yes, this is about you- don't get too excited

the world is so deranged
so full of thick, black, tar
people are hurt by who they love
someone somewhere who only wants to live currently
contemplates how to die
he's been low all his life but,
he'll be damned if he doesn't hang high above all else once this knot is tied

how ironic

but then enters you
you with wild colored hair
you with freckles so flawlessly dusted across your nose
and you are so strange
so hidden
long sleeves, sad eyes
you say "do not be attached to me"
with flashing neon signs

...so I talk to you
of course

I
haven't had you
for
long at all but
you're smiling so much
so often
you once were a gravestone waiting to be placed
but look at you now!
you're face is so full of life
you've stopped waging war at your own arms
and

to tell you honestly,
you have made me more myself than i ever have been
I
haven't picked up a book in so long
but I've got three of your choice
jammed between my thighs
I
will not lie to you
I'm
scared out of my mind
but
so are you
the
odds are against us
and we both know too well
these things can go so wrong
so quickly

finding you
concealed between pages in these books
peeling back the layers and walls you put up for yourself
giving you
my poetry
my words

you are here
and holding me
and I feel nothing
but
placid
tranquil
enveloped in your arms
buried in your neck
while you squeal
-how cute

when
at some point
if
we end this
I hope we remain friends
I
hope I've changed you
for the better
like i
promised I would

I know you
have scars
and healing wounds
I won't kiss them better
but I have never seen more beauty
more vulnerable, open-ended love
like I've seen in you

i
will make you feel beautiful again
if it's all that I do

.001

When writing stories like these, the ones that have a million words governed by paper walls, seeping out the crevices, it is difficult to know where to start. Here I am, opening a peephole to see inside my own head, and being flooded with my own thoughts and words. I am eager to tell the stories and write what begs to be written, but I don’t know how. So I’ll start this regardless of the fact that this will most likely be another half sewn quilt in my closet full of unfinished ends.


I like to blame my rocky life and it’s precipitates as the reason for my downfall. I always want to view someone as an enemy, but I think that all along, there never was one. I was wearing all black, painting my face, dying my hair, snarling at the world, but at some point, the freight-train stops speeding, and you have to stop and think; who am I fighting? The thing is, with the gray, is it stays. It sticks to your soul and burns you alive, and it won’t stop there, it’ll burn your fucking ashes. That’s how it works. It eats you inside until you are a hollowed out space. A vacant lot waiting to be bought, filled, and sold. It becomes all you know. Wrapping you up until you're so involved with yourself that you can’t see past your own insecurities. You are a puppet to your own misfortune. Writing poetry about how no one cares while your best friend blows up your phone with "are you okays'" and "hey I'm worried for you". You'll write, and rewrite (and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite and rewrite) your suicide letters again and again. 15 paged good byes' with too many 50 cent words (you pretentious fuck; don't worry, we all secretly are) and 8 'fuck yous' per page. You always loved eulogies, you figure you should write your own.
We are blamers, ill wishers. I’ll blame my mother, my father, an old babysitter who had razor fingers. I could blame anyone. That’s what people like me and you (us) do. We are the definition of ‘fucked up’, but at our own choice. It’s ups and downs. Little epiphanies where we pretend that we have found the answer to life, that we are happy and fulfilled, philosophers, writers, we want to pretend that we are anything but what we are. On a euphoria. The calm before the storm. Then it’s the crash. Then we fall fall fall way back down deeper than before. The thing is, depression isn’t like it’s written in the books. Depression isn’t being madly in love so much that it hurts you, it isn’t that slow sad indie song you have on repeat, it isn’t tears or sadness, bloody knuckles, or some rose petal, dove-flying chou to the world. It’s much deeper than that. Slit your wrists, hang yourself, down some pills, you always thought you were different but look at you, pill bottle in hand, just like every other sad soul. You can romanticize suicide until your dying breath, but you'll still shit yourself when your organs began to fail and someone will still find you, ugly brown blood dried on your wrists, or puke slathered on the side of your face, or eyes bulged out, face blue and ugly- romanticize that. We can continue, walking on with the media and the authors who tell stories of sad girls and boys falling love and being better but it’s not true. Deep down, we know it’s not. Love is, like any other emotion, it is not stronger than the rest. Someone will not come to you and tell you your eye sparkle like the stars, that you're the thing they’ve been waiting for while they kiss your neck, and you will magically be solved of the gray. That’s not how it works. At the end of the day it’s better to stop searching- we destroy what we love. It is not to say that there is no hope, that there is no love. I won't pretend I know. What I do know is that love will not save you, maybe assist or destroy, but not save you. Put down your Nicholas Sparks and kiss your own scars.
For someone who lives in gray, there is nothing more erotic than happiness; and to a fault, we will search for it in other people. We will look for answers in self help books, read between the lines, underline and highlight our favorite books until every word is tinged in yellow- comments written up and down the sides, pages frayed and falling out from the spine, read poetry we think tell us the answer- over analyze it because we think we’re poetic, listen to the songs that sing of understanding-burn the lyrics into our mind and skin, but we’re searching in the wrong and we know it. It is almost as if, we enjoy being hopeless. Of course there is hopelessness, we are searching for water in the desert.

To My Late Night Studiers

Mounds of rotting flesh pile in my hands
Seeping through my fingertips like the finest sand
A Far cry at who we used to be
We used to be late night talkers
Poets
Philosophers
We used to be barefoot field romers
Picnic goers
Flower pickers
We were opinion voicers
Singers
Tellers
We used to be toe tappers
Rhythm catchers
Listeners
enthusiasts
We were writers
Paint hands
Canvas fillers
Stanza builders
Pen holders
Journal barriers

But as the heart of weres and used tos shrivel and decay
Who are we?

Clothes worriers
Mascara eyes
Late night studiers
Opinionless


Drones.


So we hold onto the sliver of who we were
Who we used to be
With white knuckles
And pray we make it
One more day.

Dernier Appel Vers Nulle Part

I see everything in gray?

I'm sick of seeing everything in the same awful shade of gray

that mass murderer had parents and grandparents and a childhood and a favorite trinket or toy

that bestselling author who wrote the novel of the century had that kid they bullied in high school and that time they screamed at the person they loved

and it makes it really hard to know what to do and what's right and what's not

I have the power to do anything and nothing

why not do nothing and die on the streets?

we all go the same place in the end

Dead Life

Give me a pill that will remedy the anxiety
From the pill that remedies the depression
From the pill that remedies the dreams
From the pill that makes me okay
A cocktail of prescription pills is what is takes to make me seem alright
Isn't it satiric the highest abused drug in teens is pills
and if we aren't popping them to soar higher than the watered down reality we've been limited to we're chugging bottle after bottle to numb what doesn't feel alright
Hey don't worry, I hear there is a pill for that

Don’t ask me if I fancy the color of the sky
My world is monochromatic-monotone-dead-dead-dead
my mind's a hurricane and I can’t see past the walls
I boarded around myself
I'm a therapist's worst nightmare

Her  ink cartridge
that her fingers wrap around
it’s made up of one part tears
and one part false sympathy
ask another question
scribble another note
all these kids sitting on these chairs are becoming victims of stories no one ever thinks enough of to tell
their life's summarized between the lines of her clipboard
I’m a vital stepping stool in another hurricane heart’s dream
but I can’t seem to find my own
I'd rather be a footnote in someone's story
than focus on my own
because the future is terrifying
if i don't wind up hanging from a pilar like a cheap piece of art
i'll paint my walls half assed with blood
but let's be honeset
I won't do a damn thing

The therapist nods
and writes with her hand swift
Wash down another pill and take another step closer to the cliff
your life was a dead end to begin with.

Kiss a punk, save a life,

Dust Rat

The Importance of Being Unimportant

          I have never experienced something so comforting or destroying than the knowledge that I am unimportant to the world in the big picture. There is an estimated seven billion people in this world. Which means me, an average teen, is unimportant. I hold no significance to this world. I am a run of the mill child, nothing rich, famous, or ingenious about me. This is both comforting and disheartening at the same time. To know that most likely when I die I will be unknown makes me feel inevitably inadequate, but to know that no matter what kind of shit storm I have caused here, I can go away and no one will know me is a good feeling. Another nameless face in the crowd. A new city, country, state. No one knows me. I could start over, reinvent myself completely. This is somehow enlightening. I can mess up, and everything that is happening to me is minuscule in measurement to this big, big, world.










Good Vibes,
Dust Rat.

Vous Pouvez M'appeler Alice (You Can Call Me Alice)

Vous Pouvez M'appeler Alice (You Can Call Me Alice)

It all started when I was three
this babysitter put his hands on me
Twice
Thrice
A million and three
times I've been told "You're lying"
They say "You were only three"
So, I usually don't tell this story.



You might as well call me Alice
because I fell down the rabbit hole
at the ripe age
of 10 years old
but beyond the potions, and keys, and doors
I found no palice
Though, you still may call me Alice.

In the rabbit hole
I met The Hatter no less
and yes, I will confirm
his head was quite the mess
His personality's baffled me so
Hatter was like no one I've ever known

I met Twiddle Dee and Twiddle Dumb
Two faced
with a problem of spewing words
they cannot erase

And I met the Red Queen
but her hair was brown
Yet her pink lips were set in a permanent frown
The Queen's eyes were blue
and between me and you
She was just a sad girl
mad at the world
through and through

I met the Rabbit
with all his inadequate habits
and clinquant white fur
tick-tock
always on his mind
everyone's got a dugeon
his was time


And the hole's a lot darker than it seems
with no one around to supress the horrifying screams
The characters and scenes
are much different than the way they are sold
Covered by publisher's in tinsled gold

See the true fault in the plan of the infamous Wonderland
was never the terrifying wrath of the Red Queen
No, it was something perfered not to be seen
No one dies- at least not here
Instead we boil in eternal fear
and though so many of us want to die
we sit under the floresent lights
boiled in our agony
and fried in solitary misery

Two years I spent climbing back up
Thinking it was better up above
and I saw people were just the same
The only opposing componets was they held less fame

And with tears of defeat in my eyes
I fell back down the hole
Whispering "At least its somewhere I know. My Hell- My home"
Now here I lie
With no tears remaining to cry
everyone's got a dugeon
if you'd like to know mine..
You must know its a secret
and you must promise to always keep it

Everyone's got a dungeon
Here's mine:
My dungeon
is my mind.

-copyrighted S.R. 2013