Tuesday, November 4, 2014


The stars I worship are dead 
  By the time their light reaches my eyes 
And dazzle me beyond belief 
           They are dead 
    What does that say of me,
The depressed girl who finds hope in the 
Shining, sparkly specks in the too light night sky 
Who seem so alive, but have died long ago 

When I can find a space that is dark enough
              (In the literal sense) 
I lay upon the ground, be it gravel, grass, pavement, or sand. 
And stare, stare, stare in wonder 
     At those glorious specks of death 

Notes written on the backs of letters

Parts of a woman 
Society having picked her apart 
  But there she remains , 
A full human being 
Who appreciates all of the parts 

  No that isn't the word 
Sore and weary from her 
Tumultuous exploration of herself 
She finds solace in her wholeness 

This wholeness sometimes being 
Put together these pieces 
And see a human being before you


Life. The walls you live inside, they feel safe and at the same time still confining, suffocating. The floor boards and their familiar creaks, the ones that give you away. Your habits, repeated, again, and again. The worries, the overwhelming desire to become something other than yourself, that self that somehow clings to the hope and prospects you are fully capable if achieving. The desire is to lose yourself in inadiquity, to be the ghost. That everlasting whimsical of wandering, not wondering... But WANDERING. For certain you are lost without those who love and support you. What to do with the ever present thought in your somehow smart analytic and unique mind. How can such a mind be this inadequate at a life that many layman seem to master. 


Those stars I fervently wish were brighter
     If you're wondering why 
        The reason is this 

Even in their dim sparseness 
     I find hope and a feeling of utterly 
       Captivating beauty 

Unhindered by the future worries of 
           Everyday life 
Their brightness fills the void of infinity 

A bad night in September

I wonder what the people at this pub think 
Distraught young woman seeking refuge
In drink and journaling? 
   A writer onto a story, given the rapid pace of my writing? 
     Or a ghost, come at last to bring more patrons.... The unusual one covered in blood, writing feverishly in her unseen journal. 
    She'll tell your fortune you know. 
      I heard it by a patron near by. 
She's good at predicting deaths, 
  Especially her own. 

.... I'd rather they fancy me a young writer, consumed with the passion of her writing, a story for the ages. 

Monday, November 3, 2014

A bad September day

And what's worse 
    I'd given myself hope 
I had given my family a glimmer of hope. 

And in one stupid day I have smashed it all. 
With the letting of mine own blood, 
With the consumption of spirits. 

The thought of committing totally 
to this 
Idea of madness is often tempting. 

More from that night

I cannot write of what will be. 
The future is easy, the present is hard. 

It is this present from whence I am 
Supposed to build a solid foundation upon which my glorious future will rest 

Problem, this present is shit and has been for as long as I can remember. 

That one night filled with blood

Time moves slow
Sluggish as molasses 
Always it seems,
  To remind you of 
     Your progress, non progress 

Whether the air be crisp with cold
Or heavy with heat
It seems a constant reminder. 
What you want but haven't achieved 
 Of prospects so distant in the future 
    As to seem almost invisible 

You see life in the cold, 
  Stifling pressure in the heat 

Your mind struggles to find 
Whence at last you grow weary 
 And throw yourself into that 
 Light or heavy wind 

Where you land, you have no care 
    At least it's done 


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Los Angeles, CA, United States
. all writings posted here are written by me, take without permission and i'll slit your throatmuahahahaha. seriously, don't