n lungs, growing
up, wrapping around
knotting with nerves,
veins reaching
for the rest of me.

pulling me apart.

inside I am old
ancient, crumbling
building with shattered
stained glass windows
bursting panes, bats
in my eaves, dust clinging
to surfaces stirred
with breezes rattling
around my bones.

beautiful.

and not in that pathetic delusional fat girl kind of way, and not in the fact that he is corny. No, my boyfriend is like a corn-dog because there is a big layer of nutritionless fried spongey batter that covers his insides. That batter is made up of three level cups of nice. Which is not to be substituted with "honest" or "real". No, nice is the only ingredient that can produce such a meaningless spongey layer to cover up the "love" "sincerity" and "caring" that makes up the center. That golden brown skin enticed me. But, it is what is inside that gives me substance.

the piece fell in the James
floated away to lands unknown
off on its own adventure
and we were just ****** to see it go
if you fill up a room with enough smoke
you start to see the things in people
which writhe, twist, and turn like snakes
the poisonous reaction sending up cries for help to an empty throne
and the fuel we run on:
nothing more than chemicals ****** out of the long **** of corporate fat cats
and we drink it happily
and wear the clothes they say we look good in
but in that room,
slowly filling with smoke,
we were trying to take it some place else
somewhere naked and honest
and full of the shame and secrets
that the youth of America have been carrying with them for years
like bowling ***** sitting in our gut
in the smoke filled room lies become prophetic wisdom
and like dominoes
our flaws and false beliefs
all fall down
one at a time
and when the room is completely full
we suffocate
only to disappear when the smoke clears

i'd be the
**** in your garden
just to get your
attention.