is
cutting off bits of my infected self
and sharing them with you
but the pieces are small
so the poison's diluted
so you get to go home ok
and I...
I get to hurt a little less

Sometimes I want to take my car
and drive to the middle of a desert
and get out and lay down and just stay there
until something happens.
Like a coyote eats me
or a dust storm blows me away...
I don’t know why I come up here
all the time,
maybe it’s like weird,
free therapy for me. I’m sorry,
I know that when I talk
I *** people out...
I think I’m poison.
And maybe getting up here is like me cutting
off bits of my infected self and
sharing it with you.
But the pieces are small
so the poison’s diluted,
so you get to go home ok.
And I… I get to hurt a little bit less.

Are we certain Eden's snake is evil?
Do the scales hide someone who's
grown hungry for the taste of upheaval?
Someone who saw more than a pair of two
see what I mean, and what I argue here.
That it was Eve's fault that she believed
because the intent of a snake is clear
she should have expected to be deceived.
Perhaps I'm saying you shouldn't blame me,
and maybe its convenient for me to shift
the blame onto you, but honestly
I told you we were bound to drift.

I don't feel the need to apologize because
Before we began you knew what I was.

Everyone wants to block out the sun
so as to preserve their own little world
as if they were the only one
as if they wouldn't expect to touch a soul if they twirled
and twirled and twirled until they got dizzy
and promptly took a seat upon the floor
this is about the time you tell me you miss me
before you rise again and twirl some more
We fall away from happiness
in fear of the sadness it may bring
but a world without pain and joylessness
feels like a world without anything

I stare down the ticking clock begging for the hand to stop
because a life's worth nothing if time is all you've got

I wonder if you ever forget about me
momentarily,  summarily I
don't have the words to tell you what I mean
and I feel as if it'd be worthless to try.
That thing pops into my head the moment I wake,
I won't take up your time telling you of
the time I slid my hand off the, earthquake,
even the most powerful one can not shake a dove
How easy it would be to rise above the skies,
to float above the common folk,
to not worry about your little lies,
to not resent you every time you spoke.

It's always better when you're lost in it.
Without the time to contemplate the loss of it.

I have a
scar on my
left forearm that
reminds me of you

not that I
cut myself or
anything like that
it's more of a mistake

than anything
I was making penne
pasta in one of those large
black pots that every family has

in one cabinet or
another and I boiled it
so it was really hot so I could
eat which was the entire point of

the whole process
but I couldn't stop thinking
of you, your honey-wheat hair
that could pass for spaghetti if you

wanted it to
but you never did so
you always straightened it
I think that's when I was thinking

of when I
poured in the pasta
too quick and burned my arm
you were time consuming so much so

that I couldn't remember
what I had been doing the whole time
because unfortunately I couldn't help but be stuck on
you

tying words together
to create a line of stories told
life's an innocuous document
with the most important moments stained in bold

my heart is a once radiating sun
left too long in cold
flung off a mountaintop
gawked at as it rolled

till it lie at the feet of townsfolk
who were warned of tales of old
that though this thing may shine
all that glitters is not gold