Demonic.

Today, my sadness turned to rage…

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Today, my sadness turned to rage,

And my eyes filmed over with black.

I know I’ve said some awful things,

But I don’t want to take them back.

There is no use looking for me;

You wouldn’t recognize this face.

The golden angel has fallen,

And now a demon stands in her place.

Death has now become my color;

It turns out, I wear it quite well.

I will sneak in through his window,

And drag him with me back to hell.

This demon will show no mercy,

Won’t care if he whimpers or cries.

I’m the patron saint of suffering,

The goddess of little white lies.

There is something black inside me—

Yes, I am rotten to my core.

I am sorry to disappoint you;

I am not who I was before.

Some Days

Some days, I suppose

We could all use a glass of sweet iced tea,

And a weathered old cheek to kiss;

A warm leather sofa to lay down on,

And a good old Elvis song.

Some days, I suppose

The world isn’t all roses and sunshine,

Full meals and laughter.

Some days it’s politics and pin-cushions,

Rage and fire and hell-bent crazies

Intent on burning the world.

And what can we say to that?

We can give them a sleepy yawn,

Eyes already filming over,

And take our naps in the sunshine.

Pretend it’s happened somewhere

Not quite as close to home.

Or I suppose, some days,

We must put on our war-paint.

We must stand up for what matters,

And for the people that we love.

Some days, I suppose,

There is no more pretending—

No more hiding behind locked doors

And pretending someone isn’t on the other side.

Some days we just have to face it

And hope that we’re strong enough.

Some days we simply must have faith.

Satin Couches

Girls in extravagant dresses, twirling, whirling,

Spinning with theirs hands in the air.

Men in top-hats and over-coats, bowing, kneeling,

Gasping for the breath they have lost.

Butlers with fine black tails and thin, pasty-white skin,

Holding trays of delicacies.

The hosts bare gifts, necks weighed down by their necklaces,

Wrists weighed down by priceless bracelets.

Through the floor-to-ceiling window the sky is blue,

The clouds are white and quite fluffy.

The couches are satin, littered with emeralds,

Rubies, diamonds, gold and silver.

The orchestra plays their strings with thin, skilled fingers,

Their flutes and pipes with careful breath.

Pause; Rewind.

Girls in extravagant dresses, twirling, whirling,

Spinning with their hands in the air.

They are screaming, swords slowly edging towards their hearts;

There are guns pointed at their heads.

Men in top-hats, bowing before the enemy,

Grasping at the skirts of the girls.

Butlers with tails tucked between their legs just like dogs,

Holding empty trays up as shields.

The hosts’ necklaces are chains, as are their bracelets;

Their crimson smiles are made of blood.

There’s a dark gray storm on the horizon, growing,

Stretching out it’s blackened fingers.

The couches are satin, littered with emeralds;

Ironic death-beds for the damned.

The flutes slow and the pipes falter; the strings all pause;

Then the orchestra falls silent.

On My Forehead

Geometry.

45 degree angles,

And numbers squared;

Xs and Ys

Floating off the page

Of my notebook.

Cramming them into my head,

Trying to remember–

I just have to remember!

Studying long and hard,

Taking endless notes.

8X over Y equals twelve.

Ratios and examples,

Cross Products and proportions;

Postulates, triangles, and headaches.

Introductions to Trigonometry,

The law of Sines and Cosines,

Vectors and component forms,

The triangles in my dreams.

Tests that last forever,

And the numbers that bring me to tears.

Percentages that are never high enough,

A voice in my head says its not good enough.

Drowning in a sea of notes,

And failure.

Failure is a lie and a curse,

But it’s written on my forehead.

It screams at me and challenges me,

Dares me to beat it, just this once.

I tell myself that no test in the world

Can define who I am,

Or the amount of my worth.

And maybe I start to believe it.

Sunburned

Smoking our cigarettes on the sidewalk,

Leaning against the charred brick building.

Press the condensation of beer bottles

Onto our sweating, sunburned foreheads.

The screeching tires of a fancy car

As it burns up rubber down my street.

The sharp smell of our determination,

Mixing with anger and hope and sweat.

There’s a weight to this city that breaks me,

But I wouldn’t change a single thing.

Gossipers

Cigarette butts in the ashtray,

And smeared lipstick on the mirror.

Whispers in the falling darkness;

Vodka makes it all seem clearer.

Neon strobe lights in the bedroom;

Watching movies on the flat-screen.

Acting like they’re so much cooler,

And yet they don’t even know me.

Watching money burn to ashes,

Cause that’s the kind of thing they do.

Spraying glitter on their bodies,

As they are mocking me and you.

But we don’t need them to feel good;

We are much happier alone.

They call us lame, they call us weak,

But we can make it on our own.