Jan 6, 2014      Jan 7, 2014

If I had to say anything I would have to say wow.  I can't believe that you are so perfect. I almost hate leaving. If having countless people hurt me in the past to lead up to being with you then I wouldn't go back and change a single moment. I'm not good with being emotional and talking about my feelings around you so that's why I'm writing them. You are amazing, sweet, caring, perfect  every word I can think of you are. How could I want anything more then just laying around and being a total goofball with you. Why would I want anything esle then being as happy as I can be. Why would I want anything esle then sleeping with you and actually sleeping all night and not waking up constantly cause I feel nervous or panicky. I don't think I could have it any better. You asked me what do I like about you and I couldn't give you good answers but I don't like your voice and I don't like your hair and I don't like your singing randomly. I love them. I love that you feel comfortable with me I love holding your hand when we are at target or the mall. I love being around you to not even caring if I come home or not. I always thought that I never was good enough for someone that everyone always would Leave me and never look back but I feel different with you that I feel safe. Safe. I do love you and those three words only have came out once before and I got totally riped apart because of it. I'm trying to put everything out on the table and rip away from any of the nagtive feelings I have towards love and open up let it all go and start new.

every time my candle flickers,
i think to myself,
                             maybe this is God, maybe this is God telling me that he    
                               is real and i am not alone

                                                          ­             but then
                                                                ­       the flame stills
                                                                ­        i go back to work
                                                            ­            and i think to myself,
                              i knew it was too good to be true

how many threats does it take to equal a follow-through?

ten shattered plates and
a burnt piece of toast later
and she still can't
do it-
she still can't
make her words
be anything more than hot air.

she'll stay awake every night for the
rest of her life
a world where
everything goes her way.

she'll never realize she's the problem
                                               point of origin.

lukewarm tea
chocolates never gifted
an old book that makes me
too much and
a blue pen with
black ink with
bite marks on the cap
from where you
used to hold it
between your
for me
while i wrote
about how much i
loved you

dense as fog.

she couldn't
look past
but she could
straight through

every day.

in the hallway
as if she
was the one
that no hands
        no ropes
        no hearts
could ever fully grasp,
could every fully keep,
could every fully convince to stay.

she walked
     ­               away
from him
as he
continued on to
his new girl
      new fuck buddy
      new toy to distract from how he could never stop himself from killing
         he loved.

tight top
             no bra
short skirt
                 long socks
messy hair and smudged lipstick from
                                                                ­    licking
                                                     ­                          swirling
that cherry red
done so perfectly that
it's sent the healthiest hearts to urgent care rooms-
and eyes so innocent
they bring blind men to their knees.

you've always said
                               "i want to be someones' hero
                                                            ­            villian
                                             ­                            confirmation that they're more than what they've been labeled.  i want to be someone that can hold fragile things without fear."

here's your girl.

she walks in
        "i have a splitting headache"
and then retreats
to her room,
too long sweatpants
on the floor.
and i wonder
if it's the same kind of
headache i get
when i can't stop
about the
until all i know is that
i don't want to be breathing
                  ­           correctly pumping blood
                             from my heart
                             to the rest of
                             my body.
i wonder
if she gets those
kind of headaches
that the
stuff can never

his dick is
nothing spectacular
but it's hard-
for me-
and it's smooth
             and soft
             and ready to be held
                                         shown how to stargaze while the sun is still out.
but he
grabs my hand,
pulls me up,
                up and away
from the
only part of him
that will ever beat for me and my blistered hands and chapped lips.

"i don't love you"

and i know.

he lowers down
and kisses my chest
and sucks
         my tits
and rubs my clit
and that
is all i want from him.

how many time will i write variations of us
that never get a
happy ending?
sometimes i think i am destined to forever
remember you
and that summer
with that one kiss
and the promise i made with no intentions of
keeping it
because i don't know how to love with two hands
                                                           ­       one heart
                                                           ­                        fully
                                                           ­                        unafraid.
                                                       ­                             everything i write is about you and the
different people
i could see
when i looked you in the eyes
and let myself think
                         and enjoy
every part of you without any sense of anxiety.
and i wonder
what we could be now
that i have a way to cope
                              and live without questioning everything except the ugly.

i wonder if one day i will be able to give our characters
an ending where
we can both by happy
                           not broken
                           or longing
                           or forever regretful
and every stack of cards doesn't mean more than it should.

they said Bukowski was not a poet
and that if he was
he was a goddamn awful one.
but there's something
to be said about a man
who can fuck whores
and come out of it
with more respect for them
than for the rest of the
human population.
there's honor to be given
to a man who could
drink all day and
be more than what
all the medical books
said he could be.
and there is credit to be given
to the man who could
unite the displaced
with who he was
as a human being and nothing more.

Bukowski may be
one goddamn
horrible poet
but he sure
as hell
knew more than we will ever be able to comprehend.

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