COLLEGE

The Smith College Years
(actually, months)

Gentian Pond Shelter
The world is deflating
Precious moments of happiness
sucked into the lungs of those
who can't appreciate their value.
Breathed out as fear to those
who can't see a future
and dwell in the past.
Air is being sucked out.
Less and less precious serenity
for those who need it most.
The bouncing pleasurable world
becomes less and less buoyant
changing the breed of the selfless
and the content
Tanglewood
I stand before you
tall and proud
baptized in stage light
that glistens off my moistened skin
speaking a song ten thousand times uttered
but each time realized again.
My costume tugs at my feet
ready with a life of its own
to walk me through this fantasy.

Sticks
The world is too good for us.
The devil's harbor is fitting for
fools whose ignorance murders their kind.
Where wholesome dries up even
the slightest hope of salvation
for the "third world"
(Which is still the same world, for those who have forgotten)
The other lives seem to have been passed by.
Dragged down in the undertow
of the western world

Deer in Headlights
Thoughts rush by so quickly
I can't keep up.
If I could take hold and salvage
my insanity
I could forgive myself.
I have forgotten who I am supposed to be
and even who I am
unleashing my own creation
who can not possibly feel.
Wasted with insecurities,
traumatized by the headlights
of passing souls
speeding past this confusion
I have been stopped at
revving the engine and
flashing my blinker.
But there is no right on red
and no green to speak of.

Tiptoe
Entering into a world
that seems so unreal to me.
I don't belong with these
opaque souls who wander
lifeless, without compassion
I am forced on
through this assembly line
to become a product, a being,
a "free thinker" who simply
quotes the passages she has been taught.
My mind is being portioned and carved
until none of it is actually me.
And so I tiptoe away from this life
marred by the blades of reality

Untitled 3
The things that used to make me happy
only frustrate me.
I can't comprehend what has been lost.
What newfound knowledge has oppressed me;
Worn my wounds into bleeding troubles?
I can't find peace
under the scrutiny of this black sky.
I can't change the sun's rays
into beams of pleasure.
My sorrow, infectious,
creeps over my body
and chains down my mind.

X
Forced into settling for things
instead of striving for the right opportunity.
Blinded by ancestors whose time
has no place with us.
Each generation should create
its own status quo,
its own interpretation of reality,
and its own convention.
Foolish sheep we pretend
to know what is right for ourselves
and follow the path
of rotting flesh
buried as their secrets should have been.

Suicide Note From Smith College
All hope of serenity seeps from my sanctified wounds.
Birth evaporates as my flesh proves itself savage
I no longer suffer, as deep as the physical damage penetrates.
My death is obsolete, drowned out by the hatred
conjured by my manic features.
Disdain seeps from my severed hands.
No one can bring humanity back to these beasts,
treasonous to their own body.
Their blood repents
but, lifeless, they fall
as I, not without regret, fall
from this graceful world of compassion.

My arms are weak.
Fate's rope has tied me to this wall;
With destiny burning my hands
And blistering my soul.
In the dungeon of my future
Tattered threads keep me from falling,
But holding onto them is far too hard.
The walls of hell are not so foreboding
When these ropes scour my knuckles.
I bleed. I suffer.
I loosen my grip,
And let the woven fibers slide through my swollen fingers.
My heart has long since fled
Far away from this torturous hell.
And I am letting go.

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Gentian Pond Shelter The world is deflating Precious moments of happiness sucked into the lungs of those who can't appreciate their value. Breathed out as fear to those who can't see a future and dwell in the past. Air is being sucked out. Less and less precious serenity for those who need it most. The bouncing pleasurable world becomes less and less buoyant changing the breed of the selfless and the content	Tanglewood I stand before you tall and proud baptized in stage light that glistens off my moistened skin speaking a song ten thousand times uttered but each time realized again. My costume tugs at my feet ready with a life of its own to walk me through this fantasy.
Sticks The world is too good for us. The devil's harbor is fitting for fools whose ignorance murders their kind. Where wholesome dries up even the slightest hope of salvation for the "third world" (Which is still the same world, for those who have forgotten) The other lives seem to have been passed by. Dragged down in the undertow of the western world	Deer in Headlights Thoughts rush by so quickly I can't keep up. If I could take hold and salvage my insanity I could forgive myself. I have forgotten who I am supposed to be and even who I am unleashing my own creation who can not possibly feel. Wasted with insecurities, traumatized by the headlights of passing souls speeding past this confusion I have been stopped at revving the engine and flashing my blinker. But there is no right on red and no green to speak of.
Tiptoe Entering into a world that seems so unreal to me. I don't belong with these opaque souls who wander lifeless, without compassion I am forced on through this assembly line to become a product, a being, a "free thinker" who simply quotes the passages she has been taught. My mind is being portioned and carved until none of it is actually me. And so I tiptoe away from this life marred by the blades of reality	Untitled 3 The things that used to make me happy only frustrate me. I can't comprehend what has been lost. What newfound knowledge has oppressed me; Worn my wounds into bleeding troubles? I can't find peace under the scrutiny of this black sky. I can't change the sun's rays into beams of pleasure. My sorrow, infectious, creeps over my body and chains down my mind.
X Forced into settling for things instead of striving for the right opportunity. Blinded by ancestors whose time has no place with us. Each generation should create its own status quo, its own interpretation of reality, and its own convention. Foolish sheep we pretend to know what is right for ourselves and follow the path of rotting flesh buried as their secrets should have been.	Suicide Note From Smith College All hope of serenity seeps from my sanctified wounds. Birth evaporates as my flesh proves itself savage I no longer suffer, as deep as the physical damage penetrates. My death is obsolete, drowned out by the hatred conjured by my manic features. Disdain seeps from my severed hands. No one can bring humanity back to these beasts, treasonous to their own body. Their blood repents but, lifeless, they fall as I, not without regret, fall from this graceful world of compassion.