hearts
as cold as sleet
beating frigidly
within a desolated cavity

a wasteland of remembrance
teetering on madness
echoes thoughts of insanity

where words
vitriolic at best
cuts deep
beneath the soul

a place
where beauty once lived
lay ugly and abandoned...

and as winter creeps
through cracks long forgotten
love

lies trampled in the madness

It hit you like a sucker punch
With eyes wide open
Like the door I walked out of
Leaving your heart broken

Emotions cast about
Useless as wasted tokens

For the fair has ended
And I'm tired of pretending
So cash in your sentiments

There's no saving for a rainy day
I would prefer when I'm gone
Not to even remember
Your
Face

What are fallen stars?

Are they
Faded dreams,
Disappointments
Streaking across the night sky
Resoundingly repeating and reminding us of our failures? or

Are they,
The gaiety of children
Running amuck amongst the planets
Causing mischief and mayhem

Could it be,
That they are missives just for me,
Of a love Waiting patiently?

A love
I have yet to find divine
Tangible
A love all mine

Could fallen stars be
Remnants of a broken heart
Broken once too many,
Or love sabotaged?

For you see,
I have yet to find
My true love

But in searching
I have drowned...

In many a
Mirage

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

propped up against my windowsill
with a slice of cold pizza
watching the cars below
play
green
     light
          go

and wishing my thoughts
would stop playing too

The sky was tilting and dipping downward and if it hadn't been so beautiful, I would have assumed it to be a tornado. The way the clouds clustered and swirled into a hole directly above Pennsylvania reminded me of when you shut the bathtub drain and rinse the soapsuds out of your hair, then open it back up and watch it vortex away.

Like I said, I've never seen Lancaster at night, but I'm assuming it's lovely. At least, it must feel lovely. How lovely can anything really be in the dark? But if you think about it, even little old ladies have a nightlife, they play bingo and then go to bed. What more could I ask for? A pencil that doesn't attempt ****** on a sheet of drawing paper? Because every pencil I have keeps trying to **** something inside me that's trying very hard to stay alive.

It's strange to be in someone else's shoes, and even stranger when they fit. If you ever want to trade teddy bears for the weekend, I'm down.

I haven't cried since April 24th, but lately every time I start thinking about life, my eyes get damp and my expensive eyeliner starts running onto my cheeks. And speaking of eyes, my lids are always feeling sleepy and puffy and my lashes frequently weigh down my entire body. I'm trying to see the bright side, but all I've got over here is a cup of mistemperatured coffee and a dimming world that I already extracted all the poetry from. Somebody get me to Lancaster this fall, I'm thinking a slew of unfamiliar parking lots might lift this insufferable fog, and maybe you'll become my Seattle.

To my left
there is my lover.
To my right
I see my sister.
In front of me
there's uncertain mist.
Trailing me,
feelings persist.
I'm encircled by
so many souls,
but still I feel all alone.
Am I selfish?
To want more?
To fill the space
I've become?
Look to the light
and I see nothing.
Search for pictures
and get only words.
Lonely words.

of worlds, distorted and tinted with lies and memories by perspective .  the layers alternate between true and false, but no one knows which is which.  all they know is that each is stranger than the last.

(what if all of them are false?)

(what if all of them are true?)

(what each layer is neither, but a muddle of self and circumstances and fog?)

each layer is a labyrinth of time that tunnels in and out of itself like a knot.  people wander through blind and dazed, carving years of verse and murals into the walls in layers, layers and layers of words and swirling scribbled sketches. that's all we are and all we leave - graffiti.  everyone dies in the labyrinth. no exit exists, just another labyrinth with new graffiti. there's no getting lost, at least, when the path you choose is your path and therefore right.

The world is a string of bubbles. Each bubble is a smaller world and within each one is another world until all you have is a tiny spherical sheer shiny egg-bubble holding a person, separate yet connected to the rest of the world. Mostly separate. When a bubble pops another bubble already has encased its contents. When you look through the layers of filmy greasy dream-colored skin of bubble within bubble within bubble within bubble within bubble, reality gets blurred, filtered, distorted by perspective. This is why you can't see my pained grimace when you laugh forcedly and loudly, why I can't see why you're so cold at times. This is why isolation is inescapable.