I really like hate me too.

So I know everyone has that one favorite song that sticks with you
trought the years. Wuts urs? Mine is "Sway" by Coal Chamber

These Tears

If these tears could tell a tale
it would be a long one;
hope, loss and things forgotten
crystal droplets shattered, left
when their shards can cut like glass

salty little splashes
grace those faded yellow tiles
they've seen it all; have had
[will have]
bloodstains washed away
the patch where they fall is darkened;
but who'd forget that blood
is thicker than simple tears?

And when you take the path of least
[least everything; hope, pain, love]
resistance you find among the twists and turns
Something unexpected. Maybe
through the tears retelling
dirt backwoods roads
have their own kind of bleak hope.

Thank you. writing is pretty much my life.

He should have been a cowboy

The last great romantic-
He was born to be a stereotype

Something we read about in AP literature

Diagrammed,

Discussed

And essentially understood through the use of archetypical symbolism
He should've grown his hair long

Played rock'n'roll

He should’ve died tragically

Young and misunderstood
Someone we read about in the newspapers

Then analyzed in the light of pop culture’s significance

Its numbing influence on America’s youth.

She should’ve been a poet

Weaving words

Wearing
yard sale clothes

Someone whose name we read on flyers tacked to streetlights

Advertisements for coffeehouse readings
Things we never went to

But appreciated from a distance

As peaceful rebellion against conventional wisdom
she should’ve been a gypsy, wandering the streets carelessly,
someone we read about in national geographic

Next to glossy pictures of brightly colored clothes and dirty cheeked
children
someone we viewed as a cause

A romanticized survivor of primal instinct.


But instead
There’s embroidery on her camera case

And duct tape on their chairs

And they cram newspapers under the windowsills of their crumbling
apartment

Keep books in the refrigerator

Because there’re oranges on the shelves

And they rot

Fold into themselves

Decayed.
The whole room smells of overripe fruit
Dead flowers

And they like it that way

I?m painting blue murder on bathroom walls
because I was never one for screaming,
spinning tales with the tiles
who speak like Braille on my finger tips.
We?re talking in tongues and tripping on
tea and camellias whilst the
grout runs rivets down my spine,
straight tacked, flat backed,
dried against the skin.
I strike bargains with angels in pinafores
who peddle watches through my dreams,
asking time in return for restless sleep
but they want too much of me.
It?s colder than space with Laurence?s stars,
no, not wonderful, but dreadful,
and no, not dreadful, not really even stars at all.
I keep looking for a window when there isn?t one
with a rip in my throat and acidic lips,
and the tiles are telling me all their hopes and aspirations
but I?m beyond caring anymore.