Were you breathing smoke into my lungs,
Or love into my soul?
I can no longer tell,
your part from my whole.

Make the Screaming Stop.

Tell me I have a home to go back to,
Tell me my mother is waiting with open arms.
Tell me my father will tuck me in another night.
Telling me he'll keep us safe from harm.

Just tell me that I have something to hold onto.
Just tell me something.


Please.

I am.

I am,
Tired, of too much thought,
Corrupted with too much regret,
Filled on too much fear,
and too little wine.

I am,
Bored, of these subtleties,
Constricted by these yellow walls,
Deluded by these picture frames,
That will remain empty.

I am,
Aggrieved, by my mother,
I'm suspicious of my father,
Still smitten by my lover,
and inconsiderate of my friends.

I am,
Disillusioned, with marriage,
Cautionary with love,
In love with cynicism,
and myself.

I am,
Inconsiderate, of the past,
Belligerent with my present,
Addicted to my future,
and everything in between.

I am,
Covetous of my lover,
Desirous of an unempty home,
Anxious of the evenings,
and the daylight's early death.

I am,
Content only with my dreams,
Terrified only by nightmares,
Comforted only by arms,
that belong to one in absentia.

I am,
Irritated by constant longing,
And titillated with random joy,
Awaiting the beginning,
to the end of what I am not.

Oh, Fame.

"You're in the paper?
You must be glamorous!!"


"Nono. Just ugly. Just very, very ugly."

If I woke up one day and read a text congratulating me on making it to a local newspage, I automatically would like to assume it has to do with some underage illegal indiscretion or scandalous criminal activity at the very least.

But nope, no glamour, no murder, no felony.
Although it is a little flattering and highly ironic to be the poster child for Student Suicide.
Albeit uncredited.

Sigh.
Always Uncredited.

If Shakespeare were alive, I'd be his fanny-pack.

Somebody recently informed me, that I delve too much in unnecessary melodrama, and that I place too much importance on the creation of tragedy.


I told her to flail not her viper-tongue at me, but instead spend her wicked mind on endeavors more fruitful such as plotting the gruesome death of her first born and pinning it on her mother.


Hmmm.

My Mind Tirades

I am filled with no such piquancy,
Or wondrous sense of joy,
When child wraps his fingers round mine,
Or rattles at me his toys.

Adolescence does not hamper me,
Nor working men in clothes,
Your psychology seems redundant,
In the light of worldly woes.

Tired of wishing, sighing and cursing,
For things have long, grief overcome
You cannot wish for pitchers half-empty,
When the wine in your cellar has over-run.

I do not seek thought, or after-thought,
Nor seek solutions etched in trees,
I can no longer run errands for intellectual minds,
Whose conclusions are dichotomies.

Philosophy, I can no longer bear,
It plagues my mind, too stark
It makes no sense to ponder light,
While your feet are stumbling in the dark.

Provide me with answers, ask no questions,
I will not indulge in such levity.
Supply me with hands, not with words,
And engage me only in brevity.

I can no longer pocket inane dilemmas,
That enquire into worldly thought,
When the world itself is burning,
In the midst of a heathen drought.

Since pensivity, has turned me cold, unfeeling,
Revealing truths in shades of grey,
I refuse to delve further into dusty books,
And rather labour in this light of day.

Oh, but darling, this ain't no murder mystery.
I had a knife in my hand, and your back to my face.
And that quite simply, is your tragic history.