consider this

I can't be your savior now,
for failing you I hate myself.
The only thing I have to offer
is an empty hand.
I blame myself for breaking down
and letting my mind fill with doubt.
There is no such thing as
misery in wonderland.

Consider this:
Lost religion is piling on top of hope.
We all see it tipping over
but living a lie is easier than to cope.
Right?
What if we are not we?
My reflection has made mistakes
that I have not.
She sees me and I say "we are we"
but she shows me her life
and it is not mine.
Denial is most prevalent when
smiling in the mirror.

I am superglued together,
bursting at my seams.
I keep sewing the holes
but still my insides leak.
And if love is a war
we are all veterans.
We are broken and sore,
but love is our medicine..
How?
How can that be?

There is no such thing
as misery in wonderland.

Are we, we?

It seems mortality is an option we have now;
tossed between hands, held behind a back.
Two fists with two alternative endings.
Luck of the draw, you call heads
in hopes of seeing Licolns face.
In one hand you have life;
disease, poverty, wars, crime.
A grim chance of survival
past your expiration date.
In the other hand you have nothing;
a free world of possibilities to explore
and wander, a whole life of luck
and love, success and fuffilled dreams.
Good luck picking the right hand, child.

This is your world, your dimension, your story.
You rule it, live it, tell it
under muttered breath as the stars watch you.
This is our option, a choice we have.
We always end up picking the wrong one,
no matter who you are.
Naive children, infants, starry eyed
and overwhelmed. We always pick the wrong hand.

I broke free of my shell and emerged into your world,

thrown into your rampant chaos without warning or advice.

Two fits were held before me, and, trying to control

my movements and figure out how this world works,

my tiny little finger chose a hand.

Which one is it? Mortality or regular, human life?

I don't know. I'm too young perhaps,

or perhaps I am overlooking a major component

of this fate game.

I think too much.

we are we

your blood is mine;
stale and cool.
it courses through our broken veins,
rupturing one after another.
my heart is yours;
beating in your crimson hands,
leaking love out of its arteries.
we are one,
but one who sees and thinks
in a different spectrum.
our breathing is uneven,
but our chests match
as they rise in fall.
a silent sigh in unison,
followed by a gulp of contaminated air.
we are we,
and i cannot specify that enough.
to think oneself is better than their minds,
ignoring all the warning signs.
red flags pop up in my peripheral vision,
blurred out by conscious.
she wages wars on my gut,
and my heart is a silent plea.

alternative versions of me,
as far as the eye can see,
place their hands on the mirror,
and we are we.

i argue with myself,
borderline personality,
always on the verge
of crossing the line
and splitting my mind
from need and want.

these dimensions are like the sea,
as one world crashes another rises up
in the momentum. i see my world
falling apart,
decaying slowly,
slipping through my wrinkled fingers.

a dream of the future,
or a dream of the past?

you have me twisted around your finger,
spinning me on a thin wire
that always threatens to break,
but never does.
I'm so close to freedom,
I can taste the sun on my back.
But you always pull me back in,
like a fish caught on a hook.

I hate the idea that
I will always love your flavor,
just a taste and I'm back in your arms.
Resisting only makes you furious.
I'm starting to get pissed at your anger.
What right do you have?
I am no slave.
I offer no solace in bed sheets
and darling you're only thinning
the line you have me on
with every request.

You think you're funny and you're not.
You think you're teasing but its painful.
You say you're smart
and yet you can't understand
a simple sentence.
A single word.
"No."

Somebody oh somebody
find me scissors; I need to cut the rope
before he strangles me.

Traveling

I can envision myself doing this.

You all may hate car rides,

but I don't mind it one bit.

It's the only time I can go

to a world completely of my own.

I don't have to talk to people,

because I can just put my earbuds in

and watch as we pass by a million

other worlds in less than an hour.

It's the one time I can listen to music,

uninterrupted,

for long periods of time,

and be in a thousand different places

all at once.

Music is a transportation

device in my head,

and traveling is its helping aid.

It's almost like sitting on the computer,

listening to music, chatting with people

on omegle,

and surfing weheartit. Or tumblr.

But this is so much better.

I can see myself traveling,

ignoring people,

and coming back to life

when we reach our

unknown destination.

I can enliven those with music,

and go back

to my own hermit crab world,

without much trouble.

I realized a passion for solidarity

though I knew I had before,

but, I didn't realize was as strong.

Now I watch the mountains pass

and imagine myself singing

the words blaring in my ears,

waiting patiently,

oh so patiently,

for my arrival home.

Bittersweet.

This trip

The air tastes salty
and the sweat tastes sweet.
We're a mass of tangled arms
and legs,
rolling in the salt marsh,
getting filthy. Mud
on our hands and feet,
sand in our shoes,
shells in our hands,
the seawater burning
our scrapes and cuts.
We are a different version
of infinite,
one that ends
just like it never was
to begin with.
We have wings in our dreams
and we fly over the sand dunes,
laughing at our bodies
fighting the waves,
two in a canoe.
Our stories will be written
on our legs by the
stickers in the forest,
the scars they leave
tell something longer lasting
than words can ever try.
We will grow and scatter
and always remember
the versions of truth
we created in a weeks time,
rather than a lifetime.
Too obviously comfortable
to be torn apart so fast.
Annoyed and past our limits.
But that's always the best
kind of story.
One that never ends.

I hear tiny balls of rumors
dispersed like seeds, that find
eager, attentive minds
and grow into a tree of "fact".
I see whispers tossed back and forth
behind a closed door,
the very breath they were created in
spreading the disease from
one to another.
a mindset in this instance is caught
like the disease,
instead of made in the name of
a creative thought that is the backbone
of your perspective.
your parroted thinking isn't thought
through but blindly followed,
and I am a fish caught
swimming against the stream
of narrowed eyes in my direction
and daggers shot at my back.
knowledge in this instance
is gained by an unstable source;
the voice of an acquaintance
whom doesn't know the material
or subject quite as well
as they'd like to aknowledge.

misery is my only friend
for the next 5 days.
solitary is even a questionable occurrence.