I'm under the gun
And above the petrified remnants
Of the plastered smile society.
I'm once again gliding,
Not to touch the pavement.
I no longer scream at night.
Into the tunneled memory of my failures.
I appreciate the thought,
But I don't want your poison.
You're punished by the anesthetic
That lines the walls of your wound
In healing pinstripes.
Disinfecting the memory
Of the nights you picked the scabs
To relive each battle
That you fought in the
City of Fire
Sing in me Sinister Muse!
And tell all our friends
The story of the sulfur
And the lies.

-Steve?-

What will you do?

When the world turns cold,
When silence falls like rain,
When the stars are broken
By all the pain,
The choice becomes obvious,
But harder to choose,
Stuck in limbo right now
Choose wrong and you lose.
You gamble all
That ever was and will be.
The brightness blinds you
Indefinitely.
When the Earth turns dark,
When sunlight falls gray,
You bet just to reach
Another day
But if the cards are wrong,
If they play you,
What then? What then?
What will you do?

~Frances~
(Not the best, I know, but it's summer and writing at all is an accomplishment at this point!)

Painkillers For Each Beautiful Throb

She bulletproofs the silence
Of these isolated streets.
They once were bright with the faces of misery.
She sweeps the dust away from the feet of the shadowed corpses,
Arranged meticulously as to portray what
Goals their cold eyes once represented.
I don't want to be hospitalized for this disease.
The cancerous love spreads,
Killing the cells and reproducing.
Her perfect gaze,
Sweetly caressing the life out of my thoughts.
A picture of her soft lips,
And entrancing eyes,
Is plastered against my skull.
I could live in this beautiful paralyzation untill I die.
And even then I suppose
She'll be my mind.
My unfufilled fantasies
Will have eternal life.
I just hope that the buzzards that will gnaw at my brain,
As I lie in the vast field off the interstate,
Will find you as attractive as I did.
Bloated admirers of yours will flood the morgues.
Merely just seeing your face on a passing bus,
Will commence
Your sexy
Epidemic.

-Steve?-

The Twilight poem has arrived!! ~Diamonds in the Sun~

Why can't I fit the sun in my pocket?
Feel its warmth against my cold skin
Warmth that comforts my troubled thoughts

Why can't I put the sun on my nightstand?
See it's rays as my eyes open from sleep
Rays that outshine the shadows in my nightmares

Why can't I hold the sun in my hand?
Listen to its songs that fill my ears
Songs that remind me that I'm not alone in this world

Why can't I keep the sun in my heart?
Fill the hole with its unending love
Love that could, possibly, make me forget the diamonds that cloud my vision

Why can't I have the sun forever?
The answer to that is simple:
The sun will burn out in time,
But diamonds are forever.


It has finally arrived!! I hope everyone likes it :) Hope everyone is enjoying their summers, and I hope to see you all before I leave for school (aaaahhhh!!!). If I don't, I will definitely come back to visit and I will put some of my college work up here.

Take Care Everyone!
♥Kendra*

The Imminent Occurances Of Postmortem

As some of you guys know, I have elaborate theories of what happens to the soul when the corpse eternally draws its lids over the eyes. This is one of my most recent ones.

They are all wearing masks,
Shielding the eye from truth.
Underneath, the enigmatic metal
Emits hate in ultraviolet rays.
They gracefully swim through forests
Of doubt.
Wavelets of proof rustle the leaves
At the surface.
In the darkened, rocky, bottom,
They show each other
What is truly under.
Their metallic sheen,
Illuminates the false assumptions.
And scares away the deer,
Fleeing in a school,
Against the current.
They need to surface
Or they drown with the lies.
Defiantly scouring
The vast heavens for an answer,
The smoke emitted from the burning clouds
Enters their elongated nostrils in tendrils
Of question.
WHY DOES LIFE CONITNUE?
All organisms just seemingly loiter in the barren void called earth awaiting their Imminent incineration,
Brought upon themselves by sin.
Senseless lust for eternal life.
Fornicating amongst themselves with theories.
Greed towards their deceased friends,
Who are already bathing in the fire,
Cleansing them of faith.
Our masks are flammable.
No matter which way we go after death,
We'll be exposed.
Whether by the flames of hell,
Or the warming flames in the fireplace of heaven,
After the pulse becomes parallel with the lines of latitude on the maps,
There are no lies.
The departed can no longer find a hiding spot in the jungle that lacks autotrophs.
Truth prevails and the liars learn that an admission to heaven can be revoked
By the dreaded pitchfork that stokes the fire burning our masks.

-Steve?-

After All It Ends

(I was thinking about all of us. All our inside jokes and fun times...and I came up with this. This is written from my perspective in a few years. I meant to read it...and it sounds way better when I read it aloud rather than on paper,but never found the chance. So here it is.)

I still snap my fingers
When it’s time to clap
They say “Put your hands together”
And I? I snap.
I still think of room 211
When I see a post-it note
I still shiver
Every time I read what I wrote.
When someone says “jam”
I think “poetry,” not “bread”
Since then, recitation isn’t a trial
It’s become joy, instead.
When someone says “Gimme more”
I think “That’s not right…”
I feel like something’s missing
Every Friday night
Because I wasn’t at MHS
Listening to poems about transvestite
Dinosaurs or chronic insomnia
But when I tell them how I miss it,
They just say “Get on with ya”
But how could they understand?
How could they see?
That words bond more deeply than any history?
Carrying couches down hallways
Who thought that could be fun?
You know, iHop is the place to be
When a show is done.
Under-cover operations
Were never so significant
As when we hid the flowers
And hoped the bucket wouldn’t tip.
In my head, MC and Benson
Are basically the same thing
If you’re looking for a techie,
Victoria is king.
Activity periods and cheese-its
Tend to go hand in hand
The best directors’ meetings
Are those that really…weren’t planned.
When I’m feeling creative,
My instinct is to doodle on the white board
When someone says “Hang on…I’m writing”
I never feel ignored.
When I hear something significant
I think “Mr. Collyer would have his head in his hands right about now”
You know, I still miss Kassi and Solana’s
Bow-chica-wow-wow
It’s the little things
That make us just like the poetry we write
I still miss Friday afternoons
Every Friday night.

~~Frances~~

For summer!

Ah, summer heat that soaks my skin
With golden possibility,
And summer wind that calls, "Begin!"
Then laughs, and wonders why,
Summer leaves that whisper wealth
From indolent facility,
Fruits plump and many with summer's warmth
To fill my hand... And I
Dream lolling clouds above the haze,
My lazy summer fantasies
Of hyacinth flights and marigold days...
I might have been
A butterfly!