Saturday, November 28, 2009


I liken eating ice-cream to falling into the darkest pit of hell.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

I Changed my Yahoo! Messenger Status

I changed my Yahoo! messenger status;
I changed it to,
"No one loves me."

I changed my Yahoo! messenger status
because the world isn't real anymore.

I changed my Yahoo! messenger status,
because I've a sudden need

to paint ev'ry single thing of mine
the darkest shade of ebony.

"See that girl walking down the street?
She's forever encased in shadow.

She knows
it is true,
so she changed her Yahoo!
messenger status
to, "No one loves me."

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Blue-green Tear Droplets Fell from her Eyes

"Just give me some excuse," I say,
"to set fire to the world and ev'rything that I know."

"Just give me some excuse," I say,
"To stand by the docks and watch the whole city burn."

Yes, blue-green tear droplets fell
from her eyes;
and I am enshrouded
in the grayest of wintry
skies; I don't

see any excuse
to send it up in flames--

just the simple
that the whole
world is


O, wintry snow.

"Just give me some excuse," I say,
"to let the blue-green tear droplets freeze where they fall
from her icy, snowflake eyes,
as she lays
on Old Man Winter's deathbed."

I'll be Walking Down the Street

There is some unseen,
shimmer'ng, spark'ling future
glitter'n' under the city-light-stars.

Somewhere in Tokyo,
somewhere in Osaka;
some place in the U.S.
where my verse can be read.

In just a few years now,
pecking at morning toast,
sipping my English breakfast tea, I'll

be off to work,

be off to read or write;
to keep books, to write poems,
to study animals, or

whatever I decide to do.

I'll be walking down the street,
in the early spring, smiling,
sweater dress short,
but not too much so.

I'll have two cats in the home,
and a delicate hamster,
twitching his or her whiskers like the trembling rain,

perfectly perpetual
smile upon

or her

I'll be walking down the street;
the sky will always be dark
but kind,
like a sugar-scented
a gentle moon
and soft downy feathers

litter'n' the ground

in my
unseen, perfect city.

And as I walk back home
from work,
I'll be singin',

"There is a spark'ling,
unseen future out there,

with glitter'n' city lights
like stars."

At 2:30 AM:




obscured by the orange clouds.


are worn and bleeding,

and the sun doesn't shine anymore.

a Smile-Chase;

lost is the chance of a


sinfully pondering

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Ponderings of the Girl Sitting on the Loveseat

I don't know why I do the things I do.

perhaps I'm indecisive, or
perhaps I'm just a jerk.

I don't know why you do the things you do.

Perhaps you see potential, or
perhaps you're just playing around.

I don't know what will become
of any of this.

I don't really where we are right now,
or where we are going.

As for our destination, well,
I can't recall why we've fallen silent

As of late.

But the birdsong seems to echo through
the islands of my mind, the tiny
tropical passageways leading to

my empty, fool-hearted passions.

I don't know why I think the things I think.

Perhaps I'm really lonely, or
Perhaps I'm just a jerk.

Wednesday, November 18, 2009


Baka wa kaze hikanai.

Idiots don't catch colds.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009


I hated tense confusion, I will realize. It made me angry when I read things that aren't able to decide which tense they will be set in.


Your Falsetto Voice

All those strained, falsetto voices,
I can hear them through
the mile-thick shadows;
they are creeping up
upon the moon;
they are wailing "Love me!"
in a howling, sickly wind.

The moon,
the silver light, the
darkness enroaching upon it; I
can hear all these things along with falsetto voices

that makes me wonder why I'm writing this poem.

I want
to hear
a silver bell,
a silver bell,
a silver bell

of clarity.

I wish
that your falsetto voice
could not be heard tonight,

so that I may sleep
and dream.

Monday, November 9, 2009


Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe,
Breathe, breathe.

I love her.
I know this,
And I know that she loves me,
But only in a platonic sort of way.

Or is that
The case?

I wish,
Oh, how
I desperately wish
That she will return this
Unspoken whisper

In fifty short minutes,
The time I will next see her...

I want
To scream!
(But I also want to cry...)

I want
To live!
(But I also want to die...)

I don't care how I do it,
And I don't care why,
But this time it'll be "wo ai ni"!

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Rainbow Revolt

"The children are planning revolt,"

Says the scene girl, the jock,
So popular,
Names known across the school,

"The children plot, oh so
To overthrow our rule."

The open-minded Christian girl sits
In the back of her judgmental class; the misunderstood
Bisexual opens his heart in chorus class,
The quiet
Gender-queer, electronica-loving
Lesbian girl,
And the poet, innocent dreamer who writes too much
(And far too many fanfictions).

The youtuber,
The indie kids,
And the alternative offbeat children,
Playing killer guitar riffs and stalking message boards
That they enjoy to visit
While sipping their coffee at Starbucks,

The somewhat-goths and the otaku nerds,
The Anonymous internet-thrivers.
The Japanese-wannabes, the just plain lonely,
And those who worship Suzumiya Haruhi.
The Christians, the Jews, the Muslims, the Atheists, Agnostics and whatever-have-you,
The losers, the old-schoolers, the new-schoolers, the nothing-schoolers,
And the emo kids all sing:

"We're gonna o'erthrow your rule
With colors of rainbow,

Abolish cut-and-dry colors like white!"

Saturday, November 7, 2009

I Remember the City Lights not unlike Stars; I could See them Outside your Window

I have this never-ending, impotent sense
Of dread that makes me want to call you.

I look back to the times,
Those oh so perfect times
When I could hold your hand,
Play our fun-filled games,
And look outside your window as we slept close together.

I look back to the times,
Those oh so innocent times,
When we could make up stories,
Act out our roles together
And make friends in out happy, safe haven.

Such things are not
Possible now,
Because it is not nearly as simple...

It was only a year,
One pathetic, short year,
But it was the happiest time of my life.

I have this never-ending, impotent sense
Of dread that makes me want to call you.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Gray Skies Forever and Screens of White; Ballads of Nothing in Particular

"Months and months have passed," says the stoic doctor
In bleached-white coat, with sterile mask.

"Months and months have passed," says the teacher
Noticing her as she rises
To wander the halls,
Going to her next class, to her next class, to her next class;
Day after day, after day, after day.

"Um, feel better," says the distracted friend,
Gone faraway, and apparently daydreaming;

"Well, feel better," says the folded-hand counselor,
As if there is some delusion of hope;

"You will feel better," says the dandelion
In almost-winter fall;

"Feel better,"
Says the white screen
As I type this poem,
Resurrected by an old tune I heard.

"Are you okay?"
Says the brother,
Sincere above all;
"Are you okay?"
Says the dog,

In her silent dog-speak;
Grunts and whimpers, barks, the like:
The point is, I know she knows
If I am okay.

I want someone
To tell me it is okay
To not be okay,
To take me in this darkness,
And bring, if only
A speck, of light
To these walls,
Even though I am dead.

I want someone to stitch
My frail limbs back together
To re-arrange my voice-box
And upright this broken doll,

Knocked over by drunken winds of fate,
Obviously being cruel at the time.

I want

To see someone's, anyone's, face
When I go to sleep at night.

I want

To see the Sun,
Because as my brother says,
"The Sun is life; without it we would die,"
He is indeed a science-y man.

"What's wrong?" says the mother, though it be standard procedure,

"...What's wrong?" says the father, far too preoccupied
To really notice at all;

"Come back," says a silent urge, the Dread waiting still
To devour her as
She sleeps in her bed.

"Come back,"
Says the unfinished
Book I was writing
In a document I have locked.

"Come back,"
Says the sin and the pain and irrationalities;

"Come back,"
Says the lonely child I had befriended.

I say "her," and not "I,"
I use second person, not first,
Because this girl is not I any longer.

I died long ago
And I cannot help it;

Because no matter what feigned,
Sugar-coated words
Are said,
It will never be okay.

I will live in this lull
Till the day that I die:
Gray skies Forever,
Screens of White,
And Ballads of Nothing in Particular.

"... She leaves her poetry to no one in particular,"
Says the lawyer at the girl's funeral.

Breathing a Bit More Diffucult than I did a while Ago

Blurs and odd shapes,
Incoherent thoughts
When I am trying to write.

It's glass and fire
Melding, melting my brain--

Dreams of Yellow and Innocence and Blue.

I cannot write now;
"Hush, calm your fingers,
Stop the tiny, tiny clicking of keys.

Dearest Amber, go to sleep,
Perhaps there you will dream of me."


Part of Speech: verb
Definition: exist in abundance


be alive with, be all over the place, be knee deep in, be no end to, be plentiful, be thick with, be up to one's ears in, crawl with, crowd, flourish, flow, have a full plate, infest, overflow, proliferate, swarm, swell, teem, thrive


deficient, fail, lack, need, short, want

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Not Worth a Title

White screen,
No talent;
Loud voices,
I don't care.

We can all just die for what its worth.

Only the Darkest Will Do

Said mother, said to
Her daughters thereafter,
Said to their brothers,
Cousins, uncles,
And aunts.

(Would have said
To the grandparents, but they were already
Dead, blind, and deaf.)

There was therefor an order,
Said father to son;

There was therefore despair,
Said soldier to soldier;

There was therefore nothingness,
Said neighbor to neighbor,

That they were abolishing white.

And only the darkest would do.

My Prose can Burn thereafter;

I identify solely
And primarily
As a poet.

It is the only thing I was ever good at.

My prose can be hung from the gallows above,
And my messy outlines mean nothing.

I don't know what I can do with my poetry,
Certainly not make a living off it.
It will never benefit me
In any way,
But it's all that I'll ever do.

I identify solely
And primarily
As a poet.

It is the only thing I am good at.

My Pen-name Means Nothing Now

My pen-name means nothing now,
It will never be used;

Like the final scene in a tragic movie:

The hero's essence explodes,
A thousand glitter-teardrops
Flutter to the world below;


I am no hero,
I live no adventure.
My prose is but broken
Strings of adapted song

Mangled out of its verse-form.

My pen-name is a joke,
It means nothing now;
For it will never be used.

Monday, November 2, 2009

"I said maybe,"

You told me "maybe,"
As if this is a game,
Like a tragic comedy
Or Russian Roluet.

It's not:
These are my feelings.

You told me maybe,
In the same voice,
The same context

As, "Oh, maybe I'll bring that book
For you to read tomorrow,"

Or, "Oh, maybe
I can come over your house
This weekend,"

But this isn't like that.

This isn't a "maybe,"
You can just shy away from;
This isn't a "maybe,"
You can neglect and forget;

This is a "maybe,"
About my feelings...

Do you reciprocate?

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Understand Me

Understand me.

It is in moments such as these
That I cry my most sincere tears,
It is
In moments such as these that I

Wish to be understood,

I think that I love you,
My newfound muse,
But I wonder why this is?

Pressing my mouth
To yours in a dream,
I contemplate this damned confusion.

Fantasies of the Broken Doll

You don't appear broken, but I want to fix you.

I will pull you aside,
Look into your brown eyes
And pray that you meant
What you said.

Truth, the vertex
That would hold us together, or
The crushing,
Crushing anvil
That will make me bawl and snivel;

I want
To take your hand in mine,

Spend hours with you
In my little pawn shop;
Stitch you up,
Turn your hidden frown
Into a smile...

I want to fix you, though you don't appear broken.

I'm so in love,
It's not even funny.

I'm in love with one of my best friends.

Snapped, wiry strings to a muddled, broken puppet,


Dejected eyes to a broken me,


Hidden fears to a broken you,


Quiet moans as the frantic hand goes
From small maiden's appendage
To sin, icy cold
Yet warm as Fire;


Her hair's like the cornstalks
Stretching up to touch the sun,
Flowing down to her waist
Like an anime character,

Pale like the sand
On the forgotten beach,


I want to take her hands,
Much bigger than my own and
Hold them to my heart, I


Broken strings to a broken puppet,
Can we ever be mended, my dear?