you took our knobs.

Came were moths and owls of the nights sky,
in colored light the cage bird cried.
Her heart was tired of ignoring the fact,
mine, yours... our house cards ...crash... (high pitch) flat.
Shelled lips of an amber lash,
i'll take one and a whiskey,
Russian red to be exact.
Gypsy tears in crystal blue demise,
I'll lick them like tushy
whats that thought that crossed your mind.
I need you now, how was i supposed to know
because i need you now, it was never our emote.
New age, new religion.
Fuck your mother, you dirty as pigeons.
I fiend your smoke, my breath the ignition,
holy as your ramet,
my tongue on you with precision.
Im done god damnit.
Green dewy red eyes,
I'm here to rest,
 in your informed contaminated life.
You lost yourself,
im better off solo flight.
Bounty night,
Bounty hunter, mother fucking shank your pride,
you know im right, machete life.
your bets are off,
hear my tone,
get used to it...
it's that last thing you'll ever know.

page 22

america.
i have given you all and now i am nothing.
i'm trying to come to your point but i refuse to give up my obsession.
i sit in my house for days and stare at roses in my closet.
i have mystical visions, cosmic vibrations.
im obsessed by time magazine, it tells me about responsibility.
everybody is serious but me...
it occurs to  me i am america.
thank you ginsburg.

ready for empty spaces and the end of the world.

muse.
prescribed for the faith of idealism.
left in the shadows of an artist's heart.
where no good may come but the weight of a brush and the corruption of a soul.
i am but a memory.
i sit not in the room where good tidings may come,
but in a room silenced with the company of a ticking clock and running fridge.
where do we get out?
a memory none the less.
i see, hear, feel you.
the day at the beach skips my mind back and forth between the walls of my head,
like stones skipping through an ocean's wave without an end,
stuck like the sand between the sheets that this book will forever be read.
it'd be selfish to think this is about you.
so here it goes again, one page, to the next, i count 16 dead.

I smell of whiskey, patruly, and roses.

 

(Don't worry about finding out who made any of these items. Too poor for new clothes, too bad ass to care.)

 

Identity: My name is Meg, 22 (soon to be 23). This is yet another attempt into making it in the world of frequencies and cyborgs. Unfortunately, I don't have a working camera... yet. A past friend crashed onto my what would be camera in a night of heart break and slurred words.  Come to realize, I don't even have a working computer. The one I am using was given to me by a boyfriend I had for two days. Yes two days... and here I am trying to hold the screen in weird ways so it doesn't freeze and turn white... while trying to spell check the whole time. That actually sums up a regular night we had in the short time period of knowing each other. He gave me that shirt too, I cut the sleeves off. You could say, "I'm that wild one." Not hippy, gypsy, or punk rock.



10 things Im greatful for at the moment...

1. Brittany Dumas

2. Being inspired by pintrest

3. Dreams

4. All those nights dancing cray

5. Blasting off to find a message into different dimensions

6. Indigo Children

7. Everyone I work with

8. Southern rock with the sun roof open and smoke out the window

9. Scents by Aj

10. Sitting on the porch with the pup and good reads looking at that good old desert moon

...

What we want is another invention... horses and gardens and a cabin to call my own, one of those grungy southern rock boys, a withcy cat and husky, paintings that sell, more tattoos, finding the message and share the coming of age, more clientele, health, love, prosperity, and happiness. With that I give you this

...

I hope you can read.

I wonder what you think up when the night calls

After a roll of vengeance of drugs and slurs and no one who cares

Where do you find yourself in the state of unaware

I call from an empty room connected by the back hand of my blur

you stand in silence and give me that stare

Holding hands palms facing up 

You tell me to wait and never give enough

For what we have has been written before

In a time and age where...

I begin to lose sight and you turn into tiny pixels

a faded dream into a stream of orange lucid ripples.

Haylou twothousandonetwo.

New year, new opportunities.
To hair growing, and adventures from afar,
open your mind,
your heart,
your eyes,
 the ability to compromise.
Leaving,
one step ahead from now,
driving,
 leaving town.
 Two heart aches,
come come cum my love,
bone break.
We see the future the present we are now.
Boil the sheets you slept in,
remember the blood that shed,
stuck in a place,
 a time,
demons in mind.
What the hell let go,
 go down streams,
think skies,
 its now, lets compromise.

An art of dreaming.

We stood cloaked in fabrics made from the dust of stars reach. Ancient times froze the hooves of the surrounding, ungaurded in the permission of guidance. All will tell without movement, all will tell without the night. In the space of matter between you and i, bring forth the notice of silver and light. In a well we shall surround, a gastric bubble of molten metal, kreep the rim, don't fall in. Foretell of splendid resources, we came from afar... realms of knowledge and pleasure for those who come to realize new age measure. From the inside of the black hole we are a looking glass away, come speed, insight, and honey comb i pray. An original, an adventurer, you are but a being all you must do is re-direct you're thinking in the relam of dreaming.

i am among you.

Cloaked in dawn i shed news of the fallen. Her last moments must be spent in fields of poppies where his heart forever lay at rest. Crows wimper cries of sollitude and retorted vision through layers of linen on swollen flesh. Time that was and is roams forever more, entering visions of the night sweeping away the leaves of day. Cheated by her own thoughts. Cheated by her own cries. Cheated cheated and denied. Where do they know to enter, the curtains drawn, the windows shut out light. How do they enter? Their footsteps shake and send children to dark places. Release me into an escape the pounding is too much to take. I am frightend and withered my hands look for revenge, the wall is my strength. I am here the snow wraps me in position, my breath is shallow, my intentions are worthless. She sends word through communication of ancient times you should recall, stone by stone for every day that has trapped her in this hell. Fight, stand by, cheated, she cries. Tears of the misunderstood the dead the amused. Fuck you all who stand at the bridge. You know of the stones that lay with the wind, to the fields of poppies, where it must all end. She wanders your thoughts for she can not find her way. A vision of the cloaked one in the mid decembers day.

because our notes will be left over a pile of clothes

to be hurt is to remember you're still alive so why be scared to open your mind to the thought that there are a few people that will always be there but not one being capable of not letting you down at one point. it is at these points we seem to lose hope, but if it is lost can it not be found? to get angry is a waste of time... an endless well of disheveled thoughts and worries. forgive relive and forget. the sand will keep your feet warm the rays of sun will give you peace at mind and your heart shall grow with understanding. these social situations need to be approached with the sound of rifles hitting the deserts sand.... for how will there be any answer when we come in guarded and unreachable. in time.... perhaps our paths were not meant to pass just yet.... perhaps. it doesn't mean you stop in caring for someone for what kind of person just runs away from everything you ask? everyone does it its all in time we learn to not avoid it.

I tried telling you.

i can't help but trap myself in your gaze. it was as though time had filled it's surrounding with the green caught from within the bottom of the ocean, laughter filled with so much kindness, a heart wandering the land God bestowed from under his feet. a happy beginning to what i can imagine will turn into a fast paced car hitting into a staged locomotive. if this be the case at least you found your smile for a little. in a world where lions are caged to awe over and babies are making tens into dumpsters. the past is the past and it is what you make of it... how is it that no matter how hard you try and push the bird out the window it eventually flys back bringing with it a storm. end me the embarrassment and hand me the gravy, tomorrow we shall fathom over who else is to come this way. october 14.

Brandings.

Tonight

the stars were like those stuck in an orchard while train cars passed and two animals had no where to escape to

surrounded by four ceiling high mirrors

each holding a vessel of her heart

one a key hung from wire in a room where blood fell from a grizzlies nose

two a fountain in which the color of pain flowed like heroin being shot through shared veins

three a star spangled flag running crimson stripes into a sheet of hand woven roses

four a tiny being in a printed dress laid to rest.

Her hair turned black.

Happy 22... I now finally get it.

How does fire fade in one's eyes so quickly? Wrapped around the finger of what master should have never existed. The innocence, the force, the violence, the manipulation, the embarrassment, the control. He is dead, dead to himself, dead to her. What rush did you get from the girls wait? Controlling a life yet lived, when you don't have a grasp of your own. As things are just getting better you lose yourself from love, forcing the feast of her thirsty heart. Your power is gone, the table still sits underground. The desert star has exploded and she is no longer afraid to stray into the land of alone, the most aspiring people I have met were alone. Before the words and the things unsaid, come anger and your lifeless newlywed. Congrats that wasn't long at all, hand me a cigarette, to you the last living breath. Never will your love belong to a bobble head wrapped in sheets. The last you will hear of her is the call of her death, a final excuse to help you decide peace to an end.

Only cowards feel the need to hurt the others around them over and over and over again.


... Love your enemies, bless those who curse you, do good to those that hate you, and pray for those who spitefully use you and persecute you.

The Moon.

She had in mind that this diversion would be more amusing

Every night as the world awoke to the hours of darkness

She remained a star to gaze at

 Shackled by the reach of man

Her heart wanted all the more to be less like the moon

For in time to come her light would shed hidden secrets

Putting out many lanterns

Meant to guide her to a starless sky

Upon a dawn one held out a hand

 Waking her for the first time

to the rise of a sun lit day

With the night’s fall she had to keep on

Although she knew he’d be back

Every time with a flower to tie to orange locks

Of envision

One bound for hope

one for purpose

the last one to ensure a calm composed decision

Caress the umbuilical.

Does she wilt with the flowers upon her dresser?

In the time given men will bleed black standing

in her presence

She is in no man's land

The willows blow the scent of crimson down her spine

Her eyes of yellow

Shall they pant and scream

Does she dance anymore

dance in fields where poppies lay

Upon gloomy tides she thirsts for air

air filled with bitter indulgence

Run away you pitiful breed

She'll cut your eyes out and watch

with no emotion

Carelessly you will fall and a mirror of light shall

bind your ankles upon which you take flight.

Masochist for breakfast.

The moon held back it's light

A jog was needed

Frozen in place she saw as he stepped out from the car only to reveal a new place of stay, made up of course.

His sister arrived and they left only to go buy a tire

They didn't talk and yet she still knew their destination

Upon a glimpse of eye contact her phone rang

Himalayan with the parents, sure... oh bring three friends. His closest.

They were mute, lost their voices.

Felt like unheard cries from The Falkland War

A moth's wings flickering at the end of death.

She couldn't gaze at them

and they couldn't even slurp soup.

She sent them wishes of a night on the beach once held in a memory.

The jog continued.

A search for narcotics, instead an offered smoke.

The hill was steep.

At last sight she saw everyone remove themselves from beneath his roof.

They didn't wave goodbye, and she couldn't recognize any of them.

He came out and stood as though he was gazing into a mirror.

Only the sky made her cry.

Breakfast; breaking the fast of the night.

Savage.

Visiting isn't getting strategical encouragement

We saw, shouted, attempt to suffer

Exhaustion you acknowledged

Risk comes reward

Disappointment down to the shortest

We started and were rewarded

Early dawn splashed against formations

Shadows melt away color

Dirty young, sprinting over danger

to question the animal

Gentle meandering curves replaced near the river

Desolate

except fellow mules hauling from the depths of the cooled darkness

It is gentle, beautiful.

The phantom ranch.

Prelude.

I'll be at home.

This project is pretty self explanatory. Only two people on the whole entire world, me being one, would understand.

Let us be marigolds once again.