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WELL. I don't really have much of anything to say, AT ALL, but I'm tired of looking at old, invalid information.

So, here's a few recent poems for your (not-so) viewing pleasure.

1. Nuclear Heart
Inside a withered, tethered, broken soul: there lies a flame.
Mine is dim, but gath'ring energy;
heat and light brough forth from the combustion of
my failed hopes; my dreams crumbling into the ashes
of illusion they have become;
nuclear fusion combining every achievement I was born to fulfill
with the more multitudinous fallacies of goals I have believed; have pursued,
until all my dreams and nightmares are inseverable-
One Nation, Indivisible, with the purpose of providing me with hope
for a future, and a new calibre of discernment.

2. Godray
The sun is a sphere
of plasmatic fire:
bubbling; boiling; threatening to scorch
anything
everything
And I dwell here- most of my body freely exposed-
ready to bubble
to boil
to scorch
because, after so many months of the dark, dreary freeze,
I am like a bear, emerging from unfastidious hibernation;
a butterfly, stretching my aching wings, for I am a virgin of flight;
a virgin of freedom, after so many weeks of being incarcerated in my own proverbial cocoon
of sadness
of hatred
of huge investments of myself in projected love

And so,
the sun is a welcome flame against my darkness;
I am a canvas for whatever nature pines to paint.
I am ready to bubble,
boil, scorch, and more...
if that means I can be happy.

3. The Last Supper
After taking the cup of tomato soup,
she gave thanks (for they requested this,)
and thought,
I'll eat this, but not
happily.

And she swirled in this soup the cheesy bread,
then took it and placed it upon her
tongue, thinking,
This is pure representation of your disappointment in me:
Smouldering hot and completely unmerciful.

In the same way, she dug her nails into her wrist,
heat rising on her fingertips and
tears welling in her eyes, thinking:
This cup of soup is the last I'll consume
before I'll let loose the dam of blood

But the tongue that so swells
in unrighteousness, which betrays me every day,
is in my own mouth.
Woe be to my most loathed foe:
Myself.

4. Monstrosity
You chew 'em up and spit 'em out
don't give a second thought to their feelings; you're the queen.
It's ALWAYS the nice ones that fall for you;
always the ones with perfect, gorgeous souls for you to ruin.
You're a maelstrom...
You love your own destruction.
Anybody could tell you what a monster you are;
Anybody who's seen your core can defend that it's not pretty.
But your pretty shell- your cutesy, innocent facade- fools us all at first;
gets us all to love and accept you;
to seek your approval...
And then comes the pain.
YOU. HURT. EVERYONE.
And because of that,
I feel like I hate you...
I don't want to hate anyone; don't want to even have the capacity to...
But if I've ever hated anyone, it's you.

5. The Void
Words come easier when premeditated.
These are mine.
Though I know not what to say; to do; to think...
I know what I know.
I know my arms are empty
and the void begs to be filled.
My heart is tuned to
the frequency of yearning;
a state of misshapen healing, waiting
to become perfect again.
I'm looking for another heart that knows brokenness,
for brokenness yields humility and compassion.
And, if I could find that heart,
The one PERFECT match to mine...
I'd combine every particulate of my soul
'til the two are one;
the broken pieces are no more;
and all that remains is a single soul-
happy, healthy, and everlasting.
So my heart searches yet.
I'm listening for an answering palpitation...
Might I ever hear yours?

6. The Atomic Girl
Betrayal may be so much less than most think.
It's not an action; but a passive void;
a lack of things anticipated and yearned for.
Such an empty feeling; suspicions of thoughts left un-relayed;
indications of feelings clashing; smashing; splitting apart.

Nothing happens here.
A no-man's-land of emotional sandstorms;
my heart is an abyss without someone else to soothe it.
A heart broken and misshapen when healed;
a soul yearning only to keep others satisfied.

Fat Man, Little Boy, and Odd Girl.
I can annihilate; I can hurt
so many that I love and want to help;
but the origination of so much destruction
lies inside a vessel so mere.

7. Weary Ramblings
I ramble.
I figure it might be the only way to ever
get some half-truths out.
'Cause I don't know anymore,
I can speak the truth, sure,
but only that which is totally obvious.
The sky is blue.
Nah, that's a lie. The sky is dark and dreary.
It's grey. No, it's black.
Starry. No, cloudy.
Is that a moon?
Or a spotlight for this awful play?
I don't know. Can't know.
Nothing makes sense.
Does it?
Hmm?
The city lights reflect
dull vomit-colours
off of those clouds.
Where is the sun?
WHERE?
Why does God always cry on us?
Always pure, slightly alkaline tears
to show His disappointment.
Yeah, God, I'm pretty ashamed of my species, too.
If I were You, I'd be fed up. I'd smite us all.
Good thing I'm NOT You. Yeah?
Yeah.
Yup.
Thanks, God.
I appreciate you NOT smiting me.