The machine dangles its products in front of us. We follow these products in awe only to be led through the machine. As we change, turning into what we think is a better us, we simply become another copy of someone else. We don't get the products of the machine, we become the products of the machine. When we don't know what to do we turn to the machine. We pick the fruit along our way, only to realize that it is overripe. It is enough to keep us going, but not enough to satisfy. We have not made our mark, the mark has been made upon us. Our footprints are not left upon the earth, as we wear the same shoes and walk upon the same spots as others before us. We produce nothing but a reflection of what someone else has built. We believe though that the machine protects, the machine illuminates, the machine supports. We die: we become a ghost to possess someone else's life in order to fill our empty hearts. When that life outweighs what is left from our life, us ghosts will not live eternally, for our life is found only in the body, the life we follow, and not the soul, our own life. We lose our souls in watching others. We may begin to feel the weight of our bodies in comparison to the weight of our souls. Our body may start to drag us down rather than lift us up. But if we refuse the machine's demands and tread across unclaimed land, we become explorers, creating a story that others will be tempted to follow. Hopefully these others will not follow your path, but rather your spirit, the spirit of exploration and independence.

The lady wore black,

the color of poets,

dark force with which

to be reckoned.

Powerful vibes

emanating

in noble hues.

The color of

melancholy chants

but also romantic,

not empty as

bright colors are.

Signifies water -

cleansing

of sadness.

Color of outer space

beckoning us

as far as we see.

Used by cave dwellers

to showcase

their lives.

The color of words

blackened on pages

of our existence.

Poets celebrate the

uniqueness of black

opening up

onyx realms of

creativity.

She had the sun in her eyes

The moon in her jacket pocket 

A storm in her veins

and she were always 

always...

Afraid 

Of the dark 

If I had to die 

Anyway I wanted to 

Doesn't matter how 

But I just had to die 

Then I would die 

In a room 

Surrounded by cats 

I'm allergic to cats 

I'll die happy 

This crazy spectrum

They say can’t trust a word she says

They say shes overdraumatic

Her mind is tragic

They say she’s bipolar

Her mind like a controller

Flip the switch

And you’ll see

Her eyes twitch

Call her a bitch

And see the shit

She’ll say

She’s simply spractic

She constanlt manic

Always in a panic

Go check her tympanic

And youll see her temp rise

The clouds are clogging up her brain

A wash of pain

Agonizes her face

Look at her pace

She see it comming

She about to explode

And she doesn’t know why

Shes mad

she also sad

She cant make her mind

Because neither can her emotions

Shes trying to go through the notions

And hid her crazy

She feeling hazy

And feeling lazy

Shes overloaded

And cocked like a gun

Ready to explode

And overload the system

Thats got her jacked up

On pills

To prevent her from the spills

And tumbling down the emotional hill

Meeting her dear

Friends jack in one hand

Tilted to her lips

And jill too busy collecting her tips

From giving

Her sips of sanity

This tainted insantity

Her mind high up

In the clouds of vanity

Not knowing when she will drop

From the top

This abormal high

That makes her thoughts

Tie in knots

Of shoulds and should nots

Implusive actions

Without thought

Consequnces already bought

She thought naught

Of what lied instore

She hored through

Whatever emotion

She felt

Swinging on the tire

Line up of emotions

The rough patches were the worse

The unhappiness

And happiness

The anger at self

That causes her to dig her nails in her head

And till it drips blood

And spills out her curse

In curisive letters

BIPOLAR DEPRESSION

i keep him deep

and sound asleep

counting cold and dead black sheep

his flirty wings

are dirty things

tightly strapped by my heartstrings

he's good as gold

if proof be sold

but he's been known to be quite bold

and when upfront

calls me a cunt

it's just a sticks and sharp stones stunt

i'd let him loose

complete with noose

and watch him hang our flag of truce

his skin is red

and mainly dead

he walks where angels fear to tread

when he's awake

things will break

the given gift; the goodness sake

for now, he's tired

not worldly wired

but take good care; some guns get fired...

because, of course she is.

the devil is a woman, with cutting eyes

soft hands and

hollow bones. she gouged out her own wings

because she knew

she didn't need them to fly.

she's not the lady in red, no

instead she's the woman in black

the perpetual mourner for all things she

could have been

if she had been Made male

she knows she'd have been her Daddy's

favourite.

despite this, she is still great

oh, hell hath a woman scorned, yes,

hell bent down on scuffed knees

kissed her bloodied feet

hell worshipped at her altar

gave screeching sacrifices

little blonde girls with bright blue eyes.

satan was never the hulking monster

the roar in the far off else-

no, no, satan was your next door neighbour

with lily-flowers and white knuckles

and the sense of wrongness that meant

you never asked her to babysit.

caricatures, she scoffs, smoking without

a menthol filter

she likes to feel the burn of death

a pale shadow on the wall

a ghost

a fairy story

she thinks they changed it all in the Book

to help themselves sleep at night

the snake, she remembers, had been as

trusting as adam and eve.

she had been so beautiful - she was so beautiful -

and there was no Wrong in eden.

at least, not yet.

trickster, the serpent had wailed when she

left him, legless and armless and hopeless,

i loved you.

lucifer, the morning star, the brightest

of the angels, wears no ruby lipstick.

she stays away from smoky bars

from motorcycles and leather.

she wears cotton, only cotton, because even if the

World is new and she is Old, she still

obeys the Rules 

even if no one else does.

the devil doesn't lie. that's the damndest

thing about the whole sorry mess

the devil doesn't need to lie. she can just

gesture, show off the whole wide world

like a bouquet of rotten flowers

and display the futility of life.

this is the real truth, here and now:

the devil is a woman.

one night she hurtled down from the stars

and has nursed a grudge ever since

the devil is a woman, yes,

and far closer, far more terrible

than you think.