This anxiety comorbid with insomnia
The nightly ritual of examining
The wants and haves not equally matching
Within grasp is the steady dream of every other kid
But I lay awake in this difficult state
Holding postcards
From a land where men become stars
Paper thin promises
Written on permanent ink
Gods made out of papermate
Amorally complex

On my own

The house is empty today
I’m on my own
At first I cautiously walk in testing the boundaries of my domain
Taking inventory of secret passageways along the way
Body curving slightly letting go of all the world’s tightness
Wild hair’s appreciated
Heels landing haphazardly
Longest zipper in the world’s unzipped
Clothes falling to the floor
Body stretched
And touched by me
The sensation leaving me in awe of me
The feeling of me wanting me
Feeling what you feel when you’re inside of me
So that’s why you ask to come inside
With me
Liquid memories drip through my fingertips

AngiePhonePics 1641


I can’t sleep nearly ever.
In fact I can see much better
In the dark when everyone’s thought bubbles have popped, mine increasingly grows and floats on with other puffs of thoughts
Memories pull at my covers
Demons tug at my feet
I should’ve spent my body today
But energy tingles in waves on my skin
My mind spends its time thinking thoughts no one dares approve
Like dancing skin to skin
On top of your lips
No, I can’t sleep.

That drive

You see the world opening it’s hand slowly in front of your eyes palm slowly uncurling little rays of light.  I used to look up at the sky and see a ray of sunshine break through the clouds and I remember sitting in the backseat of the rusty grey hatchback, first car we could afford, no a/c, wind whipping hair back, defining what I saw when there used to be time you could look out the window the whole trip and see the light succumbing slowly to darkness and some teacher told you it was called the horizon and  I claimed the beams of light meant good wherever they landed. The poetic words impressed my parents and I labeled every feeling in black ink writing stories that matched the scenery which was slowly being swallowed as time passed hour by hour turning my stories slightly darker and darker. So I’m slightly obsessed with holding the world on the flat of my palm and grasping what I could reach for and working towards the next beam of light not really caring if I have to stand in darkness for quite some time.  Sometimes I envy the people who could see the pictures and the words and see the shades of pink and greens like flowers blossoming in the wind and the words reassuringly float and sway to and fro like the bed sheets I was told to hang dry in the sun then rush to pick them up before the rain soaked them all up. So I closed my notebook for some time, learned that a wet notebook never dries right on the inside.  But never stopped observing how dark and light play games against each other showing and hiding what’s meant for one another.  I guess I saw more than most do because I want the dark as much as the light too.  I’m driven now, but wait, not before long, I’ll be the driver and you’ll be sitting in the backseat wondering which route I’m going after.

Read me

Seems a little unfair
that I get to taste your words
swim in your mind and see
speckled thoughts fly on by
colorful memories of your world
in plain sight

If I’m this far in
seems a little unfair that you’d think
I’m intruding in

Perhaps you’re scared
I’m the only one that can see
The difference in the words
that you pick versus the ones
Everyone else is comfortable with

Painted a picture for all to see
But the colors you chose
Say everything about you to me

Applause in the end
For the artist that likes to create
Is for the most part only
As fulfilling as fans pleasantries
that for the time being
fill the void the words try to describe

Failing, but to only a few,
Who, like me, see the difference
In the words you picked and the breaths in between

So welcome me in
Let me read what pulses underneath
You’ve got the black ink
Circling around each memory
Let the truth pour on to the page

Rest assured that what most don’t get
Is visible in the darkness
Where I don’t rest
Where most are afraid to get
Too vapid and set in their own ways
Unable to explore beyond
what’s behind the first door

But here I am
Entering the room
you’ve double pad locked
To hand you the key to my thoughts

The ones in blue ink
Hidden in drawers so deep
Forgotten but for moments
when I let my mind think

And if I’m already here
Watching the drops of ink pool
While you watch me
I might as well make you
As comfortable with me as
I wish I could be with
my most inner themes