uve got to be kidding me

 

no….f-ing way

 

…poor doggie

I…You

We dart around the words I love you
Like the’re that long related cousin twice removed on your mothers uncles nephews side
…Akward
Just like that bit of spit traveling on the nuzzle of someones lower cheek
How do we explain that…
Love…I mean…not the spit
The nautius ting of nervous uncomfortability due to someones poor salivatory glands can’t come close in comparision to the stuttering of a hearts feeling…
We dance…and jump…and move…and skate along side of the emotion
Holding on to it with our pinky till we find an appropriate turn to let go on
…And love goes flying toward a tree…
And only in the .05 seconds of realizing its crashing we see what we have done
…Instead of letting it “slip” into a tree
We should have embraced loved
Said it
Saved it
Loved it…
Instead of jacking it of its existence…
We mutilated it…
Through our avoidance
Told love we can live without it
…Re defining its purpose…serving as an easy out
            to get our way
we’ve abused it
Stripped it of its adornments and adoration and adulterated its grave site
Can love rest in peace between our lips…
Or shall it forever walk the earth
Limbo-d with our ghost
Is it doomed…like we are
Cuz we saw it more as akward…
Instead of worth it.

Letter to my Ex.

Dear Mistah…
            How can I say…I should have given you a reason to stay,
        When I should have just not given you a reason to leave
        And I’m left behind with dorky remembrances of kisses that were always wet
                From rain and tears and sloppy memories
        12 hour sessions of intellectualism that left us both breathless

Dear Mistah,
Dear Mistah,
 Dear Mistah “No Sex,”
                Cuz laying naked next to u on the phone was as close to unity as we’d ever get
                Even after the physical connect
                        You shun my bodily cravings
                I was always impure. -Compared to u
Dear Mistah “I’m accepted into every art school in the country”
        And all the good ones international

                Makes a collage out of the letters
                        Takes a lighter to it and let’s it burn
                                 All the letters between u and I.
                 You let us burn
                Let us burn
                Let us burn but
                                I
                                 I lit us on fire.
        Because he treated me like he treated his art work.
                        Never date an artist
                                They’re all liars
                Cuz they’ll put their entire life into you for a few months…                         few weeks then,                              

Drop kick you into the gallery
                        Put you on display for all the world to learn
                                Here we are…Two Artists
                And we let us burn

                        Flamed straight to the inner queer in both of us
                Dance midnight into 2pm
                And I Shoulda given u a reason to stay.

                        Not to leave
                        Not to dream a figmented parchment                                                                                     with someone else’s pencil
                                                        Scripted on withered fingertips
Dear Mistah,

Caught me on bad days..

or worse days,

and made them the best days
Dear Mistah “Wonderfully Cursed Gift”

 with the crafted cool tounge tip

that was always able to strip me raw

run me naked

and see who I am behind my walls.
                                        I liked my walls
                        Before you invaded
        Mistah trump player
        Pulled out your cards
                My heart was ur table
        So you spaded my cracks corners
        Broke me down to build me on splintered lashes fallen from heavy liquid you caused
                                                Paper cuts with rain drops
                And yet it was me.
                All me.
        I caused us to be Mistah and Me.

 No longer we tramping on stamped out stereotypes

                I fight…

                        for the teardrops that made you scream

                You loved Me
                        On a tattered napkin in Dunkin Donut wars of who  can stuff the most ice in our mouths
                        I love you mistah

Mistah

Mistah Ice Cold

        Cuz u always won
        15 ice cubes versed my 7
        Let it melt
                Let us melt and burn at the same time
                        Cuz brainfreeze isn’t half as bad as a burnt soul
        Skin dripping down a melted hearts color coded reflections

Dear Mistah Blue

Mistah red

Mistah green

Mistah any color u wanted to be

who tore my fucking rainbow from my thighs
                AndI tried
                        So hard to love me

                even when I couldn’t deal with my life
                                                        Trying to love you
Dear Mistah Perfect
        Mistah artist
        Mistah “you’re not right for who I am”
Dear Mistah Always Blue
        Cuz you were too much of an artist to not be a tortured soul

…So…Dear Mistah,
        How can I say…I should have given you a reason to stay
        When I should have just not given you a reason to leave
                When I thought I gave u a reason..for both..
                                        -Me.

This Shits Just Dirty…

Do You Love Me, Today?

Her tounge spread melodies upon parched skin

Arched in words that would last all of the 30 seconds she loved me.

15mins of me loving her so fiercly she cried an orgasm that wrang notes into my soaked thighs.

 

30 months of angered moments, 

Scripted quickly into swirling fingertips printed on tattered backs

Hands trailing down ragged lines of sanity.

 

10 Nails digging to find redemption in her sweat

I bet she doesn’t even remember my name,

My real name

The one I signed loosley between her breast

Among chest full of handprints before me

…there were so many.

 

Lover-Friend-Lover-Friend-Lover-Friend-lover mostly

For I loved her in ways only a first heart could break

Between the madness in sheets wrapped around caramel skin that came poisin

I Drank.

 

As I whispered into her womanhood: 

Do You Love Me,

Today?

For she told me some nights before she turned her back to me

Hands trapsing necks nape as if to say 

‘I love you today…But tomorrow,

Tomorrow may be different

So take what you can get from this…”

So I loved her,

for 15 minutes at a time.

 

Hoping that maybe in my systematic kisses

Today would be forever,

or alternatively,

her 30 seconds would stop in mid -oh

And she would string together a chorus of scarred nights that sang she loved me permanently.

 

But 30 months of trying only birthed pain laboring everytime her loves ink ran dry

Penning me down with pencil lined lusted times

For I knew I wasn’t the only one.

 

Daybreak parted and she would be gone

Leaving me to wonder…

Would She Love Me…today?

Victimless Victim…

So..I wonder what it’d be like to care. To rip pieces from my soul and place them gently at your finger tips. To give up every piece of me, just to prove I’m willing and able to handle you. Prove I’m able and willing to do the same for you. Prove I’m able and willing to care.

I wonder what it’d be like to pick myself up the ground, after putting myself there. To not have a shadow to hide behind. No one to blame, no one to curse, no one to point the finger at except my own reflection.

Being hurt, being the victim who survived…has always been my story.

But if nothing’s wrong…and I’m still messed up, what does that say?

Does it say I’m childish, selfish, immature…and maybe…quite possibly not good enough for you?

…hm.

Arguement.

Argument
An oral disagreement.
Verbal opposition
Contention
Altercation
A verbal argument.

Led to violence

A place where hands to face had no distinguished lines
And where I thought the better I hid my bruises
There’d be less of a chance I’d have to rack my brain for actions of the day
Seeing if I had any reason to avoid her touch
But you see sometimes…
There were good days
I lived for those days
And that is why we stay…isn’t it?
For those good days
Where there were no arguments…

Because the few moments we strived for
Are filled with open doors and swing sets
Sweeping cold air past her cuts and abuses
Were worth it.

Sunset doped in morphine to drip in apathetic forgiveness into my brain
You see…we were trained
to never grow up.
So we remained the same.
Cast in a pool of predecessorry blame.
My father didn’t really love me either
So we act as we are taught.
Following in footsteps of hated thought,
Forgotten rot.
So maybe a part of me understood
That her picking me up from work and lingering kiss
Were her excused apologies mixed in with
I.O.U’s

Inconsistent. Outputs. Uncontrolled.

I owe you an explanation for every time I dropped water on the carpet and let her wash it with my tears
I owe you an explanation for every time I flash back to nights where my shoulders painted eggshell walls of white with red
I owe you an explanation as to why I can’t let you go on an escalator first – my fear of heights was induced by her
My fear of life was induced by her
I’ve found weakness in her vengeance
But yet I owe you an explanation as to why I opened arms to her braided tears at midnight

I was tied too tight to her inconsistent guidelines
Because if no one could see us
Then it wasn’t really there
Played hide and seek with our emotions
Covered eyes mouths and ears

And perhaps there were better ways for first relationships to go
But I let go of cartoons and held on to the animations of her mind
You see she was my childhood
Ripped from playground sets of sexual exploration
Immatured relation-ships-sank

to bloody bath tub waters
Slit verbal cists into my wrists
With every dialect she knew
Blind eyes fueled deaf mouths of split tongues where stitched ears refused to see truth

She spoke to the tremblings of my fetaled heart
Her makeup was in her kisses
Foundation of excuses
Upon mascarad alliterations

Altercation
contention
Verbal opposition
An oral disagreement
Argument

Led to violence
More than words ever should.
And across the ruins of my childhood
We finger-painted
I.O.U.

You Could

This is what I’ve learned.

           ONE Mourning is a slow process.

                        And TWO maybe in between here and the denial I find that tears are harder to mask when your staring into a blank computer screen with a black cursor trying to get words to regurgitate from your soul.

THREE Black curses with empty computer screens just slips you slower further into your own emptiness.

FOUR Long sentences of perfect alliteration don’t necessarily do a hearts call to comfort justice.  So this is why I wrote this

And FIVE blood doesn’t always mean family

 

But for some reason the loss of this more than blood line seems like a quick snip to my veins. Holding in all I can until the virus takes hold leaving his system and flooding into mine.

 

I find that death, is reminiscent. Each casket constantly resembling the one before, and the next. Because there is always another mourning.

 

There will always be another morning when I rise to blinds that shadow him. Because this is one more morning I am living he is not.

 

This does not just happen in the shadows of the ghetto.

 

And it is something that I was forced to realize with closed fists

 

Once again I’m back with a rage that inflames not my heart but my soul
It hurts me down to the bitter deep where emotions barely reach
It’s a pain that scars so far in that my tears cannot cease the firey flames

My yells do nothing but release more anguish

Because with each cry I find that breathing just ensures that I’m living and he isn’t

And I’ve learned that
nothing
Nothing
Nothing can bring him back again

Because God evented Aids

I thought I was over it

I thought I was over him

and I damn sure thought I was over god
But mourning a slow proccess

I mean…we never really move on
But life just gets a little bit easier as time fades a way

And your heart gets amnesia

till something awakens your thoughts

I could barely stomach the pain
As doctors came to tell me a child of 15 that she would never see her friend again

I fight to digest the last memories that I have of him
Trying to pretend that its just fiction

that maybe if rememberances of him just fade into the distance like his ashes into the wind I wont have to deal

Over 3 years ago he passed away
From something that’s only spoken about in hushed whispers
Reserved quietly in the corner for gay men and loose woman and unfortunate children
Drug users and foreign men
No one would believed that he was more than my best friend
He was just my foundation my rock my everything
Just Childhood companions I had to slowly grow with 
Just a little better then blood

And now…he’s lost
In the list of statistics
And radical news…

I have long since left the numbess
His memory resides in the deepest darkest corners that I barely speak about 
But when I do open my mouth and words come out all I hear back is

Well you could donate
You could campaign
You could
You Could
You Could

But mourning is a slow process

and it takes more than an injection to get us to a movement

more than a movement can save us

we need movements
Get up while mourning

But nothing! Will make him come back again
Nothing will return his smile to my eyes
And nothing will stop the fact that no matter how much I push it deep down
Pretend all is ok

Mourning is a slow process
And that three years is plenty of time to dry my eyes
The pain never goes away.

 

Seeing him die before my eyes

Feeding him lunch that I snuck in from a jacket holed with hopped school yard fences

Telling nurses I was his sister just so I could hold him

Skipping school for hospital visits to watch him

Deteriorate as he leaves those behind
Those who loved him
Those who cared
Those who cursed his ass for being so blind

Why wouldn’t you use a condom

Pretty girls carry diseases too

And I’m still mad
After three years
I’m still Sad
And after 3
3 years…
I can still see the image of him
Fading away…

And you tell me

YOU COULD

 

Mourning is a slow process

It takes a revolution in the morning

To begin a new day

 

You Could.

This is For the Writers

 

In life,

We write

Constantly

IN the beginning imitating art

Hoping maybe in our repetitive plagiarism of style our own voice will emerge screaming

Angered at the idea it hasn’t been able to speak for so long

And we fight with our selves

Wondering why we dared try to live in someone else’s journal

Even though we were only trying to provoke our reflection from our shadows

In our life were never right

Were just a pile of papers with inked dreams and blue lined revolutions scribbled fiercely across recycled paper

We are dumb, and confused and blind because we see everything

And we speak words so loud that they fade into the page

Run into each other because of our rushed sounds just trying to get every tremor of every treble into every movement

In our lifetime after our style has developed and we’ve workshopped and read

And are broke and’ve been bread to be broken

And sometimes homeless

And only 2 people on this planet can ever understand us

We will still be writers

Scratch out words verbs professing what we’ve done

What we’ll do

All we’ll amount to is …nothing.

Amongst the clutter of words are just a pile of vowels dominated by Us and Is

Selfish constantans constantly suffocated by the tight restraints we bind

Forcing our dense rapped memories that formulate these words we swear by

So we call ourselves writers

Professing things we’ll never act upon

Profound acts of conscious

Like just by thinking it writing will fly off the pages and stream at the world

But the world is illiterate

Can’t read our essays, our poems, our vowels are useless in this society

Writers don’t make it right.

And we are left to symphonies of empty choirs

Bohemian conductors commanding an arena of ghosts with a pen

Trying to bring forth unappreciated life in a world that would rather stare at a tv screen to make things brighter

Because they can’t accept our reality

Refusing to ever go farther

And we’re pushing to get people to realize

They need to worship

The writer.

 

…

…

i.am.ti.r.e………d

 

didn’t know coma came in walking doses.

“Untitled”

When I was younger I use to carve memories into my wrists

hoping maybe…there would be some end to the ghosts that flooded my blood stream

If I could just go deep enough I could scrape the hurtful thoughts from my body

and eventually…with time the evil would seep down and trickle to the earth

so I could bury it

6 feet either way would have bought me peace.

I spread legs while splitting wrists figuring maybe if I couldn’t dig the darkness out

someone could dig in my darkness and pull -or push something worth enough in.

When I was younger words from my mother made me question existence

and words of my father angered me

words of my brother granted me peace until he abandoned me

she abandoned me

he abandoned me.

And then. I abandoned myself.

Figuring physical scars weren’t enough to mask emotional rage.

I corned myself so far to the end with each age I was my razors edge.

And my tears were the solace in which I found redemption no longer having to explain anything.

When I was younger…

I stopped crying.

At one point…months….nothing trickled down my face.

Not when bullets straddled the young physique of a man who died in vain. Guilty conscious weighed my arms as his blood fell in my arms. My eyes seeing every moment as though his death were my own.

Fate knew not to give me hope. My lack of tears proved that. Not when disease infected the stream of the other strand of sanity. He died before I could say thank you. and curse at him for not being safe all at the same time.

the hands I helped dealt myself left me staring at a hospital bed more than once. bloody concrete twice and a casket enough.

When I was younger I lost my way.

There was no guiding light

Pain made me blind.  

Words of My Lover

Making love to her was like shattering false dreams with my fingertips
Like every moan released demons into the night
Ghosts that would float under sheets only till her arched back escaped them
And they would hide in the corners of cracked walls till daylight

My hand could only clasped on to her pieces

Never could I be the focus of her shadowed dreams

Showed me scarred remembrances on her skin

Blocked eyes showed there was no way for me to ever get in

 

But I tried

And realized

 

Making love to her was like chasing that first high
Never as good as the first, true time
Because every time after that lost its purpose
One knocked virtue out of her so that all that left of her were curses

She turns to women to turn them into new lovers
Searching for some sanity redemption
My whispered words traced curves that melted into my handprints
Trails of my lips tried to echo her mourning

 

Making love to her was like a race

Quickly trying give light to her face

Trying to erase all false prophesies before me

Begging her to escape her memories

Tempting her pasts to get washed with my tears
But every time was like the last
Her orgasms floated into the night
Only to be replaced screamed nightmares I couldn’t fight

 

We cried the last time making love
Knowing it was never love to begin with
Just lust turned into false hoped salvation
Nails dug into backs trying to morph this pain
Tainted blood swarmed the heart I beated for
Lived for
Till it became to much
And pieces of her still lay in my bed sheets

 

 

–R. 

Word’s Fomentations

Words ‘somewhere in between here and now’ manage to always drain from my tongue. Saliva drenches my indiscretion as I ponder where the open spaces between the two have dissipated into.  Here and now has lost reflections through broken mirrors of fleshed glass. Images hazily haunting the orbs eyes have rested on. Close lids to bond lashes to bottom of bags. Glue blindness to the parched mouth that awaits spaces. Gaps between here and now leave me hanging in the balance. Fingers tracing along sharp edges of unclimbed walls. Shards of emulation indulge false pupils. Fill hands with liquid purification. You can’t hold on to water.

You can’t hold on to words.

Yet somehow, I’m always left grasping at fomentations laced in spaced salivations. 

-Damn-Brain-Washed-Bastards-@-My-Place-of-Employment-

The insides of my nervous track are slowly bleeding out prophetic spit balls of fire. I want to wad up a huge piece of excrimental parchment spit heavily on its fibers and just aim at these condencending assholes.

 

People are so blind to what is so close to them. To lazily angst to see that if they open their eyes…

They. Would. See.

It is not hard to look…our eyes work perfectly fine. But somewhere in between the magnetic power of a human’s eyes to the world around them and the path to a conscious… these idiots have decapitated sense.

They don’t have sense to sense anything.

 

And my blood begins to rapidly fire out words that would drench catatonic souls into a never ending pit of knowledge.

Maybe somehow someway I can brainwash these zombies into washing their brains. Cleanising their own minds of the stupidity that they’ve convinced themselves is the path to righteousness.

There. Is. No. Path. To. Righteousness.

There’s no such thing as truth. Everyone has their own, and somehow if I could manage to scrape the systematic viens that line their incohesive organisms I’d manage to scrape the film of their fairy tale eye balls and they would end up…

Seeing.

 

READ. I AM NOT. READ

{PART TWO}

I am hurt. And for a good portion in time I thought I was hurting. That I was the definition of it. That it was all I caused. I thought I was Hurt. Personalized and personified to its fullest. That I am…was…is and forever would be a catalytic affect for the downfall of my own epitome. The heightened length of a vast depth of deprivation.
I am. …?
What am I?
And at the same time as I question it I know I am something. Because by the doubt of any existence…proves my existence. Maybe I’ve been study Descartes to long? Maybe I haven’t been studying long enough.
This is my letter. To those of you who responded to my rant months ago.
Thank you.
And I hope yall are still striving to discover further things about who you are, and not just what you are…but more importantly I suppose…finding out who you are not.
I am not hurt. Not anymore. I am not a victim. I am not suicide in slow motion. I am not the most truthful. I am not a welcome mat. I am not a soldier though battle field scars have grazed my name. I am not just the result of a faulty childhood. Not just the outcome of an addicts mistake not just what my skin confines me to. I am not who I confine myself to be. I am not loathing. I am not the reason for death…though some have fallen in my name, in my arms, in my eyes, I will not fall. I am not what anyone thinks I am.

-Me.

10-15.

We. Are. Married.

Well about as close to a marriage simulation as one can get being a same sex couple who doesn’t live together (as of yet.) Yet still…spends every.moment.together. Apart from school and the occasional hours at work (and even that isn’t necisarily true for sometimes I find her and I together at my place of employment.) …my resting and “free” moments are spent with her.

Eating together, walking together, laying together, laughing together but of course…there are moments when I just need to breathe.

And no I’m not saying call up the pseudo divorce lawyers. There will be no dividing of assets in this lesbian body.

There are just those 10-15 mins….mostly in the morning in which I and I need time.

Give. Me. Bathroom. Space.

That’s it. And I’m not talking we can’t shower together. That’s fine with me. It’s just the 6.39 feet of space that I need outside of the shower that gives me peace.

Because as wonderful as she is. I swear to god her

OCD ass

makes me want To……

*sigh*

 

I smile at her need for a straw with water.

 I can laugh at opening doors with her foot.

I can tickle a paper towel out of her hand when a microscopic spec of imaginery dust floats to the floor.  But her. In. The. God.Damned. BATHROOM!!!!

!!!!                                                                                                      !!!!

There are no true words to express my need for my 10.

 Because she buzzes around me.

“push from the bottom don’t squeeze the middle of the tooth paste.”  it all comes out eventually.

“you can’t get the floor wet it’ll take forever to dry.” it’s a bathroom…it will dry.

“baby lather your entire body first”…maybe I want to do it section..by…section.

Woman love of my life could you pleaaaase share the mirror?

I love you.

I will marry you.

I will have a family with you one day.

All I need to keep my sanity is

10-15 in that space.

 

Thank You.

DONT BREATHE BITCHES!

 

.

.

.

So I’ve been thinking over the title of this dang blog. And to those of you who are so devoted at riding my words over the excremental pieces I call poetry…blogging… or whatever. Do you really…really…really… breathe easy? Breevez? Breevez with my words?

…No? Ya… I didn’t think so. Thinking about name changes because this whole…breathe easy with words thing is so false advertisement because I would much rather prefer you be left speechless do to asphyxiation rather than…just reading…going oh…and keep on breathing.

So I’m not suggesting my reader’s die. Even though inevitably you all will…I’m just saying I will do my best to …deny my title. And have you gasping for sanity after every drip of my ish.

*LUEGO

 

 

 

 

D.y.K.e

(dyke)When I was in 6th grade (dyke)they use to call me

 Dyke.

Raised by my brother(dyke),

I wasn’t really (dyke)comfortable in girls’ clothing.

Baggy(dyke) pants.

Pulled(dyke) back hair.

And of course…for some (dyke) reason unbeknownst to me:

a girl liker.

Aka…(dyke)dyke. (dyke)

When words (dyke)were initially spewed at me viciously,

I couldn’t (dyke)comprehend what these (dyke)slanderous terms were.

But with (dyke)viciousness in their junior high school (dyke) eye’s

they defined their(dyke) hate for me.

I hate the word (dyke) dyke. (dyke)

And I’m not too fond(dyke) of lesbian either.

It’s just words(dyke) that we tag on ourselves (dyke)to put

brightly colored labels of pseudo(dyke) reality.   

We put subcultures with(dyke)in subcultures that have deviated (dyke)from the norm.

I am a (dyke) Multi Racial woman who identifies as(dyke) queer….

I am a deviant according to the ideologies that people interpolate…I (dyke)interpolate…we interpolate.

And I don’t think I (dyke)can escape that.

And maybe a part of me (dyke)doesn’t want to.

Guess I am a (dyke)

D.y.k.e.

HeR

There’s this beautiful moment in between the waking world and the dream one
The moments when breathing slows and hearts beat in unison
Her hand grabs on to my waist
Security enveloped in fingertips
and no part of me wonders if I deserved this

Every beat in my body knows…
this is true

And my truth for now is undoubtable

Hair draped upon a naped neck makes me want to braid our souls together
Splattered cliches flow my head
Figments of fairy tales that I’ve tried for years to weign out of my system
Whisper dreams into my ear

Brown arms engulf worries
And as the sleep draws lines across my lashes
My last moments of conscious are filled

With her.

“RestRoom”

 

There’s these dumb couches that always seem to be in just about every women’s “Rest Room.”

Like we as a gender are so weak and incompetent that at any moment

We’re just gonna need to sit down.

Take a breather

and

lounge.

Like the world |b|e|t|w|e|e|n| outside and this lavatory is so stress inducing that

we just will collapse before we get to the toilet

When did these misogynistic tones tread into this vicinity?

That even the places we chose to leave excrement

have changed standards

because we are women

And it is because we are women

Because men do not have couches in their bathrooms.

But as  Fem-in-ist-ic-ally drawn out as my “Rest Room” soliloquies tend to be

As I sit and write and try not to cry

I am grateful for these fugly couches.

Pick Up a Lesbo

Pick up trucks and chevys

Sigh

 

Can the lesbian world get anymore stereotypical??

Society wants me to believe they expect the best from me

as long as I stay in the straight white boxes

Blankly    performing    repetitious repetitious repetitious

 tasks that enlighten no one.

 

Living in this world is like dwelling in an eliminated cave and being blind.

I suppose Plato was correct.

 we’re all living in caves…

Society stabbed our eyes out a long time ago

just so we couldn’t see that there is so much around us and at the same time nothing.

 

I sometimes wonder what the purpose of having working eyes is

when I’m surrounded by people who don’t use there’s.

 

I suppose this is how we live

This is how we breathe and strive hiding in false caves of ignorance

I suppose its bliss

Somehow we can transcend into blind angels.

Tattered wings perforated with society’s implanted stupidity.

Pick up trucks and chevys…

Were all alike.

Damn.

To My Two Jewish Men.

It’s been a while since I’ve written.

And the funny thing about words is that…unlike a bike…

They l.e.t.t.e.r.s don’t seem to peddle out as easily as they did when you escaped them.

No matter how hard you stroke…wont Nut.

They’re more like a menstrual; flow when you least expect it…

Bloody raw and unadulterated.

 I’ve spent a good deal of the past couple of days involved in others business…

outside my thoughts.

Maybe that’s for the best…

maybe not so.

Because what does it mean…

when you sacrifice the words in your own head…

for the words out of someone else’s mouth?

 

Undeniably…

I did enjoy the time away from the constant mutterings of my subconscious unconscious.

But then again…

I maybe missed the little old guys in the back of my brain arguing over my irrational rationalities.

Named them Ernie and Bert…

Well actually they named themselves.

Because these precocious elderly Jewish men

have infested my brain since I was a child.

 

Now put those schizophrenic delusions aside…

these men do not actually control me.

 

They do not tell me to grab the butcher knife

In the middle of the night

Slide through a crack in the fence

And find the little boy next door.

Ernie and Bert are just my thoughts

transformed into malleable personified figments of sanity. 

Two Jewish men that voice my life.

Sit across from each other on a grain oak table.

Argue back and forth.

Crankily hitting my brain with canes.

My internal ying and yang.

And like words…and periods…and occasional nuts.

I couldn’t live without them.

Snip O Snap

So I’m sitting here. Cutting off my femininity.
Cuz after all… All my life I’ve been told that my hair linked me strong my woman hood. Right?
So…while I announce pseudo masculinity…
Is it possible to still have long hair at the same time?
The problem is (and yall are gonna hate me for this) my hair grows like weed…especially on days when I curse its existence.
And as the cousin of my ancestors…a Dominican lady, snip snips my hair.
She mumble Spanish inclinations of my insanity.
Why would I want to cut my pretty mixed hair. So original it is.
But so confining and defining to my existence as a woman – I suppose if I let it be.
So as scissors traipse upon strands that during my younger years, was long enough for me to sit upon I glance at the now nape of neck pose they hold.
Is it to late to turn back?
Can we super glue the few strings of thin honey glazed brown fibers I so strongly fought against?
Indecisiveness fondles my shoulders.
And looking to floor seeing curls of tattered remains I’m thinking shit

Maybe I shoulda just let it grow.

Hunger…

 

let me feast from your bosom

twirl your moans between my ears

drown in the screams that

flood to my blood

part your thighs and let me enter

into your warmth

and then…I will no longer

hunger.

Metro Cleaning

When they cleaned the subways
It sounds like the platforms peeing
After a long night in a cramped position
The first thing it wants to do is take a long stretch
And leak forever.
The way they scrape the cement with long brushes sounds like the underground scratchin its head
Searching for a reason to stay out of bed
Leaking scratching but not acting on notion of making a train shoot out of its mouth
The steel tounge responsible for slitherin mass amounts of thoughts place to place circling around not goin anywhere
Never escaping
Its yawn is false hope. The rumbling of a tounge that never puts forth anything except announcments of delays.
And I sit here
Listening to the scratching the leaking the cleaning of the subway.

Lost in Prophetic Crap

sometimes i get lost in my thoughts

eyes drown over amazing realizations in my head

and i get lost in the empty space called my brain cavity

particles of dust perpetrating as remedies

supposedly something will save me

from the fragmented pieces of my sanity

supposedly something will save all of us

but we have to ask ourselves to imagine a world where everyone was saved

where everyone was focused and taken from out of their narcissistic embodiments

what would it feel like then

to live in a world without the damned

to not be damned yourself?

thoughts are tricky…they keep us going

without the damned we’d have no good

just prophetic worries blamed on those different then us

lost in my thoughts again

barely making sense

but then again…

who would want to try and rationalize this world…                      

CokedHeart

My hearts like anthrax.
A powerdery substance toxic to my being.
Seeing how things never go clearly,
nearly everything I touch evaporates.
Powder fluxuates through my memories
vast spaces of past mistakes float towards and unclenachable wake
…I wish I could
Rise up from this dream like state of shattered dreams and broken lands and lost blood filled lakes
my heart is like anthrax
taken back from a emotional alert coming. hit the ground running into brick walls that penetrate through clustered heart aches
built up like a radiating shield that sends chills into my flurried heat
patterns long since left the realm of a steady beat

I dont Wanna be.

 

aaliyah voice comforts me.

 

and its sad. because throw backs are all I have.

there will never…be anything new.

throw backs are all I have of a lot of people.

you especially.

and I miss you…

and all I have are throwback memories of us.

of you.

…and those memories. like time…are slowly fuzzing out. thining out. like

can’t remember what you smell…smelled… like anymore…

except when I catch the scent. and as quick as the wind passes…the smell is gone.

can’t remember what side your hat tilts…use to to tilt to..the left.

the right?

my mind is clouding up.  

Facial features dissipating just because I tried to mourn and move on

and I guess that’s my fault…

fighting with your memories to suppress them…suppress the way you died

surpress the reason why,,.

punishment…is that I can no longer call back the throwbacks…

 

I don’t wanna be alone.

Jus felt like I needed to scream to keep my sanity

scream to make sure i’m still hearing

scream just to remember your face

…instead

i talked it out. 

 why do i still hate you…

wrote it out.

i’m flooded with blank slated images of you

teared it out.

but did nothing about it.

 

I CANT EVEN REMEMBER YOUR FACE

all i remember is your smile.

and your hands large…callosed tracing mine.

YOU WERE TOO GOOD TO DIE

and i hate you for it!

i keep hating you for it!

and it’s killing me

hating myself for hating you…

can’t move on from a memory that i can’t remember

trying to convince myself your more than a memory

YOU DONT SEEM REAL ANYMORE.

Scares the living shit out of me
Makes me want to join you wherever you are…
But can’t because I’m too much of a punk to take it
Or confused about whether or not that makes me a survivor
Or a liar…for bein so selfishly keeping your memory in vain…

and losing it.

 

i dont want to be without you…

but i have to.

We..You..I WOMEN SUCK

 

 so directly putting it out there…

women suck.

and lets be completely frank and honest, don’t deny it.

You know it.

They’re hard to work with…sleep with… to keep up with…they. we. I am difficult.

and as much as we all swear to have our…your…their bodies under control…

we’re walking dangers to ourselves.

I feel like blasting Pink’s Hazard to Myself while i

scream as loud as i possibly can to

shatter the walls of insanity this womanly cavity has trapped me in.

draped me in red waves of crazy.

God damned us by not giving us a handbook to our women

 but cursed us by not putting up any yellow caution tape.

Why is there no yellow caution tape?

Screaming danger! You will get your heart, mind, body, soul emotionally…physically…mentally…trampled on!

Because they’ll mind fuck the shit out of you!

and then end up turning around and fucking around with your shitty mind!

You, I, we are Manipulating.

Deceiving.

Treacherous.

and way to vulnerable…

gulliable and…

still at the same time invincible..

because no matter how much we…you…i…try to STOP the madness

no matter how loud the invisible yellow caution tape screams

JUMP SHIP BITCH!

i manage…

to float ashore

into the arms.

of a woman.

damn you.

me.

us.

eXs

Exs are funny things.
Like most things in life they
evoke a series of bittersweet giggles.

Heart ache transformed into laughter.

Exs are small c-r-a-c-k-s
in your sanity.
Wondering why you put enough time and
effort into them just to be left with a shadow of once was.

And will never be again.

Exs are trouble.
Displaced love now spoken in such a
low whisper today.

So long ago its not even worth mentioning.
Exs are the physical representation
of blood leaking from your tears.
Mark thick Xs into your skin
reminding yourself that the treasure wasn’t there.

And that wasn’t a speck of gold in their eyes anyway.

Exs are ghosts.
No matter what casualties you form
after the pages of relationship fade away…

They’re gone.

Exs are real.
Showing your true character
when backs are to the wall and skin ripped raw.

Everything is not what it seems.

Exs are the gray scale rainbow
after the storm.
And after you’ve cried waterfalls of
self indulgent pity you are left with laughter.

Mainly heckling at your own…
stupidity.