I was told I was crazy
I dream of a better world
But lazy to take action.
What are you passionate about?What gets me strangely is listening. You know those times you find yourself staring up at the stars at night. I've always felt the need to do that. Moments where you take in the world, yet you make another. When you look up at the sky, something that's always been consistent, you realize you're growing older but your soul hasn't. I've always had an interest in people, more so a curiosity of everything around me and the perspectives they bring. I strongly believe in presence; in having every meet sweet, to make others feel appreciated and to be appreciative myself. I guess that's why I love to laugh. I'm thankful that God has made these things innate in my life. I think it's important find contentment, to work on being more whole, to be an individual and do your favourite things. And that's where singing and drawing comes in
She leftIt's been months
A year at least
Haven't seen that hairy beast
Stuck in his den
Shunning the light
All he does is write
He knows her needs
But falls for his own wants
Haunted by afterthoughts
WeenieShe only intended the best. But things took a turn for the worse.
She took in an outcast. A little puppy, a mutt.
It was an unusual smoky grey with an ashy fur look.
Shabby. Stubby. Short.
The wiener dog waddled down the street
Between the legs of its new owner.
It was hungry but followed and obeyed.
She kept it close like a penguin
But never tripping over it.
Went a little too fast one time
But turned around for it to hurdle back.
Out of nowhere, a little girl shows up
Petting the puppy without asking.
You can't tell a 7-year old otherwise.
He couldn't talk, doesn't bite, didn't bark
But scurried behind.
"Look it's a puppy!"
Yelled the kids down the block.
They were her age as well.
The little girl asked, "How old are you?"
Being the adult, she was she knew better
Than to talk to them.
She continued down her path
But feeling the stares
Of the adults there,
Telling their kids to go in.
The little girl ran out her house
And followed her down the street.
Beautifully Out of PlaceDaily and nightly
She sat there quietly
The clouds drifted away
But not her thoughts
DenialIn the mood for crying
To myself I have been lying
I haven't been hurt in any way
There's so much I want to say...
WrittenUnheard but written
Are the stories meant to be spoken
Heard but dismissed
Incomplete and misunderstood
Are the stories meant to be spoken
Forgotten but there
No one to listen
But to read
The experience and thrill
The writer dead, reader still
Internal battle rages
But anxiety filled
Ready to spill
At the turning age.
Minds all the same.
To be in control.
Happy Birthday GerardAt 30 years gone by so fast,
Your music career is sure to last.
With raven black hair and beautiful hazel eyes,
No one is thinking of your demise.
Your obsessed with revenge, so you wrote the songs,
Killing your loved ones, then bringing them along.
Bullets, Revenge, now The Black Parade,
Your fan base has turned into a brigade!
We'll follow you to the depths of hell and back,
Cheering and singing, we've got your back.
You've saved so many lives, made so many cry,
But in a good way, You've shown us we don't have to die.
You want to change the world, impact lives,
You've done it, Gerard. You've made the ties.
You've travelled the world singing out your heart,
To all these little fan girls who've "loved you from the start."
They think your just a trend, one who'll soon pass,
But I tell you Gerard, your surely here to last.
Your NOT some stupid trend, your a man with power!
And you become stronger with every waking hour!
You love us all, you dont want us to die.
You say so in your songs w
dreaming last wordsIn my childhood home
I stood at the bathroom mirror
with a pistol. Two pencil-
one beneath my right cheekbone
and one just above the tip of my nose
indicated where I had shot myself.
I entered the dream standing there
bloodless and frightened
when I should have been dead.
I felt as if I had just woken up
and immediately realized I wanted life.
My fingers went to the back of my head
and I panicked when there were no wounds,
when I realized the bullets were still inside.
If they had just passed through
I might have survived but like this,
there was death in me.
I shook and wept. The pistol turned to wood
in my hand. Somehow all my regrets fit in its changing.
Nothingness ate the universe
from the outside until it wrapped tightly
around the room.
The names of flowers
printed on the wallpaper blurred
and while I would have liked
all the dead animals of my childhood
to be there in the room with me,
I was alone.
Even all I’d done
Yes EveryNo, not every white person is racist.
But yes, every person of colour will experience racism.
No, not every man is sexist.
But yes, every woman will experience sexism.
No, not every straight person is homophobic.
But yes, every gay person will experience homophobia.
No, not every cis-gendered person is transphobic.
But yes, every transgender person will experience transphobia.
Enough with your 'not every's.
Because, yes every.
Whispering to LuciferWhispering to Lucifer:
Humans are such wonderous creatures
even when granted the gift of knowledge
They fall prey to their own insecurities
slaves to their own fears and paranoia
Such is the father's gift of free will...
Yes my lord, I understand
but do you not feel disappointment?
The great bringer of light has condemned himself to an eternity of darkness
simply so his father's children may roam free
Without adversity, there can be no acension...
Ah, such a philosophical statement from you
I am well aware that humans must experience both extremes
Without tasting joy it would be impossible to understand sorrow
Yet I fear that my brothers have forgotten that, in a single minded pursuit of-
Aye, clever you are to see that
for these brothers of mine find comfort in the wondrous art of destruction
self-abuse is taken as 'fun', addiction is a personal right
Greed is good and gluttony is gold, sloth is scoffed at
and wrath is protected by the comforting
Losing Your VirginityMother makes buds out of cigarette butts
smashed into the clay dish,
though it may not have intended to be used this way,
given to her some countless Mothers days ago.
Daughter lies on her back ,
her tan legs like the orange filters that stuck out
at nasty angles from the mess of unkept ashes,
thinking about the hundreds of Sundays that went to waste,
(though she never intended to be used this way)
and how her mother never taught her she was only an animal.
DepressionI'm tired of being here,
all locked up in my head.
Every day I hear a whisper,
and I'm closer to being dead.
Something taps me on the shoulder,
something I can't fight.
When it talks in that low voice,
my eyes are shut so tight.
Once it gets to a cetain point,
and I'm still sitting on the ground,
it tells me to do things,
I'm trying to ignore the sound.
Its voice is harsh and filled with confidence,
and I can hear a hint of sorrow.
Even when it's telling me,
I won't live to see tomorrow.
I don't know what to say,
and I don't know what to do.
I'm still hearing it now,
and I'm still suffering too.
I can't tell what its weakness is,
but I know I hear some lust.
I just have to get through this,
and have no one to trust.
Why Women Turn To FeminismBecause you do not love us
as we want to love ourselves.
Because of the scarlet letters
you embroider on our chests
as we sleep on yours.
Because you pull the pigtails from puberty
and squeeze mothers and prostitutes
from the girls we really are.
Because Disney fooled us:
we awoke, sweet-sixteen, embittered
with no kiss, no carriage, no prince.
Because the heroines of our youth taught us
the plastic passivity of our sex.
Because we couldn't be factory-made beauty too.
Because we have spent too long courting tears
and making life-rafts of our pillows.
Because we want the power to reject
our presence, our affection - even our indifference
and not feel our hearts unbeating because of this.
Because, in feminism, we find the fairy Godmother
we were always denied by being real - but constructed.
OrpheusI hitchhiked down the highway to hell
With four fifty in my back pocket
And a suitcase of nightmares hitting my heels
There's black lipstick smeared on my collarbones
Vodka dreams slithering through my hair
Tonight, I'll be a monster
Swallow you up with paint fumes and a bottle of schnapps
The red pickup shudders and my hips creak
Like brass hinges, then I'm there
And Cerberus sniffs at my bloody wrists
I pop pomegranate seeds like pills and Hades
Can't make me look back cause tonight
I'm a monster
And no silver bullet will shatter me