When I wear makeup
I feel unstoppable
courageous
beautiful.
so beautiful.

but I don't mean regular makeup,
mascara lipstick eyeliner blush etc,
I mean the kind that takes hours to apply,
transforming myself into hit characters
ghastly ghouls
alien creatures
minotaurs
ziggy stardust
I mean painting myself
with all the theatricality I can afford.

I feel like I can breath when I wear my makeup,
I feel okay and calm and like nothing can touch me
above all else I feel safe.
so safe
with that paint,
everybody's looking at the makeup
instead of me,
they admire and compliment the mask I've crafted
and it makes me happy to know
they can't see my plain pale face underneath,
the outrageous conception
has formed a shield
allowing me to step out in public
without being afraid to exist.

when I wear my makeup
I'm allowed to be whomever I please
and mingle-talk freely with all I want,
my makeup lets me be like everyone else.

The only downside is that not every week is spirit week,
my gentle skin is too irritated by even the most
hyper-allergenic makeup and acne protrudes
and at the end of it all I still have to wash it off,
watch my happy colors go down the sink drain,
the mask doesn't last forever,
and I'm left standing there the next day,
without my makeup
without my shield
and I feel so naked,
I feel incomplete and scared.

I wish every week was spirit week,
and that my skin was tough,
so that I could paint my face every day
              so I wouldn't have to be afraid.

Someone left a black leather briefcase
at the bus station sometime earlier this week.
They called in a bomb squad
from over in Springfield
after the thing sat there for hours
emitting an aura of chilled sweat;
it took them just as long to get their
from what I've been hearing.
They blew the thing up.
Right there in the bus station,
they blew that ****** briefcase
to Hell and back after an X-ray
found wires and a circuitry board.
This is not a big city,
it's not a small town either,
but here we have a place
that I arrive at twice daily
getting pseudo-bombed
and I can hardly scrape up
the dollar for bus fare at times.
A warehouse over on Jasper street
caught on fire a few days later;
an inferno in close quarters,
so they knocked the old Bess over
so the flames didn't spread.
There is still a giant pile of rubble
at the site; bricks with masonry companies
imprint on the sides, rusty bars that were either
too heavy, or too stuck for scrapping fiends,
and a hell of a lot of odorous char.  
This is a winter of fire in Decatur,
but the bones still chill.

The starter is going out
in the 91' Cutlass
that sits in my driveway
braving the winds.
I can hear that grinding noise;
the expensive one.
The one that says,
"Your savings is low!"
every time you think
you're going to have
a stable ride to work.
The bus is reliable,
the route is what will drive
a sane man off the edge.
You start to get sick
of seeing the same ****** places,
the same ****** turns,
the same ****** bumps, and
the same ****** passengers.
Plus, the radio makes Monday
just a little more tolerable
when you get the option
of stopping for breakfast.
I like that car.

Friday seems like a back brace right now,
and I've had just enough caffeine
to where I don't think I can stand a nap.
I'm just glad to have my shoes off, and
the reassuring calm of an uncashed check.
I'm starving.

"Be like water making its way through cracks. Do not be assertive, but adjust to the object, and you shall find a way around or through it. If nothing within you stays rigid, outward things will disclose themselves. 

Empty your mind, be formless. Shapeless, like water. If you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup. You put water into a bottle and it becomes the bottle. You put it in a teapot, it becomes the teapot. Now, water can flow or it can crash. Be water, my friend."

-Bruce Lee

Baby come home with me
You're mine for a week
I'll show what love is
And what it means
When I'm done I'll toss you away
You'll be just another fish in the sea

You were the cause of the worst week of my life.
You caused a week of torture.

A week of misery.
A week of pain.
A week of weight gain.
A week of sad songs.
A week of only talking to my dog.
A week of re-blogging sad quotes on tumblr.
A week of night sky pictures with sad captions.
A week of not knowing which way was up.
A week of only heading down.
A week of tiredness.
A week of hell.
A week of being weak.

But just as much as
someone can run out of strength;
someone can run out of weakness.

I am done being weak.
This week is over.
You showed me how weak I can be
So now it's time I show you just how strong I can be.

Not so much of a poem as just a quick thank you.
To all of you who have read and shown such love and support.

This past week I have had my passion reignited for writing and poetry.
No rhyme or verse, nor any thing else that I can conceive of. can show the smallest portion of gratitude I have for everyone here!

Hopefully, I can in some way repay a bit of the kindness that I've gotten from you.

Much love and caring,

Skip

You said I was your everything on Monday
You said you missed me on Tuesday
You said you liked talking to me on Wednesday
You said "fine" and "sure" and "lol" and "ya" on Thursday
You said something came up and you couldn't see me on Friday
You said nothing on Saturday
You said nothing on Sunday

throwing papers
up in the air
everywhere
wonderful bliss
4 years for this
I miss you now
we talked about how
this would be us
kissing
throwing it up
not giving a ****
i don't give a ****
i really don't

graduating next week
and i pretend to be sad to go
it really doesn't matter
ill walk and ill bow
ill get my diploma
i really don't know how....
I got the papers from the recycling bin
it says a lot doesn't it

It hasn't even been a week
Since I saw him last,
But it feels like a lifetime;

However, when I take another look,
It feels like just yesterday,
A dazed and far-off kind of yesterday
As if I saw him in a dream
Just last night.

I saw him standing before me,
And he was really there
Until I opened my eyes
And rubbed out the sleep
Only to realize,
Him, oh him, I will never keep,

But just last week
I kept him and he kept me
In that dazed, far-off kind of dream.

Most dreams aren't real,
But this one had to be
Because I can still feel the way he looked at me.
Those brown eyes turned to me,

And I could feel them piercing my soul,
But never deep enough to leave a mark.
He was in my soul, but left it untouched,
So why does my soul feel so eternally touched?

I know he had no intention,
Not even the slightest,
Of making a home in my soul,
So why do I feel a fire lit in the fireplace
And footsteps on the floor?
Why do I hear the rocking of a chair?
I know he can't be there

Because I never let him in,
Never opened the door
To the house deep inside me.
I never let his feet hit the floor

Because I knew he would leave muddy footprints
That not even the best maid could clean,
And I would be left with a ***** floor
And an empty house,
An unlit fireplace
And an abandoned chair,
Still rocking ever so slightly
Just to remind me he'd been there.

m.c.c.