31st.

its new years eve.its supposed to be special.like the night before john lennon died.but the air tastes the same.it tastes of disappointment.and a bit of salt.where are the balloons?where are the streamers?where is the fountain of rejuvenation?maybe i missed the party.

bloodlust.

im smoking the night away.
im smoking away 2005.
i've clung to the months
like
leeches.
sucking at the very sap of my days.
i can drain myself.its an art.
im special.
like you.
but they accuse me of everything but who i really am.
if only they knew.
im a slut.like you.
like you i can touch feel caress kiss.
but my palms
are stained with the love blood of tragedy.
(i despise its smell and taste.)
and i will smear this purple on cupid's fuckin face.

journals

" i have the choice of being constantly actively and happy or introspectively passive and sad.or i can go mad by ricocheting in between." - Plath