ART ARCHIVE

The Me in You

i want you this day and everyday;

I want the hurt you feel to be own.

Suck up your pain and spit it out,

I’d do it over and over again

all day, everyday,

till there is nothing left of us

but our bruised bodies.

Orgasmic, our souls floating somewhere above our chests.

With you,

all that I carry with me, 

feels so much lighter,

like I can finally breathe and see 

all there is to be.

Work Harder Girl

To fight to be my own.
To work 45 hours a week;
not think of child molestation during the work week.
Stay asleep long enough to just taste your dreams,
but never staying to find the escape in sleep.

I wonder when its worth it
with the government and the state taking out its bite;
what we really all work for
and if its ever enough.

well i know since my wages once came from
under the table trade offs and buy offs.
but what are you really thinking or even feeling at all?
that friendship and fights can be solved in numerals and decimals.
change and dollar bills,
new clothes and maybe your first tattoo

i don't really fucking know
all i know if yes it sucks to work hard
but if you're gonna play hard you shouldn't be
playing on other's emotions and dimes.

SAMlways the Thief

I like to do things,
take things,
right under people's noses.

Cause that's what happened to me,
something stolen, something broken,
right in broad daylight.

I wore my curse home,
like a child carries their lunch bag
or a girl clutches to her doll.

A crime that left no evidence for the cops,
cept my cunt and his cock,
no cuts, no crime-scene,
he did sex with me all over the whole house.
Where's there to look?
What am I looking for?
I know I'm missing,
 the absence of something undefinable.


Too faithful to ever fail,
Too fearful to ever feel,
a fighter
but still fucked before five.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I steal
to still feel guilty.

I lie
to still feel hollow.

I anger at their lies,
all too many reasons
to never give them a second chance.

On the fly...
I steal because I know I'll get away with it.
Just like he got away.

Just like that,
I've always been sin-filled
stained burgundy too young,
but no one seemed to notice.
so I just bit my tongue.
I still bite my nails, my toes, my lover's tits.

oh you're just so sweet,
and sensitive.
and soft spoken.

Am I a sinner or am I a saint?
If I'm neither should I just paint,
lie after lie
until one's so captivating it seems believable?

I've become a master at 'the game,'
the one no one talks about,
an invisible wound festering on far too many.
You see,
I've been feigning innocence for quite some time now
and I forget to ask 'Why I do the things I do?'
I just do them,
and try to forget them.

Gone Home..

How can we go home if we're still so high?
I was there,
But I wasn't aware
Of what I was doing or feeling.

Best call home before things get
Badder, nastier, go farther.
No excuses, No prayers;
Heads too high to get help,
Too far gone to feel anything but
Fear and a fire burning within.

All that's in me,
Shakes in sight of you
White as chalk
Skin paper thin
Paler than the ghost I feel like I've become
Fractures that failed to mend
My hands and feet did things
Became someone else's
So bold, doing things
I could of, would of, should of
Never of done.

Being is believing.
What you see is a deception
People dreaming of answers,
Too big too far off to make any sense.

We believe in a greater being
So that all these tiny tragedies will have meaning;
Heaven doesn't fall from the sky,
The sun circles around earth.
The sun sets, the sun rises
Some come, some go.
We know there's always more
But that never lessens that hurt we feel.

What are we lying, spying, crying, trying for??
Jesus what are we even trying for,
Why are we trying to be anything at all?
How can you forgive what you can't forget?
Where is our god when the innocent meet their end all too soon,
Suffering in pain and solitude
Do you smile down counting sins?
Or do you weep as we seek answers to our survival?

I made one best friend in college

~An Atypical Love Poem~

I want to know more,
spend a moment or a million
immersed in you,
mothering you
and loving you.
And all that grows and flourishes in you,
in the love and the light of the Lord.

You're light on your feet.
You love to dance,
you'd let anyone know.
You don't care who's looking,
and I couldn't stop looking even if I tried.

Your smile flirts with those parts of me that still feel soft.
You've become like a fairy who flits and flutters
in and out of my dreams as she pleases.
I'm always trying to get closer
to the clone I create in my dreams,
who I try to kiss and run amiss with,
naked, wild and free.

You're a creator,
and I honor all that you choose to create.
I'm getting caught up in my conscious
that can't let go of these high hopes my dreams bring up.

I just want to show you,
how out of this world being connected can be.
That woman to woman,
that connection is no less brilliant or deep
as a man to his woman.
I don't expect you to be anything you're not,
or feel anything you don't.
I just want to lie beside you,
lock eyes with you,
lock lips with you,
and even if it's just for a little
I hope I can make this world seem a little sweeter.

PROCESSING THROUGH POETICS

It is part of the therapeutic technique, Cognitive Processing therapy, to have the patient write a narrative,  a descriptive account of their most traumatic event.
My trauma predates my ability to write descriptively, so it has been the challenge to find a way to channel these memories creatively.
I am utilizing poetry and art therapy as resources to address and process my trauma triggers.

My source of creativity is no longer a source of discontent.
Turn your pain into passions.
Don't drown in the darkness.