My poetry is gone
leaving my fingertips empty The words I do find
are harsh and grating
in the way they crash together,
leaving awkward pauses [Just write is what they say, so I write and write and write...and the awful noise that ensues just keep getting louder, and worse.]

My muse has been banished,
locked away
with that Savage Beast-
the one that likes to tell me
to slit my wrists
in pretty patterns
and watch as the blood There's something ironic
about the way death and beauty
lump themselves together "Severe Depression
with as side of suicidal tendencies"-
is what the doctors say [Somehow, I think that if I told them I was just trying to find some inspiration, they'd lock me up anyway and then throw away the key.]

So I sit here and pretend
to be normal
while The Beast and the poetry
stay buried deep within
balancing one another out
in an infinite battle for escape ...and then I will die.

(With a tragically beautiful death
and the words will be free at last.)

Your most vivid memory of Him
Is that first moment you met
When He shook your hand on the stairs
And smiled.
You knew in an instant
His was a love far too perfect for you to deserve.
(But since when did that stop you from wanting?)

Three days.
That's all you got-
But it was all you needed.
A weekend of flirting
And as it drew to an end
You pushed Him away with an
"It doesn't matter;
I'll never see you again"
And He was gone,
Leaving you free to love him safely-
From afar.

And she got to have Him
All for her own
Because you're too self-destructive
To let yourself be happy.

Now you have all the excuses
Necessary to make yourself miserable.
And instead of love
You have jealousy, anger and loneliness.
All the old feelings
You're so familiar with.

But sometimes
Late at night
When its dark and you're alone
(And its safe)
You think of him
And wonder if he remembers you...

...And if maybe,
Maybe he still loves you too.

Dusk grows closer
And the shadows of the sunset linger
eerily on the edge of the sky-
mocking your misery.

They escape to a world of pretty things
and you remain here,
trapped in your metal cage
of thought and reason.

you're too impure for their world,
Even if you were to escape.
And all would crumble to dust
at your filthy touch.

So you watch the leaves fall
only to be blown into the distance.
Even they get away in the end.

And you'll end up as useless
as the piece of gum,
stuck to a grave-digger's shoe.

You deserve nothing else.

What color does the sky turn,
When the world falls apart
And the rain can't even clense
The filth?

The cities are burning,
and children are crying,
But all you want to know
Is what color the sky is.

I'd Forgotten you
lost between the pages
of an old book I never open,
along with the daisys
you gave me the day we met.

Back then they were a treasure
a memory.
They were you.
But today,
After days faded into years
all I see is death.

The flowers died,
Along with any happy memories
I had of you.

I should burn the book
And erase you from my soul
Along with al lthe black marks you put there
with your dirty fingers.

But even you,
Creature of filth that you are
Aren't worth defiling beauty for.

Cruel October
With it's winds of change
And mocking Irony.

It leaves you lost, beneath
A sky so blue it looks painted on
to a backdrop of colorful trees,
And you're forced to disengage.

You listen to the music to forget,
But the music's too full of memories
And it's haunting pulse drowns out
Even the darkest thoughts.


Afraid to close your eyes
or blink-
For you know when you regain conciousness
Nothing will have changed,
Because this surreal dream is you life
And there's no going back.

The wind blows, and
The leaves scatter
And you're left in the dark once more.

Winter comes but twice a year
Love was clearly meant for warmer seasons.
The too-thin scarf he wove about your neck
flutters to the snowy ground efforlessly-
There go all hopes of staying warm.

Outside it's five below
Your heart reigns even colder
and you miss the comforting warmth of his hands
when they embraced yours-
the only heat you now crave
to keep the darkness out.

A snowflake dances through your wind-blown hair,
Momentarily capturing your attention,
reminding you of a happiness
you left behind long ago.

Its too cold now
and the hour's growing late.
He's not coming back-
not this time...
But you'll join him soon enough.

Everyone will freeze to death in the end.

Wrote it a long time ago, during the PSATs when I was super bored. Felt like posting it because i like it. Has friends's LJ usernames in it. Or at least all the friends I had when I wrote it...

( Mad Show )

It seems rather strange when your best writings come at 3 AM. Maybe then, when the night is quiet and the world around us is still, the worlds within us stir. Beggin to be created and unleashed. One world at a time, One word on a page, one sentance. All the power contained in one hand to create a million worlds and characters and adventures. Its a pity more people don't take advantage of it. Imagine how rich with stories the world would be if everyone stayed up 'til 3 in the morning. When you think about it, the magnitude of what you're doing surpasses all else. The capacity to cultivate and build and explore without ever stirring from your spot. with nothing more at your disposal than a pencil and a sheet or two of paper- or transcending back to a more primal naturem the simplest rock in a pile of dirt.

The way fantasy can be born and die in an instant, the way waves rise and fall with the pull of the moon, is all controled by your hand.

You watch as everone else's fairytales unfold before your eyes and help to stitch up their happy-ever-afters. Counting down the pages one-by-one waiting for your own, but it never comes. Pages can only wither away for so long before you have nothing left but a pile of ashes for Cinderella to sweep away- but at least she's got an ending. One with a prince, a castle, and unending bliss. Her tale will go on and on- lacing the pages of a gloss-covered story book together as your dusty tome lays still and untouched- slowly losing blank pages at a greater count each day until you're left the way you're meant to be...

...As Nothing.