Mom and Dad, fuck off before I brain you

I'm going to have to risk it.

It's just too much to friggin copy and paste.

Wish me luck?

A slurr of Stupid.

Staggering, spinning.

Go. To. Bed.

Clumping around the house, now where'd that bottle go?

The cork comes out with a satisfying pop and she licks her lips hungrily as the deep, red liquid sloshes around the glass.

Staggering back to the screen, the screen.

She smacks her lips as she takes yet another gulp.
yummoh, much better than the brandy.

Though utterly smashed she can still remember that liquid fire, how many times it made her retch.

But it's all gone now, that foul brown stuff taken forty millilitres at a time.

She doesn’t care anymore, not what alice nor what flair will think.

It's party time on highway twelve, and she's zipping around in a world of confusing colours.

Her vision blurs, and the keyboard is slipping away.

Slipping, sliding, nearly there.

Collapsing on the bed, advice taken too late.

I wonder when they'll find my corpse she wonders, as the world slowly goes black.

Morning comes and the world is a blur.

She vaguely remembers throwing up in the kitchen sink, and why is she not wearing her pyjamas?

Thumping head, sick to the stomach;
achey longing feelings for the absence of sad.

But now it's all intensified, she's not flying anymore.
far from it.

Avoiding her, nearly all day, and thankfully no words are said as they brush past each other in a corridor.

Please don't hate me, she cries.

Awesome sucks.

How can I get drunk fast enough?

Block out the pain.

Dy'a know that today I was singing along to the cantala girls in my head, rolling in the deep?
And I was going to go home and slit my wrists? For real?

But then I got on the bus and poof.
I was sad, not angry.

I have a bottle of brandy. and it's great company.

My mom is a ninja and I love her.
How can I get drunk?
And my real name is Anna.

Broken Bottle

A shattered bottle,and a mouthful of broken glass.

Pounding head,
loud music.

Sexy, sexy Christopher.

Too many lists.

Silver in bathroom
makes more red lines on paper
which has not been blank
for quite some time.

"Make a wish at midnight", she whispers.

Sitting on stone steps.
Rainbow girl is down below,
unknowst being watched.

Party goers hustle and hullaballoo

The city lights melt.

The ocean, is black.
And the sky grey.

The moon watches as a broekn bottle is passed back and forth.
"You shouldn't be doing this" she wisely whispers.

Secrets and lies
spilled.

They're not friends, and they don't want to be.

Sore all over,
battered and broken,
it is to the voices of flowers she falls into sleep.

"Alice", they whisper," what have you done?"

Of british polly pockets, groovy girls, fish, music, strange blue creatures and what was a beautiful friendship.

Hey, Bernsie.
Long time no see.
Longer time no talk.
And were we ever really friends, or was it just another figment of my way-wacked imagination?

Nawh, we were definitely friends.
Because, little do you know I mourned you for a year and a half like you were dead,
not sitting four seats down from me in math.

And I'm just writing this to say;

I never hated you.
No matter how much I said it, when asked in games of truth, it was a lie.

I never hated you, not really; I just missed you desperately.

But not anymore.
It's been a long eighteen months, and now, finally, I'm ready to put this behind me.
I have my eyes set on new horizons, in my eyes your sun has set.

But as well as writing to say goodbye, I write to say thanks; and to pay tribute to our friendship that was epic while it lasted.

I think it's a shame, that we never visited the stock cars a second time. Remember that tee-shirt I wanted to buy, and how we timed you running halfway around the track and back again?

Remember our "make believe" games with groovy girls and miniature, british polly pockets;
there was the orphanage and the clock tower; I always played the angel and you the teenyest tiniest one of them all. She was a little girl in a blue dress, and one time we thought that I'd lost her, but we found her again.

I remember having my first ever taco at your Thorndon (?)  house,
there we watched the world through your dream catcher and played barbie airplanes. That was when I discovered your email address, which I've never forgotten, never.

There was that time, we stayed up late playing on your playstation in that room which was not your room;
it was in that apartment above the felix cafe.
Then your sister and her friend came in and we went to their room where we played marco polo and then had a wee dance party;
the music was up too loud and your mom came storming in.

I was the only one who made it to my hiding place in time; under the desk. You didn't have enough time to jump into the closet, and I just sat there, quivering like a jelly while you all took your punishment. I'll never stop feeling bad for that moment.

I think I trusted you, and you were the one I told about any crap at that awful school; and though I was at the worst of my bratty self you never complained, once.

I think that it was that bratty behavior that ended our friendship, in the end.
 But we haven't spoken in forever, so I guess I'll never know.

I used to desperately long to be your friend again, I felt I would've done anything just to have an eye to eye conversation with you.

I lost the mini pac-man ghost key ring you got me from a mystery box, I think I got it because you were staying at my place for a double sleep over while your parents were out. One day, I turned around to open my back-pack, and there was just a screw dangling from a clip. I searched and searched, and then felt like crying. It was one of my last keep-sakes from you, and I'd lost it. And I'll never get another one, I don't think, what are the odds?

Remember making up our own Collie+Bernsie version of the phineas and ferb theme song? Remember making up that dance to that song which had the line : "and the love shines over the horizon"

I remember singing next to you in choir, and how we loved that groovy song that Miss Manning had given us to learn. I remember how MM wasn't your favorite person in the world, to say the least.

I remember treating you like absolute crap almost all the time, and you were always a star of a friend.

I remember us both learning Na'vi, practicing our movement by playing with my bow and arrows, hurdling over the couch.
You were Pam'tseo and I was Neynat, we were friends forever.

I remember our parents saying that our friendship would last a long time.
It's quite funny how wrong they were.
It's also the saddest thing ever.

I remember, when discussing high schools, you told me you were going to East because of the music department;
and I was to go to Girls, but in a moment of rashness I promised to you that I would go to East too.

Do you remember all that?

Do you remember that night I felt sick at your party and had to go home? My pirate party?  My absolute crap/fail paintball party? Where I did a kammo run?

We once took a shower in matching outfits, just for the hell of it. We went to the old arcade and spent gagillions of tokens on that deep sea game, the best fun ever.

Remember flippa ball, and ballet? How we'd bus down to our separate ballet schools together, but before we hit the station we'd stop at subway and take turns to buy the pair of us cookies. Those were the days; sunshine, cookies and dirty ballet slippers.

And we bussed to flippa ball with Alice and Simone, bumping down the bus, stowing our bags under seats and trying to balance in the isle. Buying four-cokes-for-a-dollar, at the time it seemed a great deal! Remember playing tag in the kiddies pool? Me shrieking in the cold water of the big pool?

Remember hiding with nicky boy up on the roof from the grown ups? With proper supplies and a shelter and everything.

Remember yelling obscene and rude words from that same roof, hearing the echo in the valley below and cackling wildly, we felt like such rebels back then.

You wanted to be a marine biologist and I wanted something new everyday.

I hardly know you
I hardly knew you
But it felt like I did.

And it's only now I see how brilliant you really are, in contrast to the mundane being that is I. You get excellence, I pass, you win a prize, I try not to be laughed at, you're pretty, I'm ugly.

I remember that when I first though I was fat, you were the first person to say that I was being stupid.

I was never this low all the time, never this sad, so when did it all begin?

It began by me writing that post about you: Left

The the floodgates burst open and I've been spiraling downwards ever since.

And I was told to read "Uglies", you were right, it IS a good book :)

But what does it matter, me writing all this?
You'll never read it.

Admittedly, the last time I said that the person in question did read it, and my life became even more suckish and silly.

But I just wrote this to say goodbye,
and to remember better times,
and to pay tribute
to what was once
an epic
friendship.

(There are a gagillion more memories, and I'll do a follow up post if other people comment (when is that going to happen this side of the century?) )

Forever Sleep

Dangit, girl; stop feeling so low!
Life has done nothing to you, all your pain is self inflicted.
Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.
You are not a mistake, not wrong.
Life is beautiful, tomorrow will all be beautiful.

She whispers to me, and I nearly believe her. But almost is not the same as.
Because then I remember that she is not real, as are none of the others.

And if they are not there, then who is?

Who is?
Who is.
Who is...


To sleep forever would be nice.

Better than nice.

It would be perfect.
Perfect.

The one thing I did not know how to achieve.
But now I do.

So hush little ones have no fear. The man in the moon is the engineer...

Two days to decide.

She only has two days,
to make that crucial decision.

But what happens, if the candle is actually snuffed out for good?

Being sent away is not the same as being... gone.

Will they notice, she wonders yet again, if she doesn't show on the first day of school?

Could today have been the last day she would ever get to see RainbowGirl and Alice?

The last day of seeing the school, the down, all things which -though familiar- were never held dear?

She wipes a tear from her eye and begins once more to hack away at her wrists.

She could end it, right now.
Cut a little too deep and a little too hard.

Softly sing as her lifeblood drains away,
pooling around her sneakers.

She acted like such a dimwit today.
No wonder they all hate her, and think no more of her than a water fountain kid; she deserves it.

She'll miss them.
But they won't miss her.

If she doesn't do it, they'll forget her for sure.

Being forgotten.
Much, much worse than forgetting.

"Ow".
She looks down, and tries to figure out what hurt so much.

It doesn't usually hurt, not this much.

She softly sighs, and puts the blade away.
They don't know.

And never will.
It's a pity that she has to keep her arms covered now.

She liked wearing just tee shirts and jeans.

None of these too-thick winter hoodies.

They don't know how many times she wanted to leave the music room, go into the hall way and slash at her wrists.

They don't know how she didn't feel anything, she wasn't actually happy, she did it all trying to feel.

But it didn't work.

And just now.

Hacking away.

It only made her sadder.

Don't expect this post to last 24hours

Well, it's wedensday the twenty fifth, and I should really be asleep.

The sky looked like cat-sick tonight.

I wonder whether it will rain up-chucked cubes of dried-out salmon tomorrow?

Today was yet another madsadday.

There was a blue plastic handled knife.

But that went away for five minutes, while the parcels were being opened and photographed and put on facebook.

Then snicker snack was heard again.

Well fuck this.

Fuck this selfish life, and damn feeling nothing all the time.

A long, thin scratch now runs down one cheek.

And hey, it didn't even hurt.

Raise your glass to pissing "friends" off.

Confuse everyone with your words of sorrow, "you used to be so bubbly" they said.

Switching tenses, constantly.

Unused lunch money.

Rice and cameo creams.

Damn being put down, damn her being moved up.

So, so low.

So, Charlotte, you got your beard trimmed, it looks very distinguished.

Distinguished is a very long word, I've just realized.

Writing whatever comes to mind, babbling.

Leaving the door slightly ajar.

Three bloody x's.

Left gets all the pain.

Late night walks.

Writing by the light of a street lamp.

Chasing a cat under the neighbours house.

A spider in my Hair.

raNdoM cApITaliSaTioN

My life is a mess.

Don't expect this post to last 24hours.

And don't even THINK of "tattling"

I wish :p

It's sick.

Sick and wrong.

But the price of forgetting,
even for a moment
is high.

At first nothing appears to have happened.

Then she digs harder
and gives a grim smile of satisfaction
as a small red line appears.

Repeating the motions, over and over,
until what once was a blank page

is smattered in red scribbles.

The pain, intense at first,

slowly fades.

The music heightens, urging her on.

She dosen't care.
Dosen't care who might see.

It's the only way to forget...well....everyone.

Their dissapionted faces vanish into the fog
with every strike.

It's too late now.
Fuck them.

And as a solitary tear drips of her nose

she raises the plastic handle again
preparing, for the next strike.

One step closer to the edge

Snicker snak
swish swish

little red lines
on white almost paper

small blue blade unleashes
a torrent of ruby red orbs

little beads,
lined up quietly
like small children
on their first day of school.

Rainbow girl glares
fat girl wilts under her gaze

nail girl is not much better

swaying
so tired
wanna sleep.

Now.

a bit Of a let Down

Lying,
sprawled,
among pillows, pills and year old magazines

there is a bottle on the desk
and she rolls a small red-and-white number between two fingers

waiting
thinking
hard.

She slowly, and painfully levers herself upwards
and brings her aching body to rest against the window pane,
the glass cool against her flushed cheek.

A tear slowly traces her face, then drips down onto the sill.

Cracks, spread from where the tear fell
they seem to grow,
ugly and black, crisscrossing like spider webs across the walls.

Squares lift themselves up from the table,
and the elements float out of the window,
the pink, green and blue dancing away.

A plane glides smoothly into the airport,
but it suddely disappears,
into a blurr of coloured  lights
that rise up to meet it.

She drops down again,
and her hands caress the letter
she runs her fingers over and over the inky paper,
and the last of her fear evaporates.

She is ready now,
"I'm sorry", she whispers,
as the darkness finally envelops her.

Fiction/utter tosh

Still waiting
for that letter that will never come.

For like the second of that astronaut pair,
You don't follow my foot steps as they appear in the sand,
only I yours.

Too many times you cross my mind
Too many times I see your name
written in silver stars
words dancing across the ceiling

I wait for you
every night
for the little green light that is your presence
to wink on

And then again I wait
wait through the cold, lonely hours of the early morning
for that light to once again go out.

I know you'll never talk to me
why do I even try?

But there's always that small flicker
of hope.

to lose what was never there

I've lost my muse.

In this world of tears and paper-cuts, my muse is all I have.
Or, should I say HAD; for now it is depressingly absent.

"No muse, no life,
words a jumble.
It drives me nuts to hear you mumble"

I used to blog everyday, but my creative essence has utterly deserted me.

The ink has run dry and the shaft has snapped in a bajillion pieces.

The sun has not just hidden behind a cloud, it has disappeared entirely, and my black sky now has no twilight.

Ches watches over me no longer.

The doll maker is coming, with all his ruins; I am to be destroyed from within before I've even started.

Rainbow girl is not at the tea party, yet I mourn her expected absence.

And it is time for the final shock, when the sweet clink of coins is heard.

But the screen blocks my view of the mirror, so which do I exchange for the other?

I am lost,
and falling.

Falling out of madness.

Forgetting YOU

I want to forget them.
Every last one of them.
And all the bad memories in which they are contained,
and I associate with them.

I want to forget haystack puppy and groovy girl,
hasystack for the shame
and groovy for the loss.

I want to forget that I ever joined Cantala,
I want to forget the names and habits of all fortysomething girls;
I want to be unknown to them,
and them to me;
to go back to watching them from the corner of the hall,
feeling humbled and awed by their beautiful sound.

I want to forget so many people,
so many times;
it would be a blessing, to forget.

I hate remembering times others have forgotten,
the good and the bad.

I don't even know why I'm writing this,
I also want to forget that I have a blog.

I want to forget,
but the more I remember,
the longer they'll stay.

Living for Fabulous

Life has its ups and downs.

mostly downs though.

That awful, all consuming feeling of hopelessness, of not being good enough, of exclusion and failure. All mixed together in a shattered wineglass and downed in a mouthful of splinters. Thoughts of death accompany every millisecond, in these dark days.

But the ups, are they not truly the things we pine and live for?

Frangipani fairy lights and wacky tea-cosys, stripey socks and crazy hats I'm too shy to wear.

Cruising old Arcades in Auckland city, the musty scent of second-hand book stores, paper, ink and old binding glue.The clink of coins in a charity tin, buying a tee-shirt to "support the cause"

Falling eighteen stories at eighty-two km/ph, six times, in a row, just for the hell of it.

Terrifying and beautiful.

Lighting an old news paper and holding it until the flames come too close; then dropping it on the concrete and watching as the flames slowly lick around the edges before comsuming the thin strips of dead tree, poof

I live in a dying world, in a life I do not want;
but until the day comes,
when I'm allowed to leave this world

tommorow sounds good
as does
being
fabulous.

Stats/ The line/ Peace in failure

A rooster
sank
into the rocky mountains.

Those mountains
once
ever constant

are melting.


The feelings of uncertainty
and shame
have once again risen to the surface

mingled
with sadness, anger
and peace.

A small pocket of relief,
of remaining hidden.

Perhaps,
it is true.

That the things hardest to see,
are those right in front of us.

Smaller is Better

I think, I liked my old house better.

Our old house was leaky, rotten and badly insulated; and almost all of my best memories are in there.

We had to move out for it to be torn down when I was four, and now we live in a giant, modern concrete block; we have big TV's and a modern kitchen with all the mod cons; we have everything we should ever want or need.

But I hate the way everything is about bigger these days, we just got a new TV because my mom "wanted a bigger screen". That's it, end of reasoning, poof.

I look at my room, my house, and my life; and just see another plastic person living in another cardboard dolls house.

I liked the smallness of our old house, the way you could only have four people sitting at the dining table at one time, the way all out book shelves were crammed together to all fit.

I liked my old room, it was small, early ninetys style: granny wallpaper and a wearing, woven carpet, it had a big, ugly eighties-style closet built into the wall and rattely windows.

I can see my life, I think, if I had grown up there.

A small life filled with small, beautiful things,
there would never be enough room for big sleep-overs,
and everything would be bursting out and messy;
a house filled with music, art and light.

 My parents are all ways going on about how this new "american image" shoved at us by the media is turning our world into one, big, ugly mall; and while this would be true, look at the way we live?


My grades are never good enough, I don't work hard enough; why should I work hard just to get what we call "good money" and a "good house"?

Would they be this way if we had stayed?
And it's true, I do like to exaggerate, but all I see is a single streak of grey, stretching off into the distance. No different shades, just the dullest grey one could could imagine, going on,
forever.

Our identities shouldn't be where we come from, but these days it's all I have.
And looking at those fading photographs, I'll always be asking: "what if?'

Seasons of Silly/ planting an instument 101

Giant purple sunflowers.

Clouds of pink, red and green.

It's raining jelly beans.

The black ones sink into the eath and dissapear,
the purple ones go up in glittery showers and the others lie where they fall,
slowly rotting away, shriveling down small and black;
before they too sink into the earth.

The glitter floats upwards, carried on the wind, collecting into a giant green cloud.

With a thunderclap of a heartbeat a piano falls from the sky,
and the cloud explodes; transforming into snow.

Christmas trees, already decorated, spring up everywhere.

The children laugh and play while their parents yell at them to wrap up warm.

Cup-cakes on silver wings begin to roost in the trees as the last of the snow melts away,
white lilies pop up all over the football fields and frangipani drape themselves over the houses and lampposts of the town.

But soon the flowers wilt away and the sky turns grey with the chill of autumn,
then the showers come and wash away all traces of spring.

There is no need for umbrellas, for with the rain comes spores from afar;
and giant colorful toadstools pop up in all the streets and parks of the town,
and though they are beautiful they are sadly inedible.

Cats and dogs begin to smile and disappear,
first they go transparent then from the hindquarters up they become invisible;
before long all you can see is their mischievous grins.

Soon, they are fully invisible, and though the children weep for the loss of their beloved friends,
don't worry, they'll be back come summer time.

Summer time.
All that remains of this first year of the seasons is the piano.
Remarkably unhurt from it's fall.
Next year, the music from another instrument will flood the streets,
and the year after that and the year after that;

give it twenty years
and the town will be fully grown
full of coulour
light
and music.

Almost Up

I've got to stop.

blogging dark thoughts

but I don't know if I really want to.

My jig is almost up,
I can't let my parents find out.

One of my friends was busted because a perental figure read their blog.
So I really can't let my folks find mine.

 I don't want "help"

They don't know me at all, and I'm mostly fine with that.

So to keep it this way, I must stop writing things which can be "used against me"

They've hinted that they're on to me, and they've made it quite clear that I'm not "my own person" and this means that they don't have to respect my privacy.

They seem to be convinced that by letting people inside my head I'll be bullied, sent to the slaughter house; people will use my words against me.

And while that could happen, I don't think it will, I don't friend people like that.

And I don't know whether I can,
write things that aren't sad.

I'll give it a shot.
But don't hold your breath.

Final Dark Thoughts

I'm just doing what I do best.

Sitting here, alone, but for my dark thoughts.

Beating myself up over existing.

It's hot outside.
Too hot.

The cabbage trees rustle in a breeze that remains elusive inside of the hot, hot house;
even though my windows are wide open.

And I'm still sitting here, feeling fat, ugly, and absolutely boiling hot.

On the brink of tears.

I want
to take this 'perfect' house and rip it,
into teeny, tiny shreds.

Take all the boring, beige, nondescript furnishings,
pile them into the cobble stone street and watch them burn.

I want to take that bowl of horribly fattening crisps
and fling it
across the room,
and grimly smile as the ornate pottery shatters into a gazillion pieces.

I want to crush this 'perfect' world,
tear it apart,
then when there is nothing left I'll lie in the ashes, sobbing.

A storm is coming.

Ominous grey clouds are rolling in from all four corners of clone-central,
and the trees wave wildly in the now ruthless winds.

So why is this room still so damned hot?

I want the rain to come.

I want it, to come hard and fast
to stand on the roof
and be in the midst of it all as it crashes down.

I want to stand there, getting wetter by the second and scream.

Scream for all this horrible sadness, pain and ugly.

That's why I write, I guess.

Because, when you're all alone,
if you bottle up too many feeling inside you'll explode.

But it could already be too late.

I think I've shattered
into too many pieces.

I limp along
it's too late
to be fixed.

distancing myself, from those closest in paces.

I give up on you.

You don't even have the decency to pretend any more.

I wish that you would either support me, or get out of my life.

I was going to do that. Another eighteen days and I would have been on the road again, traveling north on a little red bus, skipping school for the first and last time.

It was all planned out. I had my place to stay and a job lined up with the circus.

But then I found out that my perfect place was actually the most dogy location in town, and not wanting to end up in rough trouble, my plan is in pieces, once again I am lost.

You don't listen to me.
You don't remember anything I say.
You try to get me to say things I don't want, then punish me for staying my ground.
You are huge hypocrites too. Have I ever called you names, without saying sorry?
Have I ever tried to take back something that was never mine?

I don't want,
to be an engineer, an architect, a consultant or a lawyer.
I have my own dreams, my own road map, but if I tell you, I get torn down.

You don't see that every day, I wake up, and tell myself I'm ugly and fat.
That every night, I go out and sit in the damp grass
and dream.

Impossible dreams of dancing, music and writing,
of exotic lands, new shoes and beautiful, real people,
people with kind eyes and hearts.

You seem not to understand, my distance and my anger.
But I'm not really angry.

I'm just unbearably,
completely,
sad.

The way to Go

Every day.
At least one kid,
between twelve and eighteen
chooses to end their life.

With every breath you take,
a hundred people take their last.

Our world, is one of death.
Death, of the black and sinister kind.

One day,
someone on your street may die, and you will not notice.
You will continue on, as if they had never existed.

Animals are beat.
And trees we slaughter with cold heat.

When will this suffering end?

But the only sure way, to escape.
The hunger,
      the greed,
the anger
   and the pain

...is to end yourself too.

Imagine.
If falling eighteen stories, at eighty two kilometers and hour;
how would it be, at four?

would there even be time, to feel the gut-wrenching terror, of the drop?
The wind whistling past, the once tiny figures below becoming bigger in a heartbeat,
can't breathe, eyes forced open by the wind roaring past you as you make the deadly plunge.
Would it be the same?

I wonder,
if it would hurt much.
Probably not.
For you would most likely be killed instanty.

Imagine the screams of those around
the panicking teachers
the wailing students.

And the blood,
slowly seeping into the tarmac.

I think,
that it would be the best way to go.
Out with a BANG
Not a fizzle.

And that way,
you wouldn't be forgotten
unlike that person who lived
down the street.

Circus Circus

Backwards writing, on a window.
Red on black or black on red? Circus Circus.
Stained glass, flying clowns, pass the carrot cake.
Unlit candles and scratched table tops.
A yellow postal van delivers more celery, and more rocket.

Red shoes tap across the floor in a black apron.
Jazz floats through the open door before evaporating in the burning grey of the streets.
Lions angrily wave their tails,
too bright green eyes flashing.
A saxophone playing clown hold out a menu.

The buzz of voices and clink of cutlery is all around.
The ringmaster sits on a silver cabinet, smiling as though his trousers aren't falling down.

Fairy lights wreath the pillars outside,
and all around
are the vibrant reds and golds of the fair folk.

The place is full of balancing acts,
magic tricks and
flame throwing displays of the most elaborate kind.

Three courses later, the crows disperse,
slowly fading,
into the deep, blue night.

the bottle or the blade?

Have you ever woken up, and told yourself that you'd never make it?

Woken up, with that same feeling of fat and ugly you had last night?

Friends, facebook and fun are meaningless now.
Music is no longer a sheild strong enough,
strong enough to block out the voices of the other ones.

Food cannot fill the void.
not any more.

And pain does not give the rush it used to.

It is time.

Time to resort to something desperate.

The blade or the bottle, she wonders?

Pain or a miserable haze, followed by a horrible sickness.

Writing just makes it worse.
Worse is seeing the words on paper.
Worse is knowing the words to be true.

The hour has gotten too late.
There is no shovel, and no hand to  rescue her from this avalanche of woe.

And the question still remains,
the bottle
or
the blade?

Not all there

Almost there, but not quite.
Still trapped, on the other side of the mirror.

Mind on one side, body on other.

Disconected.

That unsetteling feeling, of floating away.

Of losing yourself, within yourself.

False smiles and cheesy lines run rampant, in this world of theft and fraud.

It's my day, so why have I not claimed it?

A year ago, I never thought I'd wake up on my birthday,
look into the mirror, and silently scream "fat, ugly cow".

The blade swings closer and closer, nicking my skin;
a fat, ruby orb of blood wells up on my finger.

A cry, a cry for help,
goes unheard.

They don't want to know, nor she them.

Four photos.

Stripey gloves.

And half a packet of sushi later,
the empty feeling inside has intensified,
fear and shame join the mix.

Slowly,
but surely falling
deeper into this world of sadness and pain,
that she could ever have imagined.

Final Fourteen

Frangipani, busted pens and music sheets hiding in all manner of places.

A half-eaten banana choc-chip muffin that was lost on a monday afternoon and never found.

More tears, and more laughter than ever before.

The final fourteen.

The time to move on, accept that Bernadette won't be coming back.

The time to realized that life will never be perfect.

May it be, that jack frost will not come.

Varsity jackets, puffer jackets and too-short-skirts are to be avoided at all costs.

It turned out, that those "perfect" girls? They had, and still have, problems of their own.

Fifteen santa hats, three beanies and six pairs of stripey socks.

Something found, something lost.

The realization dawned of having few true friends.

Polka dotted hair ribbons and a crazy grey wig.

Three attempts, three failures, finally, twelve minutes thirty seconds came as a compromise.

three hundred and twelve percent in motion.

An Excellent solo performance.

And an examination of the royal kind.

Hundreds of buses, no trains.

Kindness found in flowers and fish.

Acceptance, too.
Well, almost.

Eleven months spent in denial, the final twelfth in utter ruin.
Too many tears.

Perhaps fifteen will be better, but that is doubtful.

All that is certain,
is that it did not end
with a Final
fourteen.

JellyPig

His innocent smile caught me by surprize.

And for more than twelve seconds, I thought it would be okay.

But I should have know it was too good to be true.

 And now I am here,

Huddled amoung the shrubs,
and fire-ants
silently sobbing

tears mingle with dirt and rain,
they plink noiselessly to the ground.

A shuddering jelly blob.
Wibble wobble your way to mumsie, jelly girl; the shadows seem to whisper,
go have a cuddle, mumsie will make fat girl feel happy again

And we all know what that means.

I'll go from jelly girl to glutinous pig girl,
stuffing my face and snorting.

Like a pig. A pig in a wig.
A big, fat, zitty pig girl.

"Babies like fat" Abileen said.
Oh yeah?
Well, if babies like fat, then why am I not the one playing with the baby?
Why am I the one shoved out of the picture?
"Move out of the way, we want some photos of your sister with the baby"

Too fat to fit anything other than a large,
too big to fit into a girls tee shirt.
Too ogresque to fit into a popular circle, not for ten minutes.

And so I sit.
Wishing I was dead
With tears streaming down my cheeks
before falling into the empty night.

Anywhere but Here.

How can it be, that a person can become so overwhelmingly sad, that they wish they were dead?

How hard it, really, to feel so despairingly crushed that you wished that you'd never been born?

That's me.
Why oh why can it not be that we can simply wish ourselves out of existance?

It's too much.

Please, no more.

No more dark thoughs, no more crushing shame. No more food, no more horrid whispers and stares, no more tears. No more loss, no more hurt.

Please, lord, take me to that sunny place in the sky in which I can feel your love and be one of your blessed children; send me to the fiery depths of hell, the fields of asphodel; anywhere but here.

If you truly love me, lord, let me walk this earth no longer.

Allow me to rest, take this crushing sphere of sadness from my shoulders.

Lay my body to rest down in the cool earth and whisk my soul elsewhere.
Anywhere.

I have tried to be a good person, truly.
And it is said you love your adopted children as much as your own.

Please, lord.
Take me as your daughter, and let me leave this earth.

If the only other option is to be whisked into non-existence, 
then so be it.

And if you will not lift me from this world,
give me the courage to do it for myself.

I beg of you to send me elsewhere;
Anywhere.

That floating feeling....

Who am I?
Really?

Watching water droplets trickling down the window pane,
the shiny silver orbs mirroring those clinging desperately to my own face.

Inky Fingers trace the same words over and over again,
and beethoven plays softly in the background.

The cold comes
creeping from the darkest corners of the room,
it entangles my feet and trickles down my spine.

Doubt,
ensnares my mind.

Doubt mingled with confusion, loss and an almost unbearable sadness.

I feel trapped.

Trapped in walls of my own design and making.

Pixilated monsters dance across my vision.
The real melts, and suddenly I'm shrinking
Faces blur and objects disappear on touch.

Screaming at someone to throw a line, but who?

Seeing what isn't
disbelieving what is.

Running from destiny,
abandoning hope,
to chase a shadow across the amber skyline

Of sky-tower city.

Return to Delusion

In this world,
of hallucinations and pixilated monsters,
I reside.

The sun burns red with the blood that fills the streets,
the monsters chase unwary joggers,
and singing flowers hide in the woods behind the house.

Animals talk and buildings sway to the beat
of the drums.
The drums.

Unsure of what is real and what is not.
Clocks freeze and clouds melt.

The telephone speaks to me.
We're all mad here, it says.

Fleeing from Themselves.

Every where I go,
I can see you,
I can see your laughter,
as your features twist into a cruel sneer,
and your scowl at me from afar.

Looking all around,
words pounding in my head,
not good enough, you whisper.

From this hole in the ground,
everyone seems taller, more perfect.

A burning shame,
rising up and shrinking me down to the size of a gnat.

The stinging sensation of tears, tears that refuse to fall.

Windows distorting my largeness,
contorting my features into those of a monster.

No amount of money can fix this,
no amount of make-up can hide the truth.

In my mind, they come.

Pitch-fork wielding, axe brandishing, yelling, screaming pretties.

GO AWAY they tell me.
GET OUT. YOU WILL NEVER BE ACCEPTED HERE.

They have the faces of those who I know wish this in their hearts,
so I turn around
and flee.

Gaming Blues

Afraid
at first
afraid of what may be

Afraid of what will come to pass

freezing up,
hovering over the play button,

for just a minute too long,
before plunging into the fight.

Wildly waving,
firing at random.
Beginners luck, at its worst.

A door slams somewhere,
and discouraging slogans echo throughout the halls,

bouncing of cogs, wheels and giant saucers.

Entering a world of white, grey and blood red;
hysteria.

But with every passing minute, becoming more certain;
the roses bloom in full once again.

And at last,
she is in the zone,
unafraid,
but on edge;

After all,
when you're not on edge, you're taking up too much space.

rest Without peace

Well, I'm back now.
wherever "back" is.

Where is "back"?
Where is "home", for that matter.

This world is full of questions, many, of which go unanswered,
and they float down to the black muck of the river Styx,
to lie forlornly among broken promises and shattered dreams.

Our whole life, we search for who we are, and where we belong,
but what after that?

What mysterious lands lie beyond the known?

And once the questions are all answered, and our minds have had their fill, what then?
Do we become more sheep like, or simply disappear?

Or is there no end?
No end to the questions that become bigger and more complicated with every passing day?

Are we sent to rest in ignorance?

It is true, one cannot know everything.
Nor, does one perticularly want to know everything.

But will we ever find out,
will it ever be answered?

The colossal,
all consuming
query
of "Why"?

Empty, as a result of broken.

Watching the world go by
from my window in the sky

I feel...

nothing.

I see the sorrow and the anger,
the poverty and hunger;

and cannot bring,
myself,
to feel even the tiniest slither of pity
or contempt.

I see the smiling faces,
the hugs.
The laughter, the arrows and the pins.

But there is nothing inside.

Something broke,
sometime,
somewhere

and now nothing
will ever
be right
again.

Sunday Slaughter

And shafts of light do flood in though the cracks,
and splatter our feet with their verisimilitude

The rafters up above creak
with every gust of wind;


And the slow oozing
of blood
is to be heard in all the darkest corners.


Red stained slippers
carefully
pick their way through the carnage;


Ocassionaly toeing a corpse,
but never lingering
in one spot
for more
than a second.


The once sturdy stone building
seems to sway in the breeze;


Leaves chase each other through the echoing halls,
blown in through the new openings 
in the once impenetrable masonry.


The altar is stained red,
and pages
from hymn books
flutter slightly in the gloom;

And the screams of the disiples
are still as fresh in her mind
as the day she first started school.


With barely a whisper,
a window falls
in
before quietly
shattering on the grass 
below.


It is at this sound,
she turns back
to observe the destruction
in all it's full
and terrible
glory.

a rAce AGainSt thE cLocK

fleeing the night creatures,
the absence of exhaustion went unnoticed.

The steady rhythm
of pounding feet went unobserved;

as she doged fang, claws and monstous knives.

Blood clouded her vision as she leapt over bodies,
and hurtled past smiling cats.

The ticking at last reached her ears,
and her speed increased tenthfold.

At last, destination in site,
she threw off the last of the deamons and made a break for the safety of the car.

The car creaked up the hill, 
taking her away from the nightmare creatures lurking below,
when suddenly,
she caught sight of the time.

A grim smile flicked across her lips.
"Not Bad" she whispered.

Alice, the madness continues.

Ten tap dancing dolphins, fly across the stage.

What is life, really?

Twelve teddy bears in tutus force feeding pies to butterflies.

Who am I?

A rainbow drips onto the ground, stains the pavement vibrant colours.

Am I?

A pink apple, a blue pear, a red caterpillar with blue polka dots.
Beethoven is waltzing with Kesha across the isles of the Notre Dame cathedral,

Prince is serenading Mozart to sleep.

A baby in a black carriage floats across the room,
a french police man is harassing a lady in a pink fluffy jumper.

So many questions
all routing back to the same answer.

So this, is what it's like, to be pathetic,
loserific,
and utterly,
totally,
nonsensically,
mad.

Tell, me, are you also confused?

I don't know what to write.

not any more.

First there was the thrill of the unknown,
then, there was overwhelming sadness
and after that, confusion.

Then after the confusion came a cry,
but now they won't be coming,
nothing.

Describing my surroundings now holds little interest for me,
and the life of a loner does not make for the most epic of tales.

Without feeling, there is no inspiration, and without that, it all falls to pieces.

But, wait, there is something.

Loss, mingled with shame swims before my eyes,
dancing, taunting, mocking.

Tear drops splatter on the floor far below,
accompanied by torn fragments of paper and old lyric sheets.

It's time to go, and a new planet takes to the heavens,
one of black and blue canvas with Velcro straps.

a blackened rose falls beside a seeing stone,
a moldy muffin and a crumpled can become unlikely companions in this journey of un-epic proportions;
some coins parachute out and are quickly replaced by shoes laces in all the colours of the rainbow.

An amethyst, a glass pyramid and a tiny ceramic unicorn are next to join the party,
but then the world of black runs blue with the ink of a busted pen, and an avalanche of shredded ideas drown the townsfolk far below.

Slowly, everything begins to swim, ideas mashing, words blurring,
a mess of typos, errors and lyrics never to be sung.

And when it gets too much, the dull clang of something heavy falling into a trash can is heard,
and fifteen dollars and forty nine cents poorer, the writer takes to the road,
the slate is clean
again.