I guess this one is untitled.

This is one of the few times
when I will not ask for forgiveness.
I speak honestly and openly--
hidden behind the safety of my pen.
I ask of you only
that you take this for what it is,
take me for who I am;
do not take blame,
do not take pity.
I do not trust what I do not know;
the horrors I have seen
live in the shadows
that await me at the next turn.
But I also do not trust
that which is familiar;
the manifestation of these scars
never fail to resurface--
and life is lived
in the inevitable, unavoidable state
of deja vu--
and each step I take toward the shadows,
each breath I take of this darkness,
each day survived in a lack of sustenance--
each moment weakens me,
mind, soul--
and body, alike.
Things which are familiar
are a threat;
things which are unknown
are a warning;
that which is both unknown and familiar
leaves my mind screaming blindly
and my emotions to hide
and my legs to run.
This is one of the few times
that I will kneel
and _beg_ for your understanding--
I will push you away completely,
I will run away from you,
I will doubt every word you say,
I will doubt even the _proof_ that you offer;
I will lose trust in you
lacking a single rational reason,
and you will go through _hell_ to regain it;
I will scream,
I will fight,
I will avoid you--
I will do _all_ of this
and never even realize it,
I will never see it happening
and I will never understand.
Your words are familiar
just like they were familiar
coming from the last boy who spoke to me,
and before him,
and before him, as well;
I do not have much trust left inside of me
and even from that
I can only offer you a sliver--
to no fault of your own--
the portion grows smaller
as the wounds grow deeper;
every piece of my trust,
every piece of my heart
that I have given away
has been taken--
and has been lost forever
[and the wounds are too deep now
even for scars to form--]
but please know--
should you leave like everyone before you
should this sacred piece
of what is left of my heart
be lost--
I will never blame you
just as I do not blame them;
I will only blame myself.
I ask of you only
that you take this for what it is,
take me for who I am;
do not take pity,
and do not take blame.

It might not be a 3 page long, double spaced dissertation on the given and implied eithics of self-love, but I've never followed the rules. So this is what you get.
Fuckin' deal with it.


Honesty To The Point Of Being An Asshole
or
The Internal Battle

I've heard all this before;
true friends who'll never leave
love like no other
a failsafe, protection,
24-hour hotline;
it fills me with so much fucking rage
it stings the backs of my eyes
it sets my blood to boil.
I know you've heard all this before
but you are amazing
you are one in a million
you are beautiful
I'll do anything for you
I'll save you...
I'll teach you to save your self
(I told her I had a nightmare--again--
and all she said was
The whole world is going to hell.)
How can I believe
two angels dressed in black
when my Angel, dressed in black,
knelt before me on one knee
slipped a glass rose into my hand
and a silver ring onto my finger;
look at them now
in a pool of rust
chipped silver
and broken glass;
pennies, and wilting flowers...
But two angels dressed in black
showed up at my door
entered without knocking
and fucking handed me my life.
The only ultimatum
was that there was no other choice
no other path
just varying lengths of time
between each step.
I do not trust You,
You, who I have known
since You came into existence;
who I have battled with
who I have loved
and hated
You
who is me--
so why
in the amount of time it took me
to fall apart twice, why
do I trust
two angels dressed in black?

The Hit the Road Blues

In my 19 short years on this planet,
I have seen a great many things;
my dreams have come true right before me
and my dreams have shattered
like a frail vertebrae.
This tired heart has bore witness
to far too many tragedies;
behind these cold eyes
lie images of too much pain
and too much suffering.
[I have found beauty in the darkness--]
but I have also found depths of despair
inside even the most radiant beauty.
Beneath this calloused soul
lies a desperate, fervent passion--
[to create]
[to build]
[to eradicate pain]
and the destructive forces
that are taking over our delicate world.
I cannot save the world
I cannot even save my self
because of fear-- or apathy--
I can no longer tell the difference.
To keep this facade of stoicism
is the only defense I know--
lest my soul be captured
by the dark forces of despair.

It's too important to stay the way it's been...

I got a haircut. And a new shirt. I look like a rockstar.
I'm such a badass.



I met my guardian angels this weekend.
I realized when I met them
that I've always known them,
and they've always been there to guide me--
we just hadn't been ready to meet
until we met this weekend.
They came into my life
because they knew that this was the time
when I needed them more than ever.
I leaned on them and they stood--
they held my world on their shoulders
and they didn't flinch, they didn't shrug.
They stood like a wall of protection;
when the world tore me down
and forced me to my knees,
they lifted me up
and kicked the world's ass
for fucking with their charge.
They dried my tears
and eased my fears
and told me that I was beautiful.
They pieced back together my faith
and handed it to me, stronger than ever.
I met my guardian angels this weekend,
and this weekend, my life began.

Passion Fruit Tea

"Would you like regular or passion tea?" he asked the old woman.

"Passion," she replied. "I need all the passion I can get. "
He smiled politely.

"These days," the old woman continued, "that's the only way I can get passion, anyway."

The fire's out, anyway.

It doesn't suit me to be so pissed off. I curse, and clench my jaw, and curl my lip, it's so very un-ladylike.

It kills me to say this--

but I'm dying inside to leave...

Build God and then we'll talk--
I can't take another empty night

...

Maybe it's not the moon, at all--

Darling Justin,

as I write this to you, it occurs to me that I do not even know whether you will ever read it. This nostalgia floods over me as the faintest hints of light flood into my window... these early mornings always bring back memories of what used to be, and lost hope of what might have been...

Okay, sorry, enough of that. I don't mind your readers thinking that I speak randomly of asthma and dirt hills. I do that sometimes. In fact, although the topic varies, I do that quite a lot.

Dirt... what kind of dirt? Well, I suppose it's the kind that is packed in firmly enough to make a small hill in the background that the children can play on, but still dirt-like enough to get their hands and clothes dirty as a consequence.

No one can understand my artistic reasoning for having set that post to Saturday's date.

Not even me.

No, it wasn't intentional. It was simply a glitch-- this site rejects my art, and tells me that my kind is no longer welcome here. And when I finally succeed, it subtley tells the readers that it's "old news." "Last season." "Outdated."

Damn them...





And now, back to the show--

I could feel the cool concrete beneath my bare feet, supporting my weight as much as it was supporting its own. The sounds of the freeway reminded me faintly of the ocean, and I closed my eyes, wishing I could close my heart to the dreadful, inevitable cynicism that such sentiments arouse. Summer nights have grown chilly; emotions have become unintelligible. Pain feels to me as exhillaration; inspiration feels to me as sorrow. Happiness does not equate, is not recognized. The countdown rolls steadily forth, until days bleed in to one another-- I can no longer tell where the day begins and where inspiration ends. This endless struggle to create-- against all odds-- is the only panacea I know; guard me against these platitudes, these last days of sunshine that are filled with such palpable acerbity. Until the day comes when I'll watch these city lights fading in the rear view mirror, I am left here to meekly grasp for inspiration, holding on with as much strength as these sleepless nights will grant me.

[self healing]

[one of the angels on your shoulders]

"...it's... it's there."

half dead from exhaustion,
but unwilling to shut my eyes
to this pure exhillaration I feel--
friends who believe in you, call at 4 in the morning--
who tell you that if you stop writing
you may as well kill yourself--
you're the most successful person I know
and you're so much younger than I am--
I don't consider myself that successful, yet--
you can say that now, until
you compare yourself to others your age
it's not hard to feel above people your age--
and tell you you're talented
that your book-- which they love
is a compilation of a thousand intelligent ideas
put them into a character and write a novel
you'll have a bestseller, for sure--
I know you will,
you have the talent-- it's... it's there--
friends who compare you
no, classify you
in the rankings of Palahniuk
and Danielewski--
don't take what I say with a grain of salt
take it with a whole lot of salt
I'm just one of the angels on your shoulders...