You are like a child
who grows younger
& younger
every day,
smoothing over lines
with the sharp -cracks- of a smile,
& swaying
back & forth,
back & forth
like the swing
in an overgrown backyard,
like the child who sits
(lonely)
on that swing
& grows backwards,

(backwards)

you regress further
with every moment.

You are like the hair that grows
from the head of the child,
?wild?
& unruly
& never the same.

Like their small, chubby fingers,
you are clumsy,
s t u m b l i n g around a dark world
that offers you
no rest
from your actions,
(& yet)
unlike a small child
who is more clever,
quieter
& observing
each moment in life,
(learning,
growing
by leaps & b o u n d s , showing
that there is hope yet for them
in our adult world,)

you cannot seem to learn
from the mistakes you make.

Each error leads to another;
like a child,
you are running in a circle,
forever chasing a butterfly
that has lost its wings.

Your toys lie
scattered around you,
abandoned,
dusty,
-cracked-
& broken.

Like a child,
you grow tired
of the same old routine,
the people you see
& the games they make you play,
(day after day.)
Moment after moment
after unplanned moment
you grow younger
until one day
you will be an infant,
unspeaking.

& then
you will be
wailing & wishing
you could grow older
& make it all up to me.

it was a day of sentences
snapped clean off at the root
and pulled from my mouth
like wisdom teeth
until i had none left
and i was out of words
out of breath

it was a day of stones
clinging tight to the walls of my throat
pebbles in my shoes
and boulders reduced to ash
slipping through my fingers
not enough to hurt anyone
but still stinging my eyes

it was a day of pink cheeks
not the tipsy, happy pink
but rather the wilted kind
inadvertently displaying
the red inside

it was a day of clenched fists
hands working overtime
dancing some twisted dance with no purpose
wringing, singing
an anxious song
as i stayed stubbornly in my seat
resisting the urge to dance along

it was a day of a need to run
into the bushes, through the woods of the crowd
and out to the other side
to the greener grass
and the cloudless sky
of a few minutes of alone time

it was a day of short poems
short fuses
all moments lived while the clock just ticked
and the bomb never went off
i'm still waiting

it was a day of waiting

all my life and all my goals
fade away
in your presence, dear doubt
i falter

all my time and my efforts
slip down from my shoulders
in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down
by the future

dear doubt
i ask you
to spare me from the harsh light
keep me in the soft dark
asleep

painted on, this mural
time and time again
referred to as history
i'll live within those lines
if only, dear doubt
you'll spare me

all my life, all my goals
all my time, all the tolls you hake taken
i have paid

all my efforts, my breath
all my cries and my threats you have taken
i have paid
time and time again

in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down by the future

in your presence, dear doubt

i falter

Well, I’m putting it off,
the part where my brain actually does something
useful
for once.
And instead I’m dwelling
on my mind,
in my mind
and out of it,
twirling through each day
on a slow fade
away
from what,
I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I want,
just that moment of contact
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
and I’ll be fine.
I’m putting it off,
the part where I step down from this cloud
and step into my body.
Instead I’m dwelling on
in
above
the spaces around me,
moving through each day
on a fast train
away
from what, I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I miss,
just that uncertain rush
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
which is a funny thing to say
because I think I desire it
after all.

it's funny, because
i found myself surprised
at the nervousness
with which i faced the coming day
strength fading, i pressed on
ashamed of each weak footstep, wondering
what i could have done
to deserve this
and your smile was imprinted
on the inside of my eyelids
and i realized, too late
that this ink was seeping into my bloodstream
and it was you all along
that was weakening me
shattering my resolve
to open the door
and say hello

sweet crunch of dry snow
below my heels, toes cracking
as i breathe in through the soles of my feet
and inhale winter at its finest
at its latest, midnight now
and when the sun breaks
i'll be inside
and will this chill still be with me?
tonight, i told myself
i am going to find out

two hours of sleep
dangle above me, a sharp hook
that i refuse to take
because tonight is not a night
for oblivion
i've got words in me
sharp ones protruding from my spine
and soft ones whispering
saying, you'll be fine
and i don't know who to believe anymore
since i cannot believe myself
and so i look to midnight, to one in the morning
and every hour after
just give me the answer, i ask
and i'll go gently into the day

it's just days like this
when something falls into place
and i, oblivious
don't notice
until some clairvoyant seventh sense
reads me like a book, and i am opened wide
and the time it takes
to close back up again
is a lifetime within a nighttime
and so days like this
turn into nights like these

sweet crunch of dry snow
click my heels, three times
and i'm home
and i stayed up all night
for the first time in my life
because
i was thinking of you

There's a pause,
and a tilt of the head,
a smile instead
of a word.
There's a pause,

a catch in time,
less than a second of silence
during which an eternity appears
and disappears
at light speed.
It's swallowed up
in the space between our eyes,

in the slow blink of weary lids
and the sullen turn of my head,
unwilling to part with this moment.
It's swallowed up
by my hand, clenched tight
to prevent it
from reaching out;
instead, I have grabbed this eternity
and silenced it,

curled my fingers around the soft shape
and stuffed it,
only slightly bent,
into my pocket.

Just now, I took it out
and tried to straighten the edges,
tried to get a clear picture.

I'm almost there,
almost back in that eternity,
almost willing to give it a try.
I'm almost there,
too soon it seems,
almost ready to jump,
to release

my breath,
form words,
unfurl pages of this
into the air.
But I know myself too well;
I will always be
almost ready.
Even though it feels
like more

when I'm with you.

in my mind, it was always
a perfect ten
below zero, just cold enough
for me to shiver
and for your nose to turn a rosy pink
and for me to hide a dark thought
behind warm words, excused
by the curtain of soft snow
falling around us

i guess i overplayed this scene
i guess i cut and stripped it
set music to our footsteps
and played it up, all romantic angles
and close-up frames
hovering too long
over your awkward, shifting smile

i guess it wasn't really musical
no artsy, black-and-white short film
not even worth the imagery
that i gave it in each long piece of poetry
just worth enough
for me to hum along
when i hear the song
that i put to the scene, hoping
you'd recognize the tune

here in the cutting-room of my heart
i gave up
sat down on the floor, scattered images
floating down
and i grabbed my scissors
cutting each one into a snowflake
before it hit the ground
trying to recreate that scene
the way i remembered it
and in the darkness, i could ignore
the desperate feeling
of an imagination run too wild

i guess i overplayed this tune
but sometimes
when the words don't come easily
to my real-time writing, i am forced
to look backwards in time and space
across mountains of disgraced, forgotten things
back to a time
when all i could write about was you

the wind bit me, scratched at my back
as i struggled along the sidewalk
thinking
about nothing, about something
that could have been nothing
if i’d just let it be
here i am again, entangled in the bare branches
of an honest winter, a comforting cold
soft snow upon my shoulders
and i just can’t bring myself to reach up
and brush it off
here i am again, outside
despite the frostbite creeping through the sky
and the threat of colder nights
i feel warm
and i know this is the warning sign
a few days before the loss of limbs
a few weeks after i stepped out
and lost myself in the blinding white
here i am again, pulling on my gloves
laces tied, hands in pockets
prepared this time
and yet i am never ready, never fully closed
and the cold air seeps in through the seams
and into my bones
and i shiver
in a good way
letting winter bring me home

Tripping past windows,
turning to look but missing the image
(I’m going too fast)
too slow
I’ll never make it
not like this
Heart pierced
by each short, asthmatic breath
by each spastic, hazardous thought of you
I’m late
(for a very important date)
very important, even though it doesn’t exist
(this is all in my mind)
a silly dream I play out to calm myself
running down that road with a goal in mind,
a goal ready to leave at any moment
but because this is my dream
I make it all happen
(just the way I want it)
Maybe in real life, the train would pull away
ten minutes (ten seconds) before I arrive
but in my mind, I get there just in time
to wrap you in my arms
and pull you back.

we stood there and we kissed
for a very long time
and our feet shifted
or maybe it was the earth
reminding us to breathe
either way
we were alone

and we span drunkenly
wayward, winding
in circles across the grass
then we were still
and our mouths were moving
speaking words
and spreading them through the air
whispering them
onto each other's lips

and you were late
i looked at my watch
but the countdown began at zero
so we counted like crazy
and my hands found your hips
your lazy fingers found my waist
my shoulders met your chest
and your mouth was soft
and when we stopped
we realized it was raining
and we had never noticed

string snapped, door open wide
and the night bled into our space
but the streetlamp quivered on
and i could still see your mouth
macro vision
close to mine

and i thought
i've never written
poetry about kissing before
but i think i'd like to

the moon
glinting
onto the once-white wing
of an airplane
now dusted with darkness
and bathed in new light

coming in for landing
under a sky full of stars

poetic, i know
but this is my arrival
and i want it to be beautiful

in truth, it's mundane
just another passenger
eyes peering out the window
feigning disinterest
after all, i've been here before

in truth, i feel empty
waiting to be filled
like the real part
the important part
will come with time
after all, i've done this before

but this time it's different
and i want it to be beautiful

the moon makes it beautiful

i have always wished to find
the word
ephemeral
and the fabric
gossamer
among true, hard life
these angelic combinations
of stupid, insipid letters
tell me, where's the magic?

you can’t just assume that
i’m gonna swallow these words whole
without trying to digest them
well guess what?
i might have a tough stomach
but when you’re not looking, i turn my head
and i spit your words out
my silent rebellion
trying to tell you, without saying it out loud
that i don’t wanna take this anymore
these sour pills dissolve in my system
and i am left feeling *****
as if your assumptions are seeping into my veins
and becoming a part of me
and who you think i am
is not who i want to be
so as a result
i’ve got a pocket full of these heavy pills
sticky with resentment
as i discreetly pull them from my mouth
and dispose of the evidence, trying
not to tell you that this is not how my mind works
and i go home and write about it instead
hoping that one day you’ll type my name into space
and find my words, arranged in a shape
that desperately tries to explain
why i feel this way
because i could never say this out loud
i could never even print it down, concrete
and pass it forward
to all the people i’m speaking to, writing to
now
i can only hope that you’ll get there on your own
because i feel so weighed down
by these things you say, as you explain to me
that you understand, you get it now
and you present to me my feelings
in a small box, and i open it
and i want to tell you
that you are so, so wrong
you’ve coloured inside the lines
and locked me in
and each time you describe me
to somebody else
each time you warn them
of what you think are my weaknesses
each time you tell them
what makes me strong, what helps me live
you push me further into this corner
of self-doubt, wondering
is this really who i am?
is what you see what everyone thinks of me?
because i am more impressionable
than you imagine, strong in ways you think i can’t be
but weak in ways you’d never believe
and these words leave imprints upon my soul
sinking into my heart like sharp footprints
falling through the cracks of my mind
and now i am occupied
with them, with the idea
that maybe i’ve been wrong about myself
all along
maybe i don’t know who i am
and the rest of you
familiar strangers
are the ones who have painted me, turned me
from my upside-down cocoon
and planted me down into this frozen ground
and i know, the voice in the back of my mind
tells me, no, you know yourself
and they are only taking
the outside parts of you
and constructing a sham, a replica
somebody they think they can dissect
but the problem is
this voice is at its strongest
when everyone is asleep
when the words are done their creeping
and have settled like dust around me
at midnight, at one, at two
and all through the night
i can finally know myself
and point out the fact
that you’re wrong
and i don’t have to go along
with your assumptions, **** your judgement
**** your advice, i’m going at it alone
and my mistakes are my badges
my success is my shield
and i will deflect your forged knowledge
back onto you, force it before your eyes
so you can finally admit
that you do not know me
and you never will
and that’s fine, i just want you to know
that my feelings are mine
and your words are yours
find something else to give me
give me your hand, give me your heart
i don’t even care
but because of you
i stay up, late at night
fingers crossed that you’re thinking of me
enough to search for my name
and find this long rant
in poetry form
and realize
just how wrong you are
and this is not beautiful, this
broken piece of badly worded ****
but i am not beautiful either
this is me on the inside
and now you know, do you get it?
just how wrong you are
and i will not throw these words in your face
i will not wrap these lines around your neck
and i will not leave you with nothing
but a guilty weight
i’ll still be here when you’re awake
i just want the assumptions to stop
the picture i paint and show
is mine alone, not even the frame
is yours to choose
and i ask
can you just let me be
the person i want you to see?
these assumptions are bringing me down
but of course, i’ll always have my language
and i’ll do this, time and time again
release this frustration into rough poetry
and then begin my next day, after a night awake and dreaming
and let you continue
to pick me apart, never quite reaching
the centre, and yet i’ll take it anyways
because that’s what you expect me to do
and i will let you remain unsurprised
fingers crossed all the while
hands in my pockets, juggling those pills
this is me on the inside
but you don’t need to know that, do you?

i'm always trying to describe
the wrong things, aren't i?
describing your voice
when it's the words that matter
outlining your face
when it's the smile that really shatters
upon my eyes
trying to write this feeling down
when it's the reasons that are really
important to me
and i guess that's when i realize
i've been avoiding penning this fear
afraid of the reasons, of the causes
that led me here
and this feeling?
it's nothing more than a consequence
or so i tell myself
as i step carefully over
the dark puddles
and onto the hard cement, looking
for the yellow lines
that will tell me where to go
left or right?
right or wrong?
i've been describing the wrong things
i know that now, and i have
each scene played out
in black and white
while the real meaning is lost
in the spaces between the letters
and the missing punctuation
gathers itself into the sky
spelling out the word i am afraid of
fear

I've just been
reciting the lines of that one bite,
one or two
or however many it took
for me to pull away.
In my mind,
it was a choice I made,
to end that soft embrace;
in truth,
it was that one cold
hard
bite.

So unlike you,
so strange.
You surprised me,
but you felt nervous,
shaken,
wary,
uncertain,
not ready,
not confident,
in your own ability to draw blood.
I pulled away,
just enough to tell you
I'd remember this.

In my mind,
it was a choice I made,
to wait until I could not see your mouth,
those teeth,
before I cut the string.
One string,
one quick snap,
and that bite was nothing but a few words in my mouth,
a few chords with no song,
an embarrassment to the idea of pain.

In my mind,
you tried too hard.

In reality,
I tried too hard
to try harder
to feel that bite,
until I felt it,
and it didn't feel right.
Sometimes, though,
I recite the idea of your teeth
sinking in,
and I am reminded
that in my mind,
it was a choice I made
to pull away.

Bite or no bite,
I would have done it anyway.

black sky, black road
yellow lines like warning signs
i turn my head away
from those flashes of colour
and look out the window instead
at the grey fields of evening

grey fields, grey grass
bulrushes like sentries
and one bird that calls to me from beyond
as if it understands this feeling

some days it mocks me
other days, it lets me speak
and i hear it often late at night
telling me to dry my eyes
and sleep

black sky, soft wind
that creeps through the netting across my window
and sweeps the salt water from my cheeks
while the coyotes howl, voicing what i cannot
and the crickets play their violins
as if i needed a soundtrack to this

and the next morning, my door opens
revealing brown skin and a summery smile
and when the sun hits my face
i feel the cold embrace me once again
feelings washed from my body and escaping
back to my bed, waiting
for the sun to set and for my body to hit the sheets
and for my mind to remember a day full of nothing

and nothing sinks into my tear ducts, opening up
the river, and i cannot for the life of me
remember why i am doing this, but i am
and the black sky watches without comment
as i take the bird's advice, drying my eyes
and sleeping

the sun rises again each morning
and so do i

in my mind, i counted down
the breaths until i was almost
gasping, reaching out to exhale
just in time to stay alive, and i am
conscious enough to close my eyes
and describe this feeling as
breathless

short words in each pause, and i am
only listening with half of my heart
but the meanings are not lost on me, no
i am aware of the definition of this feeling
short words joined spell
breathless

call me drunk, call me unsteady, call
the emergency line just in time
to lift me off the floor
but in reality, the more i sink down
the less i need saving, so just
take this as a sign that we should
fall together, call me by anything
other than my name, call me
breathless

breathless as i breathe in, breathless
as my lungs are filled between the words
that form my ribs and crack my skull
and bend my spine, and as our fingers intertwine
the oxygen spills forth from skin to skin
and even my hands are having trouble
staying steady, as life rushes in
while the world disappears
and it all falls apart while we fall in time
with the rise of your chest and the downbeat of mine
and the constant press of carbon dioxide
against my cheek begins to lessen, and i am blessed
with keening, sweet silence
and through the clouds my mind is clear
with the knowledge that there's nothing wrong
with being breathless

broken coffee machines, broken hearts
broken
duct tape winding around the base
of a soul still good enough to sell
and i pull the price tag off your neck
to see if i can afford the time it would take
to crazy glue you back together
and i decide it's an investment i'm willing to make
so here, let's do this
the natural way
if that's okay
i'll take my skin, this expanse
here, running down from my chin to my waist
and use it, press it
against the worn patches of your torso
try and sew you up
with body heat
here, i'll take my arm, extend a hand
and run it down, down where the skin becomes soft
and your breath becomes hard
and i'll say
keep breathing, i'll show you how
broken heart, you say?
broken coffee machine, that's nothing
i have caffeine to spare, coming out
the tips of my fingers
and i am willing to share
broken heart, that's nothing
i have staples
that will take the oxygen from your lungs
and feed it straight into your veins
and you are going to like it
no garage sale, duct taped to the core
for you
you're going to be shiny and new
broken coffee machine, i'll fix it
and give it away
and take you instead
for free

I want to give you my feelings
in a colouring-book.
Can you fill me in?
I feel empty.
I want to give them to you
in a box
wrapped with a bow
so you can open it
and see there’s nothing inside.
I’d like to give you my heart
in a song without chords
so you can hear the echo of broken strings.
I want to show it to you
in a black-and-white photograph
so you can understand
how grey I feel.
Can you colour me in?

i find myself assuming the role
of quiet observer, looking around
discreetly, and with more interest
than i let on, i am transfixed
by the simplicity with which complications arise
between crooked pathways
and straight lines
of people, walking around
interacting on levels that confound me
and it makes me feel like an island
yet uncharted
sand untouched, bare of footprints
and most of the time, i like it
the feeling of being clean
unsullied by those complications
and i sit on my shore, watching the ragged ships
sail by
and the gulls circle, crying out
why?
why do we do these things to ourselves?
why do we hide the truth
and perform the lies?

sometimes, i assume the role
of confidant, of living journal
and i describe the weight of the words dropped on my pages
to nobody, because
it really isn't my place
to trivialize darknesses other than my own
and i understand, i do
but i feel lost, some days
among the black holes of people
who cannot escape their own space
their own star-flecked universes
and their planets crash into mine
Milky Way swerving out of the path of destruction
and getting lost in their dissolving sighs
and i feel heavy
with the ink of their confessions
heavy with the advice that they ignore
heavy with the simple ideas
that crowd my head, circling like those gulls
crying out
why?
why do we do these things to ourselves?
why do we confide in strangers
and never trust our own star systems
to find their way back into orbit?

i find myself assuming the role
of me, of my own name
displayed proudly on my sleeve
familiar letters that seem to betray
my transparent, flickering image
warm and true to friends' eyes, perhaps
but the spaces between the characters
are what appear to me in the mirror
not the black lines
but the grey areas
and i feel that transparency often
when i am surrounded by that sea once again
as i so often am
and the waves just seem to crash right over me
feeling invisible, and yet somehow
too visible
to ever be a part of the current, it seems
as each whisper, each ripple
each glance, each possible missed chance
each glimmering sail upon the horizon
appears to laugh at me
whether it's my sad, slow swimming
or my ragged inward appearance
that shines through the cracks in my face
it all becomes part of an image
that i see burned upon the surface of my soul
and some days it truly feels
like even the gulls are circling around me, crying out
why?
why do you do these things to yourself?
why do you even bother?

roundabout, unsteady weight
of my feet upon the sidewalk, sinking
deep into the cracks of drug dealers
and ambling adolescents
and old mothers
and young fathers, and whatever else
this city has to offer, its population
unknown to me, bewildering
since where i come from, everybody
has a name
and i know it
so this is weird
the imbalance between known
and unknown, the strange feeling
of a shift in the atmosphere that follows me
the loss of control that i feel
when i step down from the bus and make my way
through the crowd, feeling drunk
and off-kilter, feeling like
a drifting newspaper, out of date
trying to find some sense of community
but instead i find only small relationships
each separate from the other
each with a different dynamic, a different colour
a different reason for staying together
a different reason for falling apart
(and that happens
so much faster here)
and yet somehow i find that
i like it this way
having so many little lives, towns
to choose from
that there is always somebody, somewhere
willing to brighten my day
and so i think i’ll be okay, i’ll transition
into a city girl, all hardened and shiny
and maybe even stylish
with only the roots of my home peeking out
from beneath my feet, saying
don’t forget
and i won’t
i promise
city slicker pinky swear

eight hours is all it takes, i guess
to erase the cobwebs from beneath my eyes
and today i kept reaching up
with shaking, caffeinated fingers
to softly press the skin there
and feel the bruises disappearing
as sleep became less of a constant ache
and more of a comfort

eight hours still seemed impossible
and yet here i am, awake and able
to close my eyes without slipping into grey
able to stand up on solid legs
without fear of buckling and falling

i'm just taking it all in, all these nights
that i have spent wisely
because the countdown in my head
tells me that soon enough, i'll be back
to my old ways, dazed and euphoric
as two or three hours try to rub the shadows
away from my eyelashes
and i will once again be painting my skin each morning
into clarity

i will once again be hiding
behind a curtain of half-lives
and half-lies
and i will once again ignore the need
digging dull nails into my palm
to keep myself in sync

i'm just taking it all in, all these nights
that have brought me back to life
savouring each moment
while the countdown echoes in my head
and the spiders are waiting, ready
to spin their cobwebs again

cold cement reminds me
of the steps outside school
where i balanced myself on the railing
and stood on that column
feeling better
than the people below me

cold cement makes me think
of the road outside my house
and the way the potholes filled
with wet maple leaves
after a day of autumn rain

cold cement, in my mind
is that long, straight road
hot beneath the summer sun
but still cool in the shade, and somehow
riding along that stretch
was always enough to calm me down

cold cement, to me
is the end of the line
and the transition from earth to rock
from open sky
to cityscape

cold cement, to me
is a love-hate relationship, really
as it began to grow on me
fond memories overlapping
the edges of the sidewalk
and washing over the toes of my boots

and cold cement, today
was somehow comforting
below me as i wavered
between burning and frozen
on the steps outside

i am no longer alone

and now here i am
writing poetry about you
in tim hortons
i've sunk this low
may as well keep going
extend the metaphor
except
we are not symbolic
we are real
or at least my mind thinks we were
and i'm usually right
so
who are you to say i'm wrong?
except you didn't
you just didn't say anything
and that's what makes me think
i should be somewhere else
somewhere other than this table
growing green with moss and envy
bending over time and time again
to pick up that lucky penny
polishing it off and adding it to my pocket
saving up for another drink
so i can buy more time
waiting around
for another chance encounter with you
that i know won't amount to anything
but hey
i can try can't i?
i have that right and i use it
abuse it
and all for what?
here i am sitting at a table for two
and you?
you're somewhere else
like you've always been
never there in front of me
except when passing me by
giving me the eye
or
did i just imagine it?
i think i know what i'm talking about
but my predictions all put me in the same place
sitting here with a cup in front of me
slowly emptying
but never all the way
because i still say i've got time to wait
my watch is wrong
some excuse
to go along with my own stupid games
playing the lottery and losing
but each small compensation lifts me up
i'm so hopeful one day it's gonna **** me
and i'll die here
in tim hortons
with my cold coffee sitting in front of me
saying
i told you so
you should've finished me when you had the time!
and i'll know
i should've finished us when i had the time
maybe then we never would have been like this
skirting around each other
all awkward smiles
cold coffee
warmed up
is never the same as when it's fresh

it was another day of
silent singing, mouth closed
hands clenched tight, buried
within the secret of old leather
earphones saving the sound
and spitting it into my mind

I woke up
and things were colourful,
the blanket was warm with my body heat
and that proved my existence
so I stayed in bed
just a little while longer
before standing up
and beginning the drift of day,
cold feet
but I’m doing this anyway

I stepped in
and the water was inches below scalding,
the tiles were perspiring
and I closed my eyes
shrinking, folding
back into my mind
just a little while longer
before stepping out
and beginning the ritual of
Sunday
cold feet,
wet hair assuming responsibility
for the chill around my neck;
unsure
but I’m doing this anyway

I woke up
dead or alive
determined
cold feet
but I’m doing this anyway

sure, silent jump into thin air
and the oxygen spreads over my mouth
like a blanket, leaving me
gasping and falling
and reaching out
i'm in a hurry to breathe
i'm in a hurry to hit the ground
running

and it's colder than i thought cold could be
you know, i never imagined
myself freezing to death
and i like to think that's why i'm here again
grasping onto thin fingers of warmth
moving in closer to share breath
and forget the frosted trees above
i like to think it's that fear
that keeps me coming back
and not the simple comfort
not the feeling, not the thoughts
as i step outside for a moment
to freeze the words
before they can take hold of my tongue
and voice themselves

i like to think it's the ease
with which i sink into this depth
that keeps me from staying outside
and not the need that i ignore, masking
it as something more innocent
material, consistent
warm and partially true

i like to think it's the fear
that keeps me up at night
and not the warm comfort
i feel when i'm thinking of you

i inspected the sidewalk
for cracks, no backs broken
today, i told myself
everything will be perfect
and smooth
in comic-book square scenes
and everything will be grey
i collected that lack of colour
round my shoulders
and i stepped forward
onto the cement, feet planted
on that cold new ground
and the lesser shades
of black and white
curled themselves around my ankles
lending weight to my step
and i felt safe
i saw your face
in comic-strip polka-dots
of pink and green
and you were simply coloured in
all thick black lines
and strong hand gestures
and warm support around my waist
pages turning at a steady pace
and the racing of my heart
felt right
and i thought to myself
in comic-book lettering
in thought bubbles above my head
in a confident narration
in a whispered, private thought
that
i can see myself using you
as an excuse
for a little while

i am
aware of the air
enabling each step
and counting each breath
with the effort it takes to exhale
i could almost just sit down at the side of the road instead
but i won't
because i am
seeking out new people
new faces, new mouths
to give me new words
aware of the air
that falls from their lips
and catching the shapes, each lovely
small part of them
for my pocket
and i'll take these out later
edit the context
to create a compliment
to make me smile

i make these decisions without thinking
but then again, don’t we all?
there are some things that must be done
on the whim of a heart
or the quiet suggestion of a sudden realization
that the path to take has been cleared

so did i do the right thing?
i guess i’m just not used to opening my mouth
without thought to precede every syllable
and so decisions like these
take me weeks
and this has taken me days of split-seconds
long steps strung together
to make one big breathless change
and i am not left in the wake
of all this, no, i am
riding along

and i know this for sure, a new feeling
of certainty that i missed
feeling alive, occupying my own body
i missed the lack of control, i really did
and i missed the fear

i have grasped this feeling
and made it mine, while it has taken me
by the hand and pulled me forward
before i could ask a second time:

did i do the right thing?

2:50 a.m. and the words just flow
crookedly, but at least they're there
and i bow down to the darkness
for giving me some semblance
of light
in the form of letters, perhaps
but still, something shines
at this time of the night
or the morning, the power
of being there when the numbers change
it feels like control
2:52 a.m. and the words just dance
and i am a puppeteer

well, 1:59 am
old friend, here you are again
and here i am
caffeine coursing through my body
and keeping me upright, in tune with
the time zones
as i wait for 2 o’clock
and i have so many words
(2 am, there you are)
to write, but at this hour
i can never tell what order to put them in
so my poetry, my thoughts
are muddled
but whatever, i guess we all have those moments
those 2: 01 am moments
where the world makes so much sense
and you want to scream it out the window
to the population of the universe:
i understand! i get it now, at 2:02 in the morning
i understand everything, ask me anything
and i will fix it for you, answer your doubts
all-knowing, at 2:03 am
sitting solitary in the dark,
typing out nonsense
and thinking it means something
but hey, at least i got enlightenment
out of this experience, some realization
because seriously
i think i get it now
but of course, at some point
i will go to sleep
and when i wake up
the revelation will have disappeared
sunk back into the deep, into the dark
into the 2:04 am of my heart
and i will have to wait, counting down
until i can feel like this again
all-knowing and calm
powerful, small and unashamed
and i will wait up, time and time again
eyes flickering back and forth
until i can say
hey there, 2:05 am
how i have missed you

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re drunk
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain

this half a heart becomes a whole
whether or not you know it
out here i am never alone
spent most of my life
in places like these
and i’m always looking for more

recount the gossamer threads
because i love those words
and the nonsense means nothing
but i love nothing
it feels like home

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re sober
it’s not the alcohol that makes the scene
it’s the scene that makes the alcohol
obsolete

i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i drink
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i breathe
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i believe
in those gossamer threads
fire and stars
alcoholic words

i love nothing

it feels like home

finally
after days of dark, threatening clouds
and anxious birds tracing signals into the air
and trees waving back at the lightning
while the thunder rolled around this valley-

finally
it rained

the sun fought against the sky and lost,
instead blazing behind the curtain
and turning the sky a dangerous yellow
while the trees accepted the sepia rain
with defeat

i stayed inside and watched their branches
waving lazily back and forth
as if to escape the rain, or maybe
just to dance beneath it, i don't know
but i knew
i didn't feel like dancing

i felt like dancing
when we were alone in an old building
whose walls echoed the tinny swing music
back at us and whose floors were already printed
with the patterns needed to teach you
the basic formation
and we fell out of place a million times
only to fall back in again

if you were here, i'd take you out
into this rain
and dance until the thunder came back
and celebrate the lightning's wrath
and fall out of formation a million times
only to fall back in again

with you, i always feel like dancing

Dancing slowly,
tracing
circles
across the endless fields,

we dance

an endless pattern across the skies,
dancing with the wolves and

Dancing

Dancing slowly

we dance
an intricate drawing
in the clouds,

dancing with the wolves

to the tune of the birds' flight
and the light
from the moon.

We ignore

the turning of the earth,
pay no attention
to the cycles
that confine us

We just keep on dancing

with those howling creatures

rearing up
like they do
and singing to the sky.

part 1 (this)
**** this
i say to myself
hoping the harsh words will strike me down
for i want to feel the cold pavement jar my bones
just
**** this
i say out loud
hoping the sound of it will hook into the back of my sweater
and reel my mind up to join my body
i say it and turn round
to see if anyone has noticed my efforts
and yet
i still feel the same
shock me
please change me
please bring me back
find the strings that connect my soul to my body
and tug
pull
bring me down from the cold blue sky
because
****
i want to know
if i'm happy or not

part 2 (search)**
and so i searched space
space bar
enter
an easier world
and i looked for myself amid the definitions
and questions
and stars
and i tested myself
without thinking
answers automatic
yes i know what's happening
and this is how i feel
but almost
not quite
and now i have a diagnosis
i have ten
one for each time i tried to define it
letting someone else do the job
and yet
i can't seem to label myself
and the screen lights my face
but not my heart
no
i have not yet been found
so i tap out the pattern
of how i think i would feel
if i felt
on the keys and i press enter
enter space
space bar
search
where am i

i wrote this for you
because i knew you'd never read it

fear rules my words, rules every breath
as i walk, head down, avoiding the rain
that seeps into my hair as if to tell me
i can't escape
i will always have these cracks, these splits
that let the rain and sunshine in
and lately, they've been letting in
too much water

maybe i'm drowning
in the river we dipped our feet in
in the rain that divided our differences
and washed them down the street
the first day i held your hand

but differences are tougher than us, i guess
because they've still found the strength to shade the sky
with charcoal grey and light blue worry
that keeps me up at night
even now that they've finally done their damage

i wrote this for you
just as i always did, honest and rough
because i knew i couldn't say the words out loud

i wish i had, though
because there's not much poetry can do
to fix this now

inside, i asked you to speak your mind
and got no answer
as expected, really
since the you that sits at the back of my brain
is usually silent

and i asked you to tell me with your hands
what you think of me

push me, pinch me
drag your nails along my self-esteem
and leave me marks to be proud of, give me war paint
give me scars
do what you will to my body, take what you want
from my words

just leave my mind alone, leave it
to process this all later
after the blood has dried
and the room is empty
and i begin to feel full again

i wanted you to tell me, but by accident
that your mind is just like mine
and i don't need to worry
that when you open my body up
my mind will unfold with it
and you won't like what you see

and so i distract you from my thoughts
with the disposable skin that protects them
from you

does it make me weird
if i’m still thinking about it?
i swear it’s nothing but the good;
five or so hours later and i can still feel
your hands, running smooth lines up my back
and rough ones from my hip up to my hair,
almost desperate in their attempt
to hold on.
i was there, fully aware
of you, you and your shifting footsteps,
off-balance, while i stood and tried
to keep the cold at bay-
even though my skin was chilled,
my bones were warm and stable
and i did what i could to keep us from falling,
tumbling onto the grass
although
i may have thought about
the cold ground, and considered it
as an option.
is it strange
that i am writing about this?
tell me, is it so bad that i just want
to tell someone, to explain myself, to say
that i’m still drunk,
almost six hours later now, intoxicated
with that worn-out metaphor, but it describes this
perfectly,
this weird haze of colourful clarity
that separates me, even now
from the cold, dark wind.
i feel drunk, and i’ve felt it before
and i know that when i wake up tomorrow
there will be no headache, no regret
only a small, knowing smile on my face
as i get up, get dressed
and shove my hands in my pockets, fingers crossed
that you and i will go drinking again today.

there's nothing like being wanted
to keep your spirits up
for a day now, or more
i've been smiling, and today i found myself
noticing things that don't belong
i saw icicles under a warm sun, dripping
back down into the earth in shame
i saw a streetlamp, still lit at noon
and its light was orange and dark against the sky
but i did not see myself
turning to look at that space in between
this place and the world outside
the train window, taunting me
with an almost-reflection, my eyes hollowed out
to make room for the sunlight
and i realized
today i am noticing things that don't belong
and i belong
so i stopped looking for myself, and i was found
beneath that useless streetlamp, waiting
for the icicles to melt away
and they did, leaving me calm
and on dry ground
there's nothing like being wanted
to keep your feet moving
to keep your spirits up
to keep your eyes open
for a day now, or more
i've been smiling

8:25 am
“all i wanted was a little love”
says the voice in my head
and the black cord that connects my mind
to somebody else’s words
tugs at my heartstrings too

bright copper sunshine on fast-moving waves
dull glitter of ice over snow
spindly shadows of trees bent this way and that
striping grey concrete and faded yellow lines
slow clouds covering the last of the night
as it sinks into the roots of the day

“keep your hands to yourself”
says the voice in my head
it’s been one song
since i last heard those words
and i keep my hands to myself
and my mind outside
and my thoughts on the objects and values and colour
and not on the things i can’t see

i see a spreading warmth beyond the window
i feel the same thing in my bones
and i am unable to move now, unable
to turn my eyes away

outside, the cars pass by
and the water keeps flowing
and the sun keeps glowing
and it all looks the same, yet the longer i look
the more it changes

each day i look the same, and yet
i know i have changed
like a river slowly warming after winter
like the sun dissolving clouds around it, not with anger
but with something else
like the concrete of the road supporting those who cross it

this morning, sitting by the window
i had the urge to reach my hand out
and i don’t know why, or what for
but it seemed like the right thing to do

but i kept my hands to myself
i know
i am not ready yet

this was once
an empty page
i filled it
wishing all the rage
of another poet's words
upon the paper
since i have none of it

this was once
an empty page
i stole the space, stained it
with my own black-and-blue lines
like small, needlepoint bruises
saying
this will only hurt a little
but still
i'm glad it's not me bearing the burden
of all these words

this was once
an empty page
and i bow down to your strength, dear paper
for taking upon your shoulders
every scratch that i offer
every scene i remember

this was once
an empty page

i filled it
and now i am empty again

Sometimes I feel
fleetingly
like I am not here.
I feel like a narrator
like a character
in an unfinished novel,
like
like

like an unending street.
Like this town,
like this place-
a collection of lives,
beginnings and ends,
tangled strings
and cracked windows.

Wandering through the small maze
of downtown,
I know the answer.

I need to get out of here.

“where do we go from here?”
a line that haunts a million songs
like a small, aching insect
creeping in through the cracks in the lyrics
and spreading its wings to infect the expanse
of music that reaches my ears

do you ever feel like there’s a theme to your life?
some familiar collection of words, some thought
that pervades the space around you
and finds body in the world that follows
your every move
some chord, bright or dire or dim
that resounds in the echoes
in the tunnels you pass through
and sings silently after each word you speak
ringing softly beneath your footsteps
colouring the air you exhale

“where do we go from here?”
the first time i heard those six words
i have no idea where i was
or when
but i remember the thought that came to mind as
desolation
and it made my heart hurt
and i was happy
because i now i could prove its existence

“where do we go from here?”
one day i heard those six syllables
as i often did, above me
tinny and abrupt from the speakers
hidden in public places, among the plastic clouds
and spiderwebs
and i, at the precipice
of some great beginning
felt that thought beneath my step
and my soul sang, it breathed in deep
and i was happy
because now i could prove its existence

“where do we go from here?”
one day i found those words
etched into the notes of some electronic
heartbeat or sellout tune
and i, in the middle of a slow tumble
towards the realization of a loss
of a feeling i had worked so hard to find
felt the emptiness between my fingers
and the ground pressing into the soles of my feet
and the ache once again in my mind
and my heart and my soul
and i knew now the existence
of the feeling inspired
by the downturn of that phrase, six words
that speak to us all

“where do we go from here?”
i thought of this line on my own time
and never knew how to use it
until today, aware of a familiar scent
in the air, i sat down
and faced the six words haunting my ears
and embraced their meaning
closed my eyes and breathed in their truth
felt the confusion and desolation and joy
that seeped into my bones the harder i tried
to join myself with the forever aching phrase
that i now know was written
to describe the way i move through this life
and today, as i walked
with false purpose along the real lines of the road
i felt words pressing sharp into my cheeks
and i turned to you but could not let them free
six words, a simple door
into the patterned floor and closed curtains
of my untidy mind
and so i let the sentence be
swallowed it whole, let it sit in my lungs
a while longer
and i still have yet to ask you

“where do we go from here?”
has there ever been an answer to that question?

fear
of being opened like a book
free and clear
shuffling pages
easily dog-eared and torn

fear
of being wrong
or of being too right
and so i keep my mouth closed
when i think it might matter

fear
of eye contact
this stopwatch somewhere within my soul
tells me when to look away
so i can never give too much
of myself
and never know too much either

fear
of displaying emotion
so generically poetic, this idea
of holding it in
but i fear letting it out
before knowing what it is
and being a young, confused wanderer
i keep these fears to myself, waiting
until i know what they mean

fear
of never finding out

been spending an hour or so each night
convincing myself
that crying is something i never do

but i guess i can make an exception
for you

these lights are fluorescent
or something along those lines
i am not a scientist
but the point is
these lights bring an atmosphere
to the cement tunnels
that can only be described as harsh
and here i sit
soft and warm under the cold beams
feeling all too human
and yet not real enough
as the tips of my toes wriggle
trying to escape the cage of my shoe
and my fingers are typing out words
that have nothing to do with anything
except my inner monologue
which has been externalized
into poetry
and now it is my shield
saying
see? i have feelings
proving that
i am not as cold as these unwavering lights
there is real fire
somewhere within me
and i conduct experiment after experiment
trying to find that spark
and all i end up with
is poetry, pooling navy blue in my cupped palms
as a reminder to myself that
somewhere
deep inside the jail cell
that my ribs create
there might still be a heart
and it might still play some small part
in my life

god, at this hour
everything feels like poetry
even the silence is blooming
with words
and i don't know
if that's a blessing or a curse
desolation
or just a plain old desire for more
or maybe just an echoed question
that i ask myself, and answer back
becoming my own interpretation
of each cryptic answer

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?

maybe it's a mistake
a confusing stanza to read, for sure
but hey, that's how it works
swirls around untranslated
in my mind
and i thank my lucky, silent stars
for the ability to strain out the bracketed pieces
and still appear sane to the world

am i going through something
(well, are you going through something)
or do i just wish i was
(do you really wish you were)
for interest's sake?