyelashes curled up towards the ceiling and her plumped up lips with a price tag on her Cupid’s bow

She’s a somebody who’s hair falls flat in the morning, and even though she doesn’t know what it’s like to pull twigs out of her curls when she wakes up after dancing around with you in the barn at three o clock, laughing in whispers so her babies don’t hear her

I love her

And I hope that she at least believes she can heal you
And I hope that I at least believe she can heal you
And I hope that one day, you reach your hands up to heaven and remember what it’s like to hold the heart of God on a Sunday morning, and be forgiven

And I hope that you’ll believe that he can heal you
Because he is our home, he is our salvation
He is our hell, he is our damnation
And one day, I know he will heal you.