The Closest That You Lames Ever Came to the Planes was a Palm Pilot

Life
What the fuck is this shit even about?
Bad bitches and good weed?
Bad bitches and cold drinks?
Bad bitches and good dank?
Champagne and easy widers?
Movies?
Casting...
I'd like to sum up my life as floating on a cloud of superficial bullshit
landing on a planet of superficial bullshit AND success
and then falling into flyness... and superficial bullshit, with satisfaction
and self content.

But we all know this shit is not true.
well... part of it is.
shit... most of it... I'm working on the success part though.

i m y

The way your eyelashes fluttered and then parted slightly to reveal your eyes rolling to the back of your head was just so fucking sexy... I miss it. I miss the curves you possessed and the long, thick, brown hair that teased your shoulders and in turn teased me- for it got to touch your smoothe caramel skin more than I ever could have. Your thick thighs, your gorgeous hands, that smile that could brighten any day, together with your loud ass laugh and that scent that swallowed up every piece of clothing you owned. I want to drown in it. I want to live in it.
I wish I had the ability to go back in time to the night where I held you up against the fence outside the movie theatre and let my tongue wind up with yours. I let my hands roam everywhere, and I didn't care who saw it. They started with your hair and ended up cupping each cheek. Grown ass men walked by and stared in jealousy. You were mine, and not their's. With every kiss I took a deep breath to make sure I was completely absorbing you... and here you thought I was just being a hornball but it was so much more. I was creating a connection. Solidifying it. Making sure that the trust I was placing in you was secure. Furthering our relationship, with that one kiss.

I miss you.

it's over

written 2/10/08

it’s over.
It's dangling from a string.

life.

existance.

oh it's wearing itself thin.

who gives a fuck about elvis?

STOP PLAYING ELVIS!

no one gives a damn.

at least not me.

he's fucking dead.

Existance!

People snatch it up and mold it into whatever they want it to be.

what if you want it to be gone?

Fuck, what if you can't fathom the idea of another day--

another horrific even that takes your gut and emotions and fucks them up the ass with a steel pipe?

that's real right?

that's life right?

Just BULLSHIT.

on the fucking regular...
i'm so angry man...so tired...so tired...so

AAAHHH!!!

i feel dead.

alone.

old.

cold.

ugly.

awful.

shitty.

LOVE me!!

LOVE ME!!
don't FUCK ME RAPE ME HIT ME BEAT ME HURT ME

don't tell me you love me and then take it back.
just...

hug me. and smile in my face.

please

Except Me

Let's get something straight; I don't need you.
No weapon necessary 'cause my attitude is lethal.
But if we compare I'd suggest you stay in your place;
I could make you Fall Out Boy -Arm's Race.
But pass me the guitar so I can torture it like Wayne-
drive you up the wall, explode your brain -Kurt Cobain.
(Rest in peace, 'cause I really was a fan)
sitting in class writing Nirvana lyrics on my hand,
MY mind SO fucked up couldn't no one understand.
Had cuts but I stitched that shit up like Lilo
and no these not lies this is all real.
Born with money but still driven to steal,
too much love in my hear for others so it's me I had to kill.
Homeless and roaming, nowhere to go but I'm goin;
big lips, nice tits, no hips, they still hit-
if I aint wanna give it up, fuck it they steal it;
and then Dad called me a hoe, the doctor promiscuous.
If only they knew the shit I went through was ridiculous,
but fuck it I knew I was worth way more than this-
I'm not big fat and ugly, but dammit I'm still precious.

written 12/12/O9

A Love Letter

Can we go like three words backwards? Suck up the words that were too eager to come out and lock them up inside, reserve them for a situation that better deserves them? Perhaps we can rearrange the letters so that they become more appropriate, less conflict-starting words, words that don't lead to the awkward silence that sure enough followed their placement. I think about you all the time. I think about you while my mouth is stuffed with chicken and my tastebuds are exploding with the flavor and deep down I wonder what your flavor would do to my tastebuds. I think about you behind closed eyelids and often think about the things you say to me and the thoughts we exchange and go over them in my mind. I soak up every detail of you that you allow me to and reminisce on every time you've created a smile- which is quite often. Never a sour moment has occurred and I want it to stay like that. I have hope and for a moment, it failed me. My protection sucked me up and when realizing what it had done, gagged on me and spit me up halfway. I've completely slipped out now, although you have not, and I am sure, will not. However, I remain without layers, because although you are not yet sure if I deserve that, (and I don't blame you, move at yourown pace), my heart is burning with trust for you and I am ready to say you deserve it. My guards are on break and they aren't ready to come back. The two left on duty are sleeping in the corner, and for some reason, although you woke them up with alarm momentarily, they're fast asleep again and I have a feeling they'll remain that way. And I'm content with that. Without that daily dose of you to shoot me out to the next galaxy and beyond, I remain bored, lonely and confused on earth. In the stars with you is where I belong. Let's stay out there this time.

R.K.

Put A Move On My Heart

Overwhelmed by the catastrophe that clumbered around in her mind, she crumbled to the floor, curled up in the fetal position and then slowly crawled under the desk of her cubicle for fear of anyone discovering her break down. Her moment of weakness must not be seen. No one can see her crash, for she, her, is the ever strong female that younger nieces and cousins look up to, coworkers, friends, and girlfriends desire to be, and husbands and random men in the street want in their bedrooms or running their relationships. As much as she tried to contain the emotions that swirled around throughout each edge of her body, as much as she tried to hold herself back from falling into the neverending abyss of frustration, sadness and anger... it did nothing. She closed her eyes and cried. Under the desk seemed like the safest and cosiest place at the moment, where there was no one to judge her, no one to ask her for money, advice or guidance, no one to call her and ask her if she wanted to go out to the bar after work and knock back a couple of beers. She let out her anxieties and her hurt; every time her cousin attempted to fuck her or grab her titties came out in each droplet, ran down her cheeks and seeped into the corners of her mouth. Everytime her step-father pretended she was her mother and made her suffer for her walking out on them and leaving him sexually devastated came out in every clutch, twist, and squeeze of the hem of her dress. She wanted to scream and bawl out in pain and anguish but she didn't forget where she was. Instead she shoved her index finger in her mouth and bit down, clamped on it. She bit until it turned red, and when it started to bleed she glanced at it and remembered the way her heart bled when her father didn't show up to her high school graduation, her moving into college, her college graduation. She peeked out from below the desk and saw three of her coworkers looking down at her.

"Why doesn't she go get some fucking help?"

Daria

In the past, when someone wanted me to do something, and I didn't want to do it, I sucked up my feelings and went ahead and did it. And complained.

Now, if someone wants me to do something, and I don't want to do it, then I feel compelled to not do it.

That's good.
I'm doing what the fuck I want to do.