feral

wild path
falling leaves
dripping dreams
train comes for you
a whispered token
no reply
in your sleep you sigh
falling leaves
dripping dreams
i refuse
to be me
i will not
not be seen
when i run

being of a girl who surrounds her self with Antichrists and withering bacteria
you would think being a masochist would refrain from me crying,
yet with every choice i make based on the preservation
of others reality
you would think i wouldn't feel so responsible.
troubling to feed my inferiority complex
with guilt and shame in equal doses
you would think i wouldn't have to many friends

crying out in your sleep

a pause in our love

a rock to stumble on

a bonderin my heart

my tears subside

silence our way

or saying..

nothing at all

or a way to go on.

no answers no more

Trusting Girls

Honestly
i am real
your reality
fatality
stun morality.

actual-ity
god may exist to be good.
and i may exist to be good too.
am i god then?
for if god is everything god and i was once good (in my early years)
was i god?
tramping around in my barney dress and ducky sippy cup?
did i know my fate? was i omnipotent?
and ike they tell me, did i have a purpose for everything, did i battle satan in my potty trained days?
then did i sacrifice myself, to be a lamb, humans lamb
only to grow up to be one of them?
or are lambs human?
or are we gods?

Shade

Time alone, waiting for the inevitable
customer to come,
and to break my scilence and my frown
smile they are taking your picture
smile they will remember you if you dont.
smile they might ask whats wrong if you dont
smile becaus ethe poititicials are always grinning, and they have the least to smile about

wondergross

night
buries the heat
drawing us together
us fireflies
us nightbugs
us coffee drinkers and exsmokers
for now
so instant
for night travels quicker then day
why?
dreams
thats why.

time time time

again,

repeat

was and continue,

no stain remover for my eyes.

or my cheeks,

and no promises either.

this grey?

no i smile an let each blot, scar, and line wrinkle my body

no i will run at the gun

no i will not save you

no i am no longer unhappy mark

but 

no,

know

in-fact a pattern

everyday poems

3/2
here,
not now.
two years ago, and eight
days
who was i then
nichole.
nikkie
now nick
shorter
maybe sweeter
3/3
waiting
swimming in time
letting flow
go and grow
know never gone,
just passed
3/4
streching out
and up
tingles my finger
like touching new
skin or walking
barefoot on a new floor
metaphore all i have
to write
to to say
to understand
3/7
sickness rips apart
a comforting senery
and tears threw
sameness
perhaps a blessing,
appriciation for health
but stationary,
a curse
3/8
i am becoming beautiful or insane.
maybe.
i thought it might happen
but i dont really care which
as a child i just want to become.
so i can look back and be serene.
when i was unbeautiful.
and sane.

twisters, lots of them.

wood reminds me of oceans

keeps my mind

full of floating flotsam,

balloons.

a birthday happened,

while i was gone.

and only i 

would brave the state of bitter licorice 

and swallow it all

it make me 

laugh

instead of cry

and speak aloud with eyes closed

instead of dream

bizarre

bizarre

Another shallow gene pool

pronounced dream pool

 in our eyes

child kites we fly

and empty our stories into fires

winter demanded our

unfocussed attention 

and unintentional lies

hustled  and hurtled 

out of any twice dipped fondue pot city.

roar

speak up i say
or keep speaking down
act or react
animate
my mouth
a bomb explodes
silently

writing timelines of passed moments

feeling grey
day coming closer
and then gone
to shave
this close
closer event..
so near
dear
almost saying yes