PRETTiieMUSIC

he walks onto the stage, and it's- lights, lights, lights. blinding at first, his eyes adjust. to the scene before him. -- he grabs the microphone, a proper introduction would be nice. instead he shouts HELL FUCKING YEAH! and it is okay, because everyone knows who they are anyway. -- he's singing. singing. screaming. and their singing, singing, screaming along. -- he feels- LOVED. and that's all he's ever wanted. he wants them, to love him. and they do. -- he is euphoric, and a little wasted. maybe a little high too. (he can't remember) he's living in the now- and loving it. -- he headbangs- shaggy hair fly-fly

dear you, you have filthy ocean water green eyes- murky and sad. you think they are ugly and would prefer a plain color like brown or hazel. i however would trade these mud puddle eyes in exchange for yours. p.s. (because theyre beautiful in an ugly and broken sort of way) dear you, darling you have whiskey  breath and cigarette smoke clings to not only your clothes but your skin. it makes me want to envelop myself in you and your scent. you smell like the ashtray my grandpa kept on the porch out front. p.s. (you smell like the cancer that killed him but i love you none the less) dear you, you come home at late hours in th

she’s lightning and flamboyance,           dancing pirouettes, around a clock which ticks off,            every guy she’s been with for that day, and now she’s nearing the 6 o’clock mark. she’s alcoholic drinks and speakeasy clubs,           fabric stretched too tightly over skin, exposed in places where her porcelain should not be seen,            she winds herself around a pole, around the final guy f

i.  he runs his fingers along my ribcage.  their dancing, and playing tag whilst he pretends my bones are piano keys.  i imagine that every time his finger tips tap the hollow bones rather than an echo it produces a twinkling sound.  a song of stars and the moon and the sky.  “the piano makes such a beautiful sound…” he murmers and i believe he’s talking to himself until he looks into my eyes and says “but you make a far lovelier sound, my dear.”  and we kiss. (now im playing a song of colliding stars and exploding moons and everything’s gone supernova.) ii.  his eyes are hungry and his hands search for me

00a.     katrina.  is what they name her, it's a random selection, as it is with all the others of her kind.  going in alphabetical order, to keep track of them.  but sometimes people forget, that names have meanings.  and hers means pure.  oh that was a bad choice... (a very bad choice.) 00b.      because she is far from pure.  she is hectic, chaotic, and destructive.  nothing of purity, by the standard definition.  but she is pure in her mother, Nature('s), eyes.  for she is her creation, made for a sole purpose: to show that her mother and it's child -earth- is hurting. (we are the hurt, we are the cancer, we are the tumors, we are... h

i knew from the moment my eyes locked with hers -cold, dull, lifeless brown- that she was trouble.  and everyone warned me, everyone told me to stay as far away as possible, but that wasn't very far.  because the piece of me that hides in the shadows behind my fragile heart was screaming we were meant to be. (naive and innocence plus trouble and mayhem equals the perfect catastrophe.) ------- "i thought you hated bananas?" "i do." she replies shoving a spoonful of banana split into cherry red lips. i stare at her, puzzled, so she continues "but this is the way banana is supposed to taste..." she sounds so completely sure of herself "...b

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... I wonder what he's doing right now, sleeping of course.  Everyone is.  Shit I lost count again.  I looked at the ceiling trying to count all of the tiny air bubbles trapped behind paint.  That poor air was being suffocated by blank constricting white.  They longed for freedom, whereas I, I longed for sleep.  I longed for something I knew wouldn't come in a long while, so I snuck downstairs to my usually spot. Perched against the piano bench I looked around, staring into the dark.  Which now that I think about it, wasn't entirely dark, maybe it was from the millions of stars and the full moon occupying the night.  I stared

year one. 2/2/00 today she is one years old with his golden blonde locks.  his soft green eyes.  his cherry lips.  my nothing.  she is beautiful.   year two. 2/2/01 she is quiet, ever watching.  thoughtfully, wide-eyed.  perfect in all ways with sunny disposition.  she is two years old today. year three. 2/2/02 she is three years old, and ever rambling.  attempting to avoid being bored with all her might, she wanders.   year four. 2/2/03 four years.  she is four years old today.  loud and flamboyant.  she

ever since she was a little girl, she's known where it hurts the most. on the playground she'd trip little boys with jumpropes. (and as she got older its only worsened.) -------------- her words, they bite like spiders, and leave a sting like black widow venom. she devours boys whole. she's not a whore (she's just a maneater.) -------------- she reigned over the school yard, come too close to her monkey bar throne, she'll throw the sticks and stones. but they're nothing compared to the names she throws. (at least you can use band-aids on bruises) -------------- she looks like a flower, but she's a venus fly trap, she draws

-the rough drafts- i. Dear him,            I think I like you. ii. Dear him,                        Actually I don't think...I know. iii. Dear him,                         But I know you don't like me back.  You'll never like me back.  Because pretty boys don't fall in like with unpretty girls. iv. Dear him,