Mad
Mad is your heart
Mad are the things you cry in the dark
Would you call it sane
If you simply went to sleep?
What dirges does your mind sing?
What eulogies you keep?
Mad are your eyes
Who know too well an empty goodbye
Would it be sane
To close them for good?
Would it be sane to sleep
A sleep so deep
The waking world
Could no longer drive you mad?
Mad
Mad as your heart
As you dig your nails in your skin
In the dark
So mad
So mad you cannot sleep

A poisonous spider,
fear spreads its bent arms over the innocent.
No one is out of reach of its death grip.
Unlike the cross, unlike love, this is hate.
This is a twisted cross.

An endless circle,
their suffering is unceasing, despite their innocence.
They are a white circle.

Pandora's Box unleashed,
Hate's hands squeeze the life from the innocent.
Blood spills over the edge.
It is a red box.

A twisted cross, a white circle, a red box:
a beacon of terror.
Evil's creed, incarnated.

She pulls and she tugs
at those silky pink laces,
tighter and tighter
for the show that she faces.

She pulls back her hair
in such an elegant way.
With just minor touches,
she is well on her way.

She poses on stage,
in the silence she waits.
The curtain then rises
not a minute too late.

The music begins,
and those shoes dance with grace.
The attention is on
those little pink laces.

To the beat they dance on
so smooth and so free,
with the grace of a butterfly
how beautiful is she.

The performance has ended,
she bows with such grace.
She floats back to her room,
to rest those pink laces.

I think if I lie very still
I can almost feel something
--a something
peculiar and strange
a heartbeat to my name
there’s life in there
peculiar and strange

I think if I sing very low
I will hear nothing
--just nothing
ceaseless and cold
a frost to what I am
the weather to it
ceaseless and cold

I think if I look very sane
I can do anything
--about anything
fantastic and wrong
an ere to all of me
this nature I find
fantastic and wrong

peculiar and strange
ceaseless and cold
fantastic and wrong

Today I heard you laugh.
It’s such a beautiful sound.
A lovely melody to hear,
It makes my mind spin ‘round.
I hadn’t heard it in so long,
Almost three months.
I thought my feelings had gone,
But now again, I miss you so much.
I still think about you,
Quite frequently.
And my attempts to forget
Are just too measly.
I’ll admit it;
I still want you.
Please lie to me and say
You want me, too.
Please come back,
I swear I’ll be better.
I’ll give you all my love
And keep us together.
You are the most amazing thing
To walk this earth.
All the happiness in the world
Doesn’t compare to your worth.
I pray every night
And hope every day
That you’ll come back,
Instead of moving farther away.
There’s that laugh,
Playing again.
A siren’s song,
An addictive sin.
It beckons me
Like a drug,
Making me
Fall more in love.
I need to move on,
Try to forget.
But my feelings for you
Simply won’t quit.
I’m always here
If you want me again.
I still want you,
But for ‘us’ it’s the end.

Stitches will last forever
If they are strong and sturdy
They will not fall apart
If put in with time and care

Stitch by stitch I work away
Making it perfect
But I get distracted
My stitches falter
and the straight line goes crooked

I worry about what my outfit will look like
Will it fit?
Will they notice the wrong stitch? 
I sat in fear that what I worked so hard for won’t ever be perfect. 

The stitch stands out in mind as a falter too big to fix
 a problem too big to face
I make myself move on letting the crooked stitch serve as a reminder
and I tell myself it must not happen again
I wipe away the worry filled brow and move on
Stitch by stitch
 I get closer to the end

I sew the last stitch and loop the thread into a knot leaving no hanging threads
I put my prized piece of work on,
I smile
It is my own outfit
My own masterpiece
But the crooked stitch finds its way back to my mind

I look for the imperfect stitch knowing it’s there
I search for it in the mirror but can’t see it
I step closer and still can’t find it
Finally I frown
My eyes squint
I found the crooked stitch

I examine it
It was smaller then I remembered
Not quite as outstanding as before
I realize it wasn’t as bad as I remembered
Maybe just maybe it added design and character to my outfit

I proudly wore my outfit with the imperfection on my sleeve
Knowing that my one falter
The imperfection
My crooked stitch
Is my best outfit yet

This is how I am today:
a tired, hollow shell,
all chipped paint,
sagging walls,
and the sad, exhausted drone
of weakening boards
from once proud, mighty trees.
I am but the ancient, crumbling skin
of joyful times long past.
Within this worn skeleton,
The Family laughed and played.
I was their home.
Man was my creator;
he built me with his own two hands.
The pulse of his hammer,
the edge of his saw
brought me upright.
He was my creator
and I, his protector.
He lived within these walls
with Woman, whom he loved,
and together they took care of me
and I, of them.
I delighted in their good fortune
and lamented their sadness:
rejoicing when the little Girl
laughed and cried and played
within these walls,
and mourning when she left,
body and soul,
to be buried.
With her passing came a great,
unimaginable emptiness,
for I missed the thumping
of tiny footsteps
as she played throughout my rooms.
I no longer felt
Woman’s lively steps,
nor heard Man’s joyful whistle.
They were as hollow
as I was.
For many seasons
they remained this way.
I grew unkempt,
ugly.
I deserved the mistreatment,
for I had failed to protect the family.
As the guilt and sadness
sat thickly, heavily in the air,
I grew weary, worn, old.
However, as all things must fade,
so did the grief, the emptiness.
Slowly, her toys were picked up,
her bed made,
the last of her clothes folded.
Life moved on without her.
Man was around less and less,
often gone late into the night,
and Woman sat for hours
in my living room,
sewing a brightly colored quilt.
She worked tirelessly on it until
one evening
she hung it from my porch
like a beacon in the darkness.
That night, Man and Woman
sat up for hours in my living room,
waiting, until,
through the stillness,
there came a timid, tired knock
upon my door.
My door was flung open
and many footsteps rushed inside.
Some footsteps were like Man’s,
some like Woman’s,
but these were all tired, worn, afraid.
Suddenly, one quiet, timid little step
caught my attention,
for it reminded me of Girl.
Could it be?
I searched amid the crowd until I found her.
She was not like my little Girl.
Her skin was not fair,
her hair was not blonde,
her eyes were not blue,
and her face was not sprinkled with freckles.
Instead, her skin and hair were dark
and her black eyes were scared, haunted.
But her footsteps, oh! Her footsteps!
They were just like Girl’s.
I watched with delight as she
was ushered inside with the rest of her family.
They were all shown to my cellar,
for it has a secret door in the back,
behind the shelf.
I felt her explore
all throughout my cellar,
and I was proud when she chose my wall
as the place to rest against.
Soon, she was fast asleep on my very floor.
I was in awe of her gentleness;
she was so much like Girl.
I felt the footsteps of her family fall slower
until all was silent
except the rustling of Woman’s skirts
as she closed the cellar door.
But this blessed, beautiful silence
was never meant to last.
A great sound
like that of a thousand thunderclaps
pierced through the stillness.
My door was flung open
and my rooms were exposed
to an angry cacophony of footsteps
that surged through my doorway.
There were men within my walls.
Angry men,
hateful men,
cruel men.
They marched across my floor
in their matching boots,
and they shouted spiteful words
at Man, who stood between them
and my cellar door.
The angry men were looking for
my little dark girl
and her family.
They wanted to take her away from me.
They grabbed Woman’s arm
and pulled her down my stairs.
They shoved Man,
who hit his head against the very wall
he had built so many seasons ago.
They pulled him out of their way
and began to beat my cellar door.
But I held strong.
They were not going to take away
my little dark girl.
I could feel her tiny footsteps
rushing with her family
to my shelves,
wrenching open my secret door and—
There was another great thunderclap
and the handle of my cellar door fell to the ground.
But it was too late.
She was gone,
and they would never find her,
for she and her family were fleeing north,
away from me
and away from the angry footsteps
that ran through my cellar,
pointlessly searching for the little girl
I had saved.
But my triumph was overshadowed
by overwhelming loss,
for Man and Woman were swept up
in the angry footsteps,
and I could no longer feel them.
They had left with the angry men,
with their matching boots and hateful voices.
I could no longer protect them.
So here I stay,
alone, but unafraid,
for I know that my little dark girl
is happy somewhere
because of me.
And now, my sagging walls,
with their chipped paint
and weakening boards,
can finally come to rest,
collapsing this hollow shell
into nothing but a crumbled, tangled memory
of a Man and a Woman
and two little Girls
and a cellar door that would not open.
For this is how I am today:
I have done my protecting
and I am content.

Wrinkles pronounce themselves with sharp consonants and round vowels
Grandiose hills and valleys roll along the contour of aging facial features
A glance commits a robbery
The mirror reflects:
A blanket of skin,
The final curtain call.
A loss of grip and surface tension
Bald knuckles, blotted arms
Beveled bones droop, sundered by the persistent pull of gravity
Surly balding, every bath leaves the drain clogged.
All hair is dead hair,
So pluck the roots with understanding.
In cavities that they lay
Resting undead, lavishly
Among these things are living breathing follicles that wish to sprout.

Some people want
What in reality they can’t have,
Fantasizing and glorifying
‘Bout the Hollywood life,
Not living in the moment.
Money doesn’t grow on trees…
Nor can it please.
Why can’t they realize
Everyone’s not going to be
a
Lebron, Kobe,
Tyra, Oprah
Lil Wayne or Beyoncé.
Lady Gaga you can’t read my poker face.
I’m holding a hand full of
Queens.
Royal flushes can’t hush
This progression
That’s right before your eyes.
I’m you’re A.S.S.E.T
Ambitious
Sincere
Suave
Enthusiastic
Talented.
You can reach for the stars.
Try to fulfill your dreams.
Traits of our
Doctors, coaches, and teachers,
All traits of my reality.
Sitting here prepping for college
Wondering what is my fate.
I know GOD will guide me thru
But my impatient ways are getting
The best of me.
Watching many friends do good
And some not so.
Just praying that he will show
Me favor
In hopes of being successful and
Able to share my story
To those he brings in my path.
Growing up they say isn’t easy to do.
This I can testify to.
I’m 16 strong willed
And independently built.
Been through a few hurdles,
Setbacks and heartaches,
But I will remain focused
Not fazed by peer pressure
And the media.
For this I give thanks to
The ones with wisdom
Who’s shed their own tears
To see me thru.
Some people want
What in reality they can’t have.
Fantasizing and glorifying
‘Bout the Hollywood life
And not living in the present, REALITY!

Murals of how life is supposed to be
Painted on the walls.
 Surrounded and encircled,
Trying to find a way out.
Out of here
And on to what is right
Or left, will she ever know?
Like a garden full of wild flowers
She wishes to be fearless and vibrant
But is held captive by the walls,
Walls that hold her so close and leave no room for change.
She wishes and hopes that one day her roots will grow strong
Allowing her to break,
Break down the walls that hold her so close.
So that her wet and crumpled petals become firm and full of sun,
Sun that shows light upon a paint brush,
The paintbrush she uses
  Swiping its fine bristles across the rough wall
Creating a scene of what her heart desires
Not caring if it is the norm
Or what is custom to most.
She paints what is right to her.
An open field,
No limits in sight,
Full of many other flowers
Some are similar looking and others are far unusual
Unusual, yet so familiar.
A strange phenomenon that she doesn’t bother to figure out
Outside of her comfort zone but feels so at home.
A randomness that she loves,
A true vision that she always keeps in mind
To help get through the days of bordered lifestyle.
Yet she still searches her way through the maze
Not knowing the final route
Trying to find a way out
Out of here
And on to what is right
Or left, will she ever know?
More and more walls appear
Nothing like she has seen before
Bound by locks and chains
Curious as to what is behind the make-shift prison gate.
A tug and a pull,
Still no entrance.
A strength from within
Pierces her like a soldiers sword.
Strength that has been with her the entire time,
Time to realize how strong she really was
And still is.
Conscience thoughts of what to do next
She knows at once,
To break free from the life she once lived,
Uses the inner strength to break,
Break free from the mural covered walls,
And the chains that once directed her.
All the walls fall as she stands,
Except the wall where her mural was painted.
Realizing that she has shattered the past,
And the mural she painted was no longer tangible.
It was now the life she lived,
Limitless,
Like a garden full of wild flowers.

I left it all alone,
But I know where it is.
I left it in a safe place;
I know it well.

I know it like I know myself,
So it still tends to surprise me.

I left it on the tail of a kite,
Between the rays of the sun.
So it flew away, and down it went,
Into the horizon.

Caught in the branches,
It watches over me.
It waits for me to call,
And I know it will be patient.
But I’ll walk right on by,
Because I’ve got different crumbs to follow.

Those apples are juicy, ripe for my weakness.
The poison drips down my chin.
They aren’t as sweet as you think they’d be;
And the kite won’t fly anymore.

So I’ll walk by with a lump in my chest;
Choking, and crying, and knowing:
That there’s no place for me,
In that Knowledge tree.

I’ll find a boat with one white sail,
I’ll catch the rip tide and call it my own.
I will bury this hopeless seed,
Where it will never find me.

Inch by inch
Foot by foot
Second by second
My feet began to stick to the world,
Dissolving into the quick sand,
They became heavy, feeling like a ton of
Weight that my legs could not lift.

A ball stuck in my throat that I was
Straining to swallow,
I wouldn’t dare give in,
A tear would not ash my face,
I’m too strong,
Weakness is never an option, But challenges and failures
will definitely push those tears that are straining.

Few people are called up,
I’m one of the unlucky chosen, they can’t compete,
My brain can compare, the tear is ready to dive.
Everyone look, I can’t help but intercede their thoughts with
My guesses, embarrassing but beneficial. The tear disappears.
I’m there.

When I said nothing,
I should have said everything.
Thinking back, I neglected my beautiful voice,
When I decided not to sing.
 
When I picked the color orange, and labeled it my favorite,
I could have easily said blue.
Like that one time when I took the blame for everything,
I could have easily pointed the finger at you.
 
When I chose to be alone, all sad and depressed,
I should’ve danced in the rain.
When I decided to live by love,
I disregarded the pain.
 
When I accepted being strong,
I overcame being weak.
Deciding to keep to myself and be silent,
I neglected my ability to speak.
 
When I made bad choices,
I should’ve stopped to consider the good ones I pushed to the side.
When I gave up on everyone,
I also gave up the right to say I tried.
 
I can still hear you telling me to live above the influence,
But instead I left you, and decided to go.
Along with my former friends, I said yes
When I meant to say no.
 

Blood is shed in the fields
Men are armed with guns
They all run and fight
Not knowing what they have done

War on the home front
And war at home
How is one supposed to live
With all this war going on

How about we stop arguing
And stop throwing bombs
How about we sit and talk
"What do you think about that, Mom?"

Let me tell you how you've hurt me
How you tore down all my dreams
And how I've loved you through it all
Even though you were no good to me

Yell and hit me all you want
You'll never make me fade
In return I'll pray for you
To get you through the days

Yes, I'll always love you, Mom
But I don't want to fight
So until you're ready to end this war
I'll choose to walk away tonight

Deceitful, cunning, selfish
Words to describe a villain,
The only ones with these qualities.
What is a villain?
Someone who tries to hurt the hero?
Someone who is on the run?
Someone who is trying to not get killed?
Someone who changes herself so she doesn’t have to run?
Someone who looks out for herself since she knows what happens to the others?
Is someone a villain cause she’s guarded since she was hurt before? 
Whether they were then or not, they end up one in the end
Hurt, betrayed, and hunted,
She changed to not have to run anymore,
Saw her family die because of her choices,
Chose to only care about herself from then on,
Lived her life going from place to place using anybody she had to
To get what she wanted.
Played brothers against brothers claiming she loved them both,
Left them and came back to mess with them again
Along with a girl in the same predicament  
To decide between running, giving in, or running for eternity like her
She made her selfish choices to stay alive
Choices that have made her a villain
She’s on the run from the bigger villain
I guess that’s the life of this selfish doppelganger.