i never knew my bones could ache,
until i met him.
i haven't eaten in three days
and my ribs are poking my stomach
and hips are sticking out.
my touch is faint
and my head is pounding.
my knees are boney
and they clack together as they tremble.
my lips are dry and scabbed from picking at them,
im cold and empty,
i can't sleep.
we're not in love,
could we be.
Fall in love with me.
You’ll have to do it eventually so why not me?
I promise you won’t ever find someone so perfectly adequate at it.
I can’t afford a bouquet of roses but I’d spend an entire day picking you the loveliest handful of wildflowers you’d ever seen.
I couldn’t save you from a hungry lion but I’d stay up all night making sure those noises are really just nothing.
I can’t solve integral equations but I can work out every speck of questioning in your life so you know you’ve done well.
I won’t write the next great American novel but I’ll fill thousands of pages with the stories of all the moments we spend together.
I won’t become a doctor and cure people of their illnesses but I can bandage up your cuts and kiss the bruises from your knees.
I will never appear on television or in funny movies but I’d tell you all the jokes I’ve got and make you laugh even on your darkest day.
I won’t open a five star restaurant in the city but I’ll never pass up a chance to make you a warm cup of tea on a chilly day.
I’m not studying to be a psychiatrist but I can hold you and kiss you until the monsters inside your head cease to exist.
I will not paint the next Mona Lisa but I’ll sketch the outline of every coastline you love so dearly.
I’m not a superhero and I don’t wear a red cape or know how to fly but I’ll die knowing that out of everyone on this planet I tried the hardest to save you and to make you happy and that will be enough.
Fall in love with me.
I promise you won’t regret it.
One step. One breath. Each day is a new test. Laughing fits Crying spells. Picking at new scabs.
The space between life and pain is separated by a thin veil. I've opened up the curtains and cast away the darkness. The razor cuts of his tongue are silenced by my love. Yet yet yet the painful choices of my now paralyze thought.
Wrapped inside a cotton brain with small thoughts and toy trains. My ego seeks how to learn without leaving a perpetual burn. My brothers and sisters await at the gate. I see them clear i see them now but they can't wait.
Lets start anew today amongst the ruins of the festive clothes. A bird will rise with a red nose in tow squirting water from a flower. This bird climbs and climbs to an apex of thought. Behind the world and over forever. Rain slowly falls and floods the world, pain is gone, a rainbow appears. A new life begins today on a hazy green path.
This means everything and nothing at all. It's all nonsense and jibberish. Consciousness streams and flows. And it feels damn good to be me for one single moment. One drop of irrelevant rain into life's ocean. The pencil is dull so I must stop. Happiness ensues. The crowd cheers the end of the show. A young girl wears a shiny white mask.
Becoming someone else
A lie within itself
Smoke is curling higher
Than they can ever go
Not that it would matter
They clearly never know
i remember walking
Before we couldn't see
Picking up the pieces
Dividing them in three
Never mind confusion
We are not the same
Death becomes illusion
When life is made a game
i cannot escape it
So what am i to do
i continue onward
In memory of you
Treatise on Cosmic Fire
I sky dive thru my skydrive
picking up pieces of forget-me-nots
holding on to hallucinations
and keep coming back for more
when I arrive I feel alive
ready for anything thrown my way
pretty lady sings the blues
handing saucy notes out the door
she asks me can you handle the pain
of my screaming heart in your ear
if you don't understand the question
please let me make it completely plain
there's a fire burning so damn deep
it is cosmic in it's nature
from the hell of the bang
melting my heart with each quarter note
riding on a tall ship or a longboat
but she keeps on trying
ask her again if love is the answer
she whispers if you believe that
then you just might lose me
but you must keep trying
I will ask you to stay
the great exhale
I am the chaos that sits
Between your fingers when the night is dark,
And the streetlights are mesmerizing.
When the sun slips below the horizon, I am there
Watching it die,
And when it comes up on the other side,
I do not turn around.
I wait for it to circle
Back to where I am.
Each poisonous beam,
All of the thoughts that coil about in your brain
In the deepest part of the day;
I am there too,
Wild and carelessly picking my nails through your hair.
The stems of your tall trees are held under my hands,
And their leaves are decadent,
And splayed across fields of dirt
And picnic blankets.
Do you feel the great exhale?
The wind curls the corners of signs
That speak the way you used to,
In slow stutters and cautious phrases.
All of the fish in the sea are shouting your name;
A symphony, a chorus, anything that you can whisper
When black is too bright and seven scales
Scratch the inside of your beating chest.
When you swim in the thunder of an oiled lake,
Drink, and I will nourish you
With fire and poignant madness.
I exist in the void between revelation and collapse.
I am the drunken king of diamonds,
And the moon blowing away beneath the stars.
The taste of raw sugarcane and highway cafés,
Dusty on the riverside,
Makes the motion of undoing seem
Endlessly intact, as I am,
And as I will be, for now, and for then,
When the ten-thousand mile road comes to a cliff.
These are the breaths of the universe,
Enveloping. All these,
I am, and you are nothing, as I am.
The great exhale is coming.
We writers are insane.
All of us.
We revel in our own sad mess
While picking green grapes
Off the wallpaper,
Smecking away like mad
At the wondrous juices
Of the imaginary, judicial
We, like Hemingway,
Take our scotch in the morning
And our gin at night
And try with brutal, lashing effort
To make it through
We have put ourselves in shoes
We will never be able to walk in.
We must walk miles as
AIDS sufferers, as
Brutalizers of women.
We must deal with their pain
As if it were housed in our own entity of being.
J.D. Salinger wrote that
His literary son, Holden,
Wore a “people-shooting” hat and
Made it damn clear that he suffered from wild
And erratic fits of overwhelming depression.
Writing from a bunker
Far from his wife, kids and home,
His stories sparked murder in the hearts
Of already oppressed men
With “people-shooting” hats of their own.
We must toil with language;
Put it in the corner,
Love it, hate it,
Shift it and slave daily with it.
We must lose hours upon hours upon
Days of sleep
Before we find ourselves
Dangerously asleep at the wheel in front of us
In order to make the slightest change in our regular ways.
Our handwriting only becomes sloppier
And our words,
Kaysen, alone in a psych ward
With women who slept around and
Tried to maul each other,
To try to release the the demon
Boiling the very blood inside her veins.
But demons do not disappear easily
Neither do the tortuous memories.
They attempt to label me
With words of the disturbed.
Floods my synapses and neurons.
Happily urinates on my serotonin levels.
I bring myself to write
The effigy of the psycho
Day by day
As my pen scratches paper
And the doctors expect razor to scratch skin
Though it never has
And never will.
Writers are psychos.
We all are.
We remain the mad, psychotic, literate monsters
Who worm our ways
Into your head.
We nestle beside your dreams and fantasies,
Waiting to strike
And tear them apart or,
If you’re lucky,
Build them up.
A woman writer named Sylvia
Once put her head in the oven
Because the writer-demons were driving her to madness
And they wouldn’t leave her be.
Handling us is a torture
Only the most eloquent and experienced reader
Science does not understand,
why all mammals have penis bones,
Until They dug up Neanderthal woman,
and it was her in her hand.
and with a penis more flaccid,
we have grown,
and there is no fashion,
of chicks picking ,
teeth with our penile bone.
What do they see when they look at me?
This question rattles around inside my head,
As I stare at my reflection on silvered glass,
A perfectly reversed copy that I can only dread.
Is it the reversal that keeps me from seeing what they see?
The smile that angles too much, now angled the wrong way.
Does that small change hide the howls that scream when I look away?
Do the lenses in front of my tired eyes hide the tears that have fallen?
Do my crossed arms hide the heartache that has become too solemn?
What do they see when they look at me?
It can't be what I see, for they would not stay.
My eyes roam my body, picking out flaws with the ease of a plastic surgeon,
While my mind does the same to my psyche, more intense than a psychologist.
Self-hate session done for today, it only took an hour this time.
What do they see when they look at me?
Eyes closed, I try to build an image in my mind of what they've told me they see.
It looks so similar, same clothes, same hair, but it's not quite me.
Not-Me smiles, but it's not my broken smile.
This charms with sardonic sincerity, promises a wicked sense of humor and a clever wit.
Not-Me stretches, but it doesn't highlight his sharpness.
This highlights the hollow of his collarbone, light catching the curves and angles to perfection.
Not-Me laughs, but it's not loud and obnoxious.
This bursts out in sheer delight, eyes crinkling in joy, ringing with mirth.
Not-Me walks forward, but it's not my gangly lurch.
This flows with determination, long strides that speak of a hidden strength.
He is not broken by his past, he is stronger for it.
He is not haunted by old memories, he is wiser for them.
He is not burdened from loss, he is compassionate from it.
Is this what they see when they look at me?
Is this why they don't shy away?
The reflecting glass pierces my darkness,
My breath shuddering as Not-Me is cast back at me,
Strong and whole in his glass frame,
I reach out to him, wishing only to embrace him into me.
I am Me, and I am Not-Me.
I am broken, which makes me strong.
I am haunted, which makes me wise.
I am burdened, which makes me compassionate.
What do I see when I look at me?
Is it Me?
Every single song begins slow,
but then slowly shatters into bits and pieces
of thoughts I thought I had gotten rid of.
Don't you see?
When you watch me bow my attention downwards,
with my earphones in,
staring blankly at the blank papers in front of me,
I am not thinking of what to jot down next -
I am breaking down the pieces of every single note
in every concocted melody
trying to find the culprit who let you inside
because there is not a single one
that doesn't remind me of you;
laced with the tiniest bit of relevance
and the dash of desire, I will not deny,
I have not lost but rather enhanced.
As they say, distance makes the heart grow fonder,
and so it has,
as the galaxies have ripped your hand away from mine
and transported you to planets I can neither see nor pronounce
as if the words could never roll off my tongue
for they hold too much poison,
so brutally lethal
and far too con amore
for my heart to take and for my lips to say.
Always in the midst I await to see you emerge,
but you never do.
My only blessing seems to be
picking up the pieces of these sad, barren songs
that have left me just as empty
as my hand without yours,
and the vast galaxy you left me lost within.