Annie Factiod # 283,438.1

I can balance a pretzel stick on my nose.


Annie's Poetry Post

*Night Tears*

Play with the words
play with my head
play with the things
that might crawl in to your bed
throw up your curses
swallow your pride
sit back in your eyes
and enjoy the ride
Because when dust comes to dust
and ashes
and flames
your fingers get burned
in the heat of the game.


For lovers in a darkened room
a quiet bed
each velvet hair
on the low curve of back
the bodys map of texture changes
to find
the zipper of a scar.

*Untitled III*

I want to touch your face
I want to feel
to reach out
touch your neck
I wish to kiss your navel
your wrists
and pelvic bones
I want to feel the flutter
or your heart
through my fingers
on my chest
I want to see behind your closed eyelids
because I know they are shut tight
so closed
to me
I am allowed to wish
I am aloud with this
pretend I'm someone else
pretend I'm not a mess
over you.

*Dry Clean Only*
There he sat
in his powder blue cap and matching
polyester pants
I watched him
looking so soft and fleshy
the innocence of age sticky in my nostrils
He turned his snowy head and looked
his wrikled eyes glazed over
hight on memories
staring at my breasts.

I have thrown my windod open in rage
and shown my boiling soul to all the rain
beyond my glassy eyes
it drips
my face and makes a stain on the floor at my feet
blood red with life
yet reaking of death
and curls upwards
like the smoke of a ciggarette
I have become my own enemy
slicing my own heart
destoying my own body
no longer a temple of flesh
but a filthy
waiting for time to finish calling for my bones
and waiting to embrace my ashes
in the earth she breathes from.

*Silent Night*

Silent night
oh silent night
I feel you fill the room
I smell your fears
I taste your tears
I bathe in your apathy
I see your shirt fall to the floor
as you step into my head
you shake and shiver
your fingers quiver
as I show you the picture show
that plays behind my eyes
when all that needs to be
has been said.


I wake up to the sticky
of fear
I can see it floating above my chest
staring me in the eyes
I can feel its breath on my lips
sucking life
I can hear it whisper
I can taste its song
"...run with me, run with me
little girl grown up wrong,
run with me, run with me,
little girl grow up strong".


If I could turn my back to the spells in my head,
ignore the blood on my hands,
and the aging scabs on my chest
that ache when it rains in the shower,
I would.


Untitled II

All of the ducks
swim so
far away from
my treats;
maybe they're
picky about
their bread.


I wish I were
to see the
bottom of
rinse water paint can.