I want to put you away, into my pocket,
I know you won’t be happy there nestled underneath the lint and hair
yet all I want is to keep you there, so that you can’t leave me.
The hurt is here and I’m unaware that you’re cries are being formed.
But instead of looking in towards, I realized I’m being warned.
That my love for you is toxic to ever being able to
keep you here enclosed with me
and instead i let you go
and oh my dear god oh
I’m left with a hole
a hole in my pocket that was already void of any lining
a cruel cruel fucking joke on me.
All written content © 2012-2013 Helenna Santos-Levy
what is there to learn from the everyday
from the Grind?
walking beside each other
not smelling the desperate hopeless stench
of the businessman on the corner
waiting for green
Mothers, Strippers, Lovers, Killers
everyone trying to get by
walk don’t walk
caught at a perpetual yellow light
needing to be somewhere by 3pm
Sisyphus on the mountain.
Where does all of the time go?
Time, square. Here or There.
all the same in the corporate church
selling sanctuary for less
Air Bags Included.
All written content © 2012 Helenna Santos-Levy
sitting at LAX she is at a crossroads
Los Angeles. Lost Angels.
glitz, glamour, sun, surf,
grey goose, angels, and champagne.
she has learned none of it
none of it
what is this extreme severing
like a face lift without anesthesia
liposuction gone wrong
just a dark, dark shadow
please let her be white and blonde, tall and important
US Weekly worthy. Vain at Vanity Fair.
high heels, sunglasses, necklaces so perfect
perfect, perfect dolls
rock stars like living candy bars
tears welling up, waiting for the plane,
she looks to the end of the flat, paved, world
roads with scholars
doing magic tricks
here in the flicks
fake flickering wicks of ecstasy
a young woman’s lost and found
a carousel of sorts
playgrounds for her pains
where grey goose flows like water, like lava,
the purifier, for the pain inside of her
flying her far, far away