I have this feeling:
I'm not really a poet.
This isn't really art.
I sit and spew mindless
Dribble about how badly
I think my life sucks,
But to think that's
Poetic is a big
Misconception.
This is not poetry,
I'm not a poet.
I'm a diarist,
A record keeper, but
Not an artist.
This is how I feel.
And I don't think
I should be revered
For my feelings.
Bad things have
Happened to me.
For that, should I get
Applause? Why?
Because I'm unfortunate.
I want to share my
Pain, but maybe it's
For no other reason
Than arouse pity.
Did anyone ever think of
That? This isn't art,
This is honesty.
This is autobiography.
This is no great feat.
This is my life. These
Things have happened,
And these are the emotions that
I felt when they did.
Do not praise me for
Living. Do not praise me
For feeling. Understand me
For knowing. I am not
An artist. I am not a
Poet. I am just a girl.
But I have you all
Fooled, don't I?
"Gotta escape, can't get out of this life.
Need a fix, need a noose, need some help.
Bound by blood, abused by blood, can taste
The blood in my mouth as the fist strikes
Me again, and again, and again. No way out,
No way to survive, haven't been taught how
To live, only been taught how to slum it.
Wanna get high, temporary escape. Gonna
Get laid, temporary exultation. There must
Be a way out of this mess. Should be
Playing with Barbies, but
I need to go get an AIDS test."
And as she told me all this, my
Mind roared with the cacophony of what she
Was saying. I was five years old when she
Was brought into this world, and I've only
Just turned twenty. Her child will be a year
Old before she can get a driver's license.
How will she get a baby-sitter on prom night?
But no, I'm deluding myself to think that
There will be anymore education for this one.
She's beyond saving, beyond help, and she
Has made her decision. Chosen her escape
Route, and will only become what her mother
Now is, and that is less than nothing.
I wonder if there is still time to save her twin
Sister, or is she out right now, even as we
Speak, unknowingly acting against
Humanity? And I look at her, or I should say
I look right through her as she happily
Giggles—the way fourteen year old girls
Should—and says, "It's going to be a girl."
And I try to figure out just what the fuck
Has happened to our world.
Sign My Guestbook, It Will Make Me Happy
Granted the ability to sigh,
Given an appreciation of beauty
That makes me want to die.
Ingrained with a sense of poetic duty,
And a fascination for sadness.
A love for all things dark,
And a charming sort of madness.
A passion that is quickly sparked,
And a thirst to heavily drink,
An imagination to ward off the alone,
And too much time to think.
A situation too easily bemoaned,
A heart I have given for free,
A soul I no longer want,
A need for love that cannot be,
And a host of poetic haunts.
A desire to save the human race,
A voice with which to plead,
An artist I am, I rest my case,
I am blessed indeed.
It started out with
Fisher Price and Dr. Seuss.
Had a play kitchen,
Graduated to Mini-bake
Oven. And I forsook them
All for Barbie.
Played the tomboy.
Listened to rap.
Was anorexic for those
Assholes in high school.
Wanted to be a vampire.
Wore all black—wanted to be
Gothic. Frequented
The Rocky Horror Picture Show.
Hung out in Denny's.
Played the Atheist the
First year at my Lutheran
University. That same year,
Was given only three months
To live. Spent those months
Sleeping in hotel lobbies hoping
To meet Morrissey. Wanted to
Die—didn't. Medical Error.
Wanted to be a vampire again.
Worshipped Anne Rice.
Wanted to fuck Trent Reznor.
Okay, so I still want to
Fuck Trent Reznor.
Decided to play the good
Christian girl to get a boy—
Failed. Played an actress
To get a life—failed.
Played a caterer
And fed the masses.
Played suicidal and
Was locked up for a time.
Played it cool and snared
A guy. Not cool enough,
He dumped my ass.
Played the novelist.
Lived at the beach with
No real job. Got a real job,
Now playing executive.
Don't know who I am.
Lost my soul too long ago.
Only thing I ever really
Liked was Barbie and then
My beloved books. I'm tired
Of playing, when is recess over?
Is it nap time, yet?
"But then again, maybe euthanasia is the only answer...."
My God, who asked her? Why does she think we care?
"That's what Hitler wanted us to believe...."
My brother, you're the reason we're all here in the first place, you bastard.
"Why do we always follow Jim everywhere?"
I don't know, but if you fondle me under the table one more time, I'm going to kill you.
"But there has got to be a point where modern medicine should just let people die."
My God, did I say that? Could I sound a little less educated this morning?
"But there's a reason for modern medicine."
Where did we find this homeless Canadian? People, people who need a shower....
"Hitler wanted to euthanize mentally ill people, I'm talking about terminally ill people."
Did she start this conversation? Do I want to talk about Hitler at breakfast? No!
"But who are we to decide at what point a human life has no value? It's still a human life."
Shut up! I'm sorry I followed you here, and human life has no value. People die, we should let them, pull the plug, I say, or would like to say.
"Why are we talking about this? My brain hurts, let's not okay?"
Thank God, the first intelligent thing said all morning, for that, I don't mind if you grope me.
"Well, what should we talk about? We're in Mexico having breakfast."
Did it take you that long to figure that one out?
"That in itself is something to talk about, why are we here?"
You don't really care why "we" are here, but why are "you" here?
"I liked our other conversation better, it was more interesting."
My God, if she doesn't shut up, I'm gonna...wait, is that breakfast? There is a God.
A room filled with light.
A bed of linen white.
The light, a light so bright.
She is standing amongst the light.
In a dress of many layers,
She is repeating her prayers.
Her hair is thick and long.
Her features delicately strong.
She uses her beauty as a cover,
Every week a brand new lover.
Inner beauty in disguise,
Underneath those dark green eyes.
Just a party or a dance,
Men would die for her romance.
This creature ever so delicate,
Has troubles she cannot forget.
Through the light she knows the darkness.
In its vast form and starkness.
Never to know of, or to learn
Of the things she truly yearns.
Never to feel for another thing.
Like a pendulum, the darkness swings.
I'm slowly realizing that I can't have you,
So I guess, there's only one thing left for me to do.
I'll have you on paper, don't you see?
So you can never be with anyone but me.
I'll be the only girl you can ever want,
And you'll be all mine to hold, to kiss, to flaunt.
You will see that I can be the only girl,
And you'll be pleased that I fill your world.
With your every thought, I will come to mind first.
You will realize that only I can quench your thirst.
I am the artist, I am in control.
I make you live on paper, there I own your soul.
All around me, your world will revolve.
When I am near, all other thoughts will dissolve.
All your actions will be for my benefit--
You'll think only of me, and that's it.
How happy it'll be in my own little place.
On paper I will immortalize your gorgeous face.
We'll be so happy, it will be divine.
On the white pages you'll always be mine.
The pen is mightier than the sword, though less fulfilling.
To give me everything I desire, you'll always be willing.
In my written world, you'll be with me forever.
You'll be by my side for my every endeavor.
Pen and paper--my only tools,
You can't escape, you see, I make the rules.
Let me go to sleep at night,
And forget I held you in my sight.
Let me have my heart again,
And maybe I'll be happy then.
Give me back my peace of mind,
And I'll forget you and your kind.
Let me learn again to smile,
And be content just for a while.
Let me know how it is to dream,
And have things be the way they seem.
Let me know how it is to hope,
Or, dear God, give me just enough rope.
I cannot write pretty verse.
I lost my innocence too long ago.
No flowery meter or measured feet,
Can drip from my pen,
Since the river of tears I once
Immortalized is now my own.
I cannot write of the tragedy
Of the lives of people I know,
For I am too caught up in
The drama of my own.
Light-hearted rhymes have
No place in my heart,
For bitterness has made
Its home there, and the
Tales that I now spin
Are of unrequited love and great loss.
So if I could write as I once did,
I would gladly do so,
But my life has led me down
The road of experience,
And along the way,
I've met disillusionment.
So I shall not pretend
That I have gone untouched
By the sights I have seen,
The nights I have spent,
Or the things I have lost
Along the way.
For these are the things
That have shaped my life,
And now they shape my
Poetry.
If I were gone, would I be missed?
Would my face be remembered? or the way that I kissed?
Would anyone care? Would my "friends" cry?
Would it really matter if I were to die?
At my funeral, who would be there?
Tell me, if I were dead, who would care?
Life would go on, it always does.
Tell me, who would remember who I was?
Would my grave be visited? or ignored?
Where would the memories of me be stored?
If I were gone, would it be such a great loss?
Just how much does recognition cost?
Could anyone not bear the thought of living without me?
With me gone, what would this world be?
So tell me, if I ended it all right here and now,
Would anyone mind that I was taking my final bow?
Would anyone realize how lonely I'd become?
Or maybe my death would be something they'd learn from.
Could they appreciate the desperation of my final hours?
Would it be realized that I had lost all of my power?
I never realized that I could be as lonely as I am,
And please, tell me, does anyone give a damn?
I cannot count the friends that have fled,
Due to the things I should or shouldn't have said.
I cannot tell you the number of men who ran screaming away,
Because of the things I couldn't bring my self to say.
When I think of the lost relationships, I shudder.
All of them over due to words I couldn't utter.
I can't count the nights that I've spent alone,
Because when I said what I felt, I used the wrong tone.
I can't calculate the bundle of letters I've had to write,
For so many things that I've said resulted in fights.
The tears that I've shed could fill a small sea,
All because the right words didn't come to me.
I've never been witty or quick to the punch,
Half my acquaintances think I'm quite "out to lunch."
I'm not really bold, and I've never been daring.
I don't believe that most of my thoughts are worth sharing.
So many times I've neared coming unstrung,
For all too late, I discovered my tongue.
My lack of words can cause such distress,
But I try to tell myself that silence is best.
Yes, I'll suffer in silence, but then again,
I have such a voice when I pick up my pen.
All alone
Barely breathing
Calmly calling
Desperately drowning
Enviously enlightened
Fearfully fascinated
God-gone
Help him
I'm inebriated
Jinxed, jarred
Kerosene karma
Lustily lamenting
Maliciously murdered
Nobody nearby
Obsolete obscurity
Paltry people
Quietly quoting
Raunchy rhymes
Searching silently
Thinking trepidatiously
Unidentified-unknown
Vast vacancies
Why worry?
Xeroxed xenophobia
You yell
Zealously zoning.
I'm sorry son, but don't you see?
You can only go so far with an English degree.
I didn't plan this, I promise you,
But, you see, my American Express bill was past due.
I'm a novelist I claim, but I try not to gripe,
For what I'm really paid for is to mindlessly type.
I didn't go to college to learn to take dictation,
That sure as hell one of my expectations.
But I have to make money, for I have bills to pay.
Though I'd much rather write all night and sleep half the day.
I grew up too fast, I was in college at sixteen,
And all too quickly I learned this world is ugly and mean.
So now I play executive, but I'm really a poet,
And none of the people I work with even know it.
I didn't expect this, suddenly I'm an adult.
And I'm so sure my troubles are all someone else's fault.
I feel so old so much of the time,
Scary to think, I've yet to reach my prime.
All grown up, too much responsibility,
And so many dreams I may never see.
This isn't fair, I want to go out and have fun,
But my days of partying all night, are definitely done.
I'm young and I'm talented, I tell myself that plenty,
And I try to remember, dear God, I'm only twenty.
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