I'm feeling equal parts vulnerable, sun-soaked, sad and sleepy. So here are some poems I spent the greater part of a year creating. I write poems when I feel sad, sappy or just fuking sleepy. I hope you enjoy the fruits of my sorrows, silliness, and sleepiness.FYI I'm in therapy xx K

 

I'm a skeleton too. Does that scare you? 


 

Are you happy? 

Are you alive? 

Are you circle? 

Are you square? 

Are you 80? 

Are you 5? 


I'm Mama in this story

"Mama passed out again on the floor last night. Drank all the boxed wine money could buy."


Nice in theory

I dream of having a porch so we can sit and share terrible thoughts over tea. 


Are your twenties just a string of bad breakups punctuated by hangovers and avocado toast? 


What is anything when we are actually nothing? 

What is nothing if we are infinite? 

Is nothingness the same as infinite? 

What is pain, when all life it to suffer? 

Aliveness is sorrow. 

To be ALIVE is to know that sufferring is inevitable

but what we do with THAT is everything 


A Real Downer

I spent all day smoking drugs and sitting about wondering how pointless everything was and if anything even matters. I painted an ugly portrait of your face.

Got bored. Made my nipples blue. 

Told myself an un-funny joke. 

Laughed anyway.

Thought about offing myself in a bathtub. 

Decided against it, since I have a bed bath and beyond coupon to use by next week 


The handles were still on the doors. 


Do you know what you're doing? I don't. 


Bitch, are you rude? 

Why is it so hard to feel secure? Why do i always live in my head? 

I'm A LOT. 


Just another fucked up artist. Type: "Broken Hearted" 

Drunk at night. Cries into your pillow. Your words still linger in my mind. 

Say before you think sugar, or has the man got your tounge. 

You're the reason the sad ones are sung. 


I'm the one that never sat down. 


Matter never destroyed just repurposed. 

Like when you cried in my arms asking me "is this worth it?" 

You never wanted to let yourself get loose 

And being wild was my only truth

And I'm sorry, I'm self absorbed 

It's just that I've pictured a thousand times you walking out the door


I'm sorry i'm selfish

I'm sorry i apologize at nauseum 

for 

no 

particular

purpose

Perhaps

Feeling guilty for my own self-absorbed existence 

I'm sorry i professed my love for you drunk off wine, night and sorrow 

but the dim lighting of that cafe made the twinkle of your beautifully sad eyes irresistible. 

I'm sorry because you desvere 'i love you' screamed off mountain peaks 

or in a rainstorm jumping through puddles 

in a cemetery park bench with child like curiosity and no place in particular to be 

with the one you waited for. 


Was i the manic pixy dream girl of your unconcious dream state? 

I don't play the game like the rest. 

I'm a sad honey underneath a willow tree. 

Sitting in a cemetery wondering why I can't seem to find love there. 

i dont take criticism well 

put it away baby

nows not the time for your silly poems and rainbow paints. your glittering laughter or your pixi games. 


Little ernest died February 20th, 1881 aged 1 yr and 5 mos. He didn't even get a chance to judge the place for himself. 


I've got $10 and a bad attitude


May Day: 

Its funny 

i dont like wearing glasses 

i took off my skin tight yoga pants and just wore a leotard 

suddenly i too am ' obese' 

could it be that when i saw <name redacted> and i waved and he starred blankly back at me confirming the fallacy i've recently created that i am the ugliest I've been in years second only to prepubescent 6th grade which WAS an unsightly time....

i really need to get over myself. 

its funny. really 

the night of my birthday crying in the dark for two hours in the bath tub thinking about offing myself right then and there. 

the lighting was good with the tea light candles lining the tub 

it was almost romantic 

but here i am. 

someone had to feed the cat. 

I thought about <other name redacted> today 

and how he likely doesn't think of me at all 

"good for him" 

I think to myself

I hope he's happy. 

I think too much. 

Then there's sweet <another name redacted> the aries muse of my day dreams

the grounded counter to the fairy dust sprinkled 'trash' i call lif3 

but mama's in the kitchen with dinah 

and its been 8 years and you're still not "OK"

"That girls a psycho! Look at her she is a clown" 

Maybe the drunk guy on the street last night was right. 

I wish I was a clown. I bet they make more money.