I am Not

Its been ages since I dared open my mind to write.

Creativity escaped me ever in my final essay in classes,

In Philosophy Journals and Facebook posts.

The only use i have had for Pens is to write a rent check.

Because after 40 plus hours of work and four day of class work

I had enough.

Enough smiling and pretending that I had someting to talk about,

enough time wasted on counding bills owed and earned.

I had been filled with too much information to even let any out.

"I am Not"

These are the last words i dared let escape my mind to paper.

"I am Not"

What did I mean to begin with these words.

Or did I mean begin anything at all.

There are many things I am Not.

I am not wealthy

I am not well read.. well not anymore at least.

I am not (I am no longer" interesting or talented.

I have wasted time I could have been writting to work.

Time I could have written my mster peice, My ultimate creation

I spent working and counting my bills both earned and owed.

Counting the times I could have worked in place of sleeping.

I am not Lazy or Dull Im just tired and

I am Not

Finished yet

Gatoraid and kareoke

have you ever been in love?

and i don't mean poems and flowers kind of love,

im talking about the kind that can render poets speechless.

the kind that makes it possible to spend all day in bed without lifting a finger or putting on a single article of clothing.

have you ever showed up to an eight hour work day with no sleep

because you spent all night holding in lust and strumming opaque skin

still-

bright eyed and enthusiastic?

If you have EVER eaten breakfast at midnight,

or showered with the light off to make it more like a game of "hide and seek".

You have been in love with him.

Loveliness of winter

The daily rebirth of light,
rocked me gently awake this morning.
As a silky stream warm Decmber
created sunrise dewon your opaque skin-
I brought you once more into my lungsonce more
and let out my heart.

What of the broken women?

You see them along the highways and back roads,
stumbling through the death march home.

Heels broken, stockings stretched, bodies torn.
With mouths still mummbling
the lightly taken montra of "No"

These are the women
who will instruct their daughters,
how to teach their shoes to whispers.

This piece is in development please reply with some pointers.

"I want to be a writer.",
The seventh grade girl said.
I can be a writer cause I have lots of ideas in my head.
I have a life of experiances most will never see.
I could be a writter because I met the S.W.A.T team when I was seven.
I want to be a writter because he taught me to speak.
I will be a writer like no other seen.
Because I am the writer M.E. me

K hole

He vainly faught to escape the discomfort of the hospital mattress attempting to shed his crawling skin.
"None of that Mr.Cole." said the orderly as he began strapping him the porcelain sheets."
Alas he slipped into the mouth of the abyss where the tile should have been and sang for mercy.

Cover girl heroine

“If beauty is skin deep does ugly go straight to the bone?” she questioned 20 minutes into the therapy session.
“I can’t beat genetics by adopting diuretics. Figures aren’t that slender! Control would be nice but little girls aren’t born knowing to hate their bodies!” her voice shook as she cradled 80lbs.