My BedroomThe blinding white walls are clouded with the coloured print of the saintly sinners of the la-la industry, coupled with the darkest night sky to give them a sense of romance. Words are flowing, spilling, covering, tumbling, splaying over everything, the hollowed walls, the reflecting mirrors and the eclectic books. A hearty jukebox opens the passageway into the era of swaying flappers, killing murderesses, chilling cool nights, and sizzling hot jazz. The leaning bookshelves stage a rainbow of titles, some read, some not read, some old, some new. The reminders of unholy things that have come to pass find themselves forming an adulterated board on the bashed in crumbling dry wall. The musical influence anchored with the casing of self doubt and medicated agony hangs lonely in the corner facing toward the ground, a sad old black electric guitar with the G string drooping slightly away from the neck. FASTER NOISE pounds against the crowded, crusted, pasted, painted, tarnished, tainted wall
That VoiceDo you ever feel alone?
Like you are the only one
And if you screamed,
No one would hear you.
I feel like that
But Im surrounded
By people that I dont even know,
But I can hear it.
The last word said
Until your mind is hollow
And all you can hear
All you see
All you feel
Is that word
Is that voice.
Never HappenedMothers sick all the time now
Every hour on the hour
I see her popping another pill
Shed going to OD
And when shes does
I dont know
Maybe Ill cry
Maybe Ill laugh
Maybe Ill joke about it
Or maybe Ill do
What I always do
Pretend Im okay
Brush it off
Like it never happened
LiarHe denies it.
He has the will within him to call me a liar, implied not said.
He sees me cry and nothing.
Not even a touch of sympathy for calling me worthless.
Doesn't matter anyway, seeing as according to him
He didn't say anything like that.
He just didn't remember
I suppose that's my fault for telling the truth.
The truth will get you nowhere.
Hypocrisy will though.
I can tell the truth all I want,
Until I'm blue in the face and it won't make a bit of difference.
Because I am a liar in their eyes.
In his eyes.
I can tell that Mother believes me, or is trying to.
It's not like it hasn't happened before.
He's called me a miserable girl.
It's impartial I believe.
Because he says these things when no one is around,
And grabs me by the neck when I'm being too forward.
I suppose if I actually said something about it
Something would be done, right?
It's his word against mine and I know the outcome already.
I have bad thoughts, thoughts of hatred.
I shouldn't be thinking them about
AddictiveHe fed me.
For the life of me,
I can't remember what.
But each time,
He would run his fingertips
Over my bottom lip
And my tongue tasted him, his fingers.
Like they were forever dipped in honey
Sweet, tangy and addictive.
SleepIt's not that nothing is wrong.
It's that we would rather sleep.
We would rather sleep in ignorant bliss,
Like the children we are inside,
Than to be kept awake by the chaos of the night.
Under the Icy GlassI find you somewhere,
Maybe in a dream
Where you and I are better than this.
Better than the white noise
And the pecking sounds of a heart ticking fast.
We lay on frozen lakes,
Near the large crack to keep the pain alive,
To maybe hope for us both to drown.
Maybe it would be better there,
Under the icy glass,
Trapped for all eternity
At least there we would be together,
Bound not by love
But by reality and the lack of it.