The Urge.

A secret burns within my mind.
You darling, are attracted to the flames.
I pray that you don’t get burned
attempting to unravel what I hold hostage...

Authority.

If you let me,

the lightning in my heart

could strike the sand in your soul
and turn you to glass,
breakable and honest.
 

The last thing your demons
would taste would be the
poison on my lips,
a kiss that could starve
your anxieties and ignite
your spirit.

My fingerprints
on your skin could
suffocate every doubt and
scrape the worries from your
shoulders.

My body could
be the nourishing well where
you come to heal yourself,
where you remember how to
breathe.

If you let me I could be
yours in a way no one has
been before or will be again.

The Novel.

I am all mystery and secrets,
silently wishing,
that you don’t read into me,
or you’ll know how much
I desire to be always,on your mind.

I am.

I have the greatest responsibility of all.

I am compelled to make people feel,
in a world that tells them not to.

I am committed to speak to you through
words and photographs.

By writing about moments of such magnitude and beauty,
that people rediscover their hearts one more time.

I am here to give meaning to the few decades we spend here.

That is the reason I was sent to Earth.

I....
am an artist.

Scattered.

Writers are forgetful...
but they remember everything.

They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore and how you smelled.

Every single day...
they remember every story you’ve ever told them, but forget what you’ve just said.

They don’t remember to water the plants or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how to make you laugh.

Writers are forgetful because they’re busy remembering the important things.

So please, forgive me if I forget.

I was late

I’m sorry I was late. I was pulled over by a cop
for driving blindfolded
with a raspberry-scented candle
flickering in my mouth.

I’m sorry I was late.
I was on my way when I felt
a plot thickening in my arm.

I have a fear of heights.

Luckily the Earth is on the second floor of the universe.

I am not the egg. I am the owl
who just witnessed another tree fall over
in the forest of your life.

I am your mother shaking her head at the thought of you.
I am her words dissolving in your mind like footprints in a rainstorm.

I am a long-legged martini.
I am feeding olives to the bull raging inside you.
I am decorating your labyrinth,
tacking up snapshots of all the people who’ve gotten lost
in your corridors.

vicinage

warm January mornings.

chapped lips.

yelling mistakes and untold secrets

through the collars of shirts.

this train is running local.

allow yourself multidimensionality.

 

Brush strokes

The doctor tells me to sit down on his table,
and asks me to stick out my tongue, so I do.

I ask him if he sees the paintings I carry in the back of my throat.
He laughs, as if I’m telling a joke. I’m not.

I tell him that I’ve got Da Vinci, Monet, Van Gogh, and Picasso,
and when I laugh, I taste brushstrokes.

I ask him to stick out his tongue,
so I can see what he has trapped inside of him.

He hesitates...

Then he does, and I see a man who struggles for acceptance
and chokes on the word love.

I don't conform.

As a writer, it’s easy for people to criticize my creativeness

when someone thinks my work is offensive, 
specifically, that it offended them.

It doesn't matter.

I don’t censor myself. I won't censor myself.

I write what I want to say, how I see it.

It may be fiction. It may be non-fiction.

-And the point of view will always be different.

It doesn't mean that I don't live in reality.

I write from all points of view.
Covering every perspective.

It means I am inspired by all humanity,
and I see the beauty in everything, from every angle.

People will have opinions and I respect that.

And someone will always be offended. That's a given.

If you don't appreciate it- don't read it.

But I will never hold back what I want to write 
because of fear someone might be offended by it. 

When it comes to writing, people are going to love it or hate it,

and people are going to judge it -just like everything else in life.

It's said "Conformity is the jailer of freedom." 
-I don't conform, I am free.

we are nobodies

Death has no rhyme or reason. It does not discriminate.

Death doesn't give one fuck about
how old, how young, or how beautiful you are,
how rotten, how rich or what a saint you are.

Death is motherfucker. 

We are nobodies.

We are small.

We are vulnerable.

you already know

You want to get to know me, but what you don’t realize
is that you already know exactly who and what I am…

I’m the scissors you were warned not to run with.

The stranger you were told not to talk to.

I’m the bass beat in the sub-woofer that disrupts your heart’s rhythm.

I’m the 1% threatening your health, that your hand sanitizer refuses to eliminate.

I’m the anticipation that comes after the lightning
just before the thunder lets you know how close the storm is. 

I’m the cyanide in your apple seeds.
And the gravity when you fall.

I’m the devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right,

reminding you that, either way darling,
I will always, always have my way with you.

Escapes

I don’t know if I am really a writer or if I just have a lot of shit to say. Someone once told me I just liked the sound of my own voice.

I just know how good it feels when something from inside of me escapes into the hands of someone outside and it returns to me with fingerprints and more stories to tell...

That makes me happy.

superficial

Her life was black coffee
,

with extra cream,

and three spoons of sugar on top.




On the surface
,
everything appeared sweet and innocent,

but the base always remained 
dark...

Encore.

I swear I'm nice, I can promise you that.

But bite me baby, and I'll for sure bite back.

Like that lone actress on the Broadway stage,

I honestly don’t give a fuck, the show will go on.

Break a leg bitch, and good luck.

qualified

Your hand between my thighs,
my lips on your neck,
a gun behind your skull,
a knife behind my back.
If we make one wrong move,
we’ll both end up dead...
-trust is everything.

The artist

He laid out his paints on the table,

kissed the soft skin on my neck,

and asked me if I wanted to be
the 
paintbrush, or the palette.

Softly tracing his lips with my finger,
I whispered, "I want to be 
the painting."

insolence.

I live darkly,
but passionately,
through inspiration,
through love and hate.

So mock the fury I spit,
with venomous fuel,

close my fucking coffin
and I will still create
with a black arrogance
that will tinge your soul

so deep with sadness,
that it will drive you straight into

the depths of hell.

toxicity

You begged me to love you.

I looked at you with soft eyes
as my mouth whispered into your neck,

“Darling, a girl like me would destroy you. You don’t want this poison.”

You grabbed my hand, pulled me towards the bed,
and whispered into my ear...

"Baby, I walk around everyday, always high in a daze,
sniffing toxic fumes of you, breathing all of you in,
as I carelessly let you kill me,one breath at a time,
I. want. this. poison..."

intemperate

There’s no antidote 
for my obsession
-
it pulls my veins 
like puppet strings.

A lovesick lullaby 
that lures me to the 
brink of insanity.

It’s an addiction 
that cannot be 
satisfied– an 
endless withdrawal,
like a vampire damned by my own 
dark desire.

It’s more than 
your blood that 
I crave... 

I’m feeding on 
fantasies of you

like they were a 
feast laid in heaven,
swallowing saintly 
secrets of carnal sin.

For even the devil 
would languish in 
the flames
of this 
inferno ignited by 
the chaos of my lust.

Darling, worlds will burn 
when I collide 
with you...

Lethal dose.

I’m not addicted to drugs.

I’m addicted to his voice.

Addicted to his smile.

To his smell..

His thoughts.

No, I’m not addicted to drugs.


I am addicted

to a far more

lethal substance.

the system

I am begged for pocket change around every corner,
and in between televised scripting when the government
controls their money.
They created this system.
Why are they still searching?

the blur

I can feel my body in the shut down state.
I see the lights glimmer, right before they fade. 
I lose control of breathing, as it steadies to a halt.
And I count the seconds between thoughts,
no time to sleep.

My eyes rest with lids open wide,
blurring everything to black.
Closing ever slowly, like a curtain to the stage.

The time it takes to live, resides longer in my mind
than on paper or reality, and dreams cease to exist.

aphonic

His words were toxic,
and I slowly became a wasteland.
And for the first time,
it seems as though
I’ve run out of words...
Because I’ve always
had something to say,
but there are no words here.

Regeneration

Reclaim your mind and get it out of the hands
of the cultural engineers who want to turn you into
a half-baked moron consuming all this trash
that’s being manufactured out of the bones of a dying world.

The collection

He holds a secret collection


of magic cures behind his smile.

And somehow- every single time,

he knows just what one to use.


Like drugs dispensed
 from his lips

that feed my addiction...




I can finally breathe again.

justifications.

repetitive cycle.one you can't break.

denial. excuses. yeah. fuck you.

you've had more than you can take

round and round you spin, destructive and lethal.

on a fucked up binge of self hate.

hate for the world, you drink it away.

you're bored. here comes an apology.

justifications

pretexts

rationalizations

toxic, cutthroat, cataclysmic is your way.

with a side of suicidal takeover strategy.

everyday is dealt,

everyday has a tomorrow,

it seems you have no future,

you've hit rock bottom,

with nothing left to borrow.

forces of attraction

Indelible impressions


captured
 by the mind’s eye.


A video loop on replay.

Pause. 

Replay...

He lends his lips
 to my skin,

like he is promising this canvas,

that 
his fingers have not forgotten its color.

I have
 never felt like I
 exist more than 
I do,
when he
 touches me.

Now forever

a reference


a recollection


a fiber of memory


a permanent part of our DNA.


The most beautiful story

written in invariable ink.

An unerasable moment in time,

shared between two souls.

Pause. 

Replay...

sedation

"You don't get shit!" he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "I would never be this way if it wasn't for you! I've never felt this way until you! It was always about a piece of ass, then suddenly, there you were, and I was in love. I've never been this in love in my Goddamn life! So in love, it fucking hurts! It has physically made me sick. You're a monster. You're an evil, wicked, hateful person. You took my life, you took it all, every last piece, and ruined me! You fucked me up. And guess what? Even after destroying me to nothing, you are still everything to me. I still fucking love you and I hate myself for that."

the now.

Time...?

Fuck time.

Whoever said it was precious,

fucking lied to us all. 

Time isn’t precious,

it's a fucking illusion.

What should be
precious and valuable

is the out of time...

is the now.

Fuck the past,

Fuck the future.

Right here,

right now,
is the only precious thing

there will ever be.

You are never guaranteed  

another fucking day,

another hour

or another breath.