From Stories to Ads


She was twisted to an impossible angle.
Made out to be something gruesomely mangled.
Her smile was stapled;
A part of the fable,
That story of the perfect,
The ones without defect.

The girl who is plastered on walls,
Imposter of those princesses who attended such balls,
That movies depict,
To try to inflict,
That neediness deep down,
To be one of those clowns,
Who are frowning on the inside,
And pacified on the outside.

These walls surround,
Rather confound,
Teach us to be exactly what we see,
Even if it is something lesser than me.

Burned Out


I thought I could do it.
I thought it’d be easy.
Didn’t think we were a fit,
But life can only be so breezy.

Now when I think about how it would be,
I can’t help but recline,
And think about me.

I think we all deserve better than that,
And someone far less cold.
Something not so unreasonably flat.
Something not so unemotionally bold.

My future is dependent on my choices.
I have to do what is best for me.
So far I’m the only one who voices,
Who states what should be.

What should be,
Is not what would come to be.
I know this now,
And I knew this then.
I’d raise my brow,
Question when,
I’d been so blind,
To see your kind.

I know what I have to do,
And I don’t want to do it.
I have to step up too,
And cast water onto the flame I had lit.

This is War


Bite your tongue,

Your words surely stung;

Burned as they left your throat,

Reaching an even lower note.


Wash your mouth,

And cross your fingers.

Hope that things won’t go entirely south.

As your words have clearly lingered.


Ask for forgiveness,

Say that they slipped out.

Make it believable beyond any doubt.

Lest they be left rather suspicious.


Because your words contained shards of glass.

Hidden by size,

As part of your disguise.

You think you’ve got the brass,

But you’ll regret it in the end.

Just wait until they suspend,

Creating problems much bigger than you could have wished for.

Problems that can only be fought through war.