The only thing worse than being with you,
is not being with you.
The only thing worse than you talking to me,
is you not talking to me.
Every time I try and go cold turkey,
I find my hand automatically
I grasp and open my fist,
but nothing is there.
You thawed me out,
a task previously thought impossible.
I can't stop melting.
How dare you give me these feelings,
turn me into this,
when you get to walk around solid
I'm a wreck.
Unrequited love is too pretty a term for whatever this is,
the ugly, confusing mess that has
The one you engendered.
I hope you're happy now.
I hope you can sleep soundly at night,
whilst I toss and turn between images of you.
I hope you can look me in the eye when we speak,
whilst I try hard to find the floor,
the clock on the wall,
as interesting as possible.
most of all,
that one day you'll open your eyes
and finally see me.
I'll be waiting.
Sad thing is, I think you know it.
my master comes to split my bird tongue
so i may speak humanly possible
directly out of my darkness
is that what they still call it?
they are mistaken
i'm all flavors of natural light shifting
holding upon the glide plane
of two opened wings
my flight consisted openly in plain sight
but they insist, see only the omens
inflicted upon me
not the intended creature i am
once seen retrieving a pale blue balloon
released into the heat of a summer sky
returned to you, a very lonely child
we played together
i remain here fierce and supporting
because you deserved more than that
and so much more now
since you have survived and grown
into your own quintessential bold blackness
that corporeal purity
and timid not
becoming a bird of consequence
the first voice of the mornings
that unmistakable eagerness
to caw and scream your love for life
onto the deafness of the world..
it's time to play
The first time I kissed you
My head spun.
It kept spinning all night.
I've never had to be careful about someone
But when you kiss me
I need to remind myself that
Is a thing.
I am getting better at remembering
That you are not all there is
But there is still this one moment
When you first lean in
And I realize
I have lost my sense of everything except you
And I pull myself back a little,
Not because I care what happens to me
But because I want to keep kissing you
And to do that
It's possible I'll need air.
My addiction is spelled out in iron:
Words have been stomped into my fate by elegantly gargantuan feet of Greek goddesses and
in the metal lies every pretentious metaphor and ink-soul-splatter that will define the rest of my existence.
There is no going back
The poetry is here to stay.
the changes the letters have wrought are now normal.
I have become used to looking in the mirror and seeing none of my features for the quotes clumped across my forehead
knotted around the contours of my cheekbones.
My morning coffee will never again just be caffeine and warmth,
but a complex metaphor for love-("being burnt by what you also cannot live without").
Now, I only know what my soul looks like
after it has been typed into pretentious metaphors
and ever since that shivering Thursday afternoon I first picked up a pen-
I look at the whiteboard and cannot absorb the continuing inadequacies of various white men because the stanzas are scattered too thickly across my vision.
But I have adjusted.
I accept that every chemical reaction my brain sets off will have words, a story, line breaks, and lonely Friday nights spent editing my soul into prettier pieces
Editing poems and homework will forever struggle against each other on my priority list
And there is simply no denying the fact that behind everything is words and in front and after there are letters and when glancing sideways and upside down you will find quotes and little sayings and poems,
but it is all perfectly fine.
I will breath in each linguistically-caused tragedy with grace and gentleness
because words are the only way I feel at home in this madly spinning world.
I have never felt cozier snuggled with any human or bed than when I am nestled in the dips and dots and curves of language.
"So," you ask, "what seems to be the downside?"
well, dear reader;
if we are being honest poems aren't real therapists.
and they lend themselves well to madness and isolation
But I cannot bring myself to care...
If words were alcohol I would be that horrible mother they whisper about at the PTA meetings who comes home after work and chugs biccardi on the couch, ignoring her children as she runs around the house screaming and throwing things descending into a state of such lovely and intoxicating madness that she cannot resist another page, another pen, another shot.
If words were meth instead of meth sores I have little holes all over my organs where I have drilled down as deeply as possible, hunting for even the smallest hint of feeling just so I can lovingly string letters together like pearls and polish them until they shine with the brilliant lights of tragedy and love and hate and sadness and nostalgia and anger and lust and frustration-
all of these chemicals we fuel our pens with
because numbness is not an option.
I engage in this substance abuse because I am bloated with so much longing, filled with a desperate ache for all the beautiful things I have not yet experienced,
for those brightly lit 2ams and screaming laughter and being drunk and high and kissing and yelling and the because in this moment we are young and alive and breathing and crossing lines and who gives a shit about anything else?
I write in half-crazed scribbles, wondering,
"Maybe writing about friends and laughter at 1 in the morning as I am surrounded by only netflix and tumblr will make me feel better?"
I am always wrong.
It only makes it worse.
My words are glorious escape and icy blades of stark reality.
Clarity and obfuscation.
Pancreas-cracking pain and model-tall joy.
So if words cause me to ache, beat the world into pieces, sob, and ignore my responsibilities,
why am I so goddamn in love with them?
Because my words are mad
but people are too-
so one cannot look down their poorly-described noses at poems and smugly snort that it "doesn't make any sense"
as if they have brilliantly solved and debunked an art form.
They would be quite wrong.
The words are just a reaction and reflection of the world their letters were conceived in-
and so this fevered world and the expression of its insanity are inextricably linked.
(at least for poets).
the difference between poems and people is that humans are
in addition to the insanity,
horribly unreliable and capricious creatures.
They never stay.
They never stay
But metaphors will always be there to cuddle me in their warm arms on lonely weekend nights
Why writing? you ask?
Because when everyone is gone, annoyed, asleep, or dead and the whole earth has been blown apart;
every city destroyed and great moment reduced to nothingness,
I can still trace poems in the ashes.
You. Impossible. Incredible. Inconceivable.
You make my head spin just thinking of you.
How is it possible you do everything with such beauty?
such grace, maturity, hinting at perfection.
How is it that every word you say seems to make me
want more. i hang off your every word.
your perfects words. your magical words. your true words.
i can only wish i still had the chance to marvel at you.
to peer behind the walls. to see the strings of thoughts
slowly unravel to reveal someone impossible.
but that is impossible; and there is the irony.
How is it possible to love someone
not be able
to love them
What would I do for you? There's lots of things, actually
I would spontaneously start speaking Hungarian for you...but it probably would sound like nonsense
and some Hungarian dude
Would be all like "Haver, nem beszél magyarul"
I would shrug, because
I don't know Hungarian...
But I'd still do it for you, if you wanted me to.
I would fly us to ancient Mayan burial grounds, where we could
Learn all about a lost culture
We would run into a cursed
Mayan Chief, but he'd actually be pretty cool
He would teach us how to do a rain dance,
Every once in awhile he'd look at you and say "kíichpan"
and I'd be like..."Dude, back off..."
He's like 2000 years old...
He's way too old for you.
I would carve you an Ice Sculpture in your likeness
Taking care to make sure that every detail was perfect and reflected
In every possible way.
I'm not too good at Ice Sculpting, though, so it might just end up looking
Like an oddly-shaped block of ice.
I hope you would like it anyway
For you, I would count to infinity
Which might not sound like a feat, at first
But then I would count back to zero
I'm pretty sure no one's done that before....
I won't be able to do it all in one day
So it might take awhile...
Hope you don't mind waiting for me
I would write poetry every day for you
Because I know that I would never run out of things
To write about
....Well, maybe every 'other' day.
What do you want me to say?
Do you want me to lie?
You would've found out either way
You said you need some time
Because everytime we talk, you'd feel weird
And I'm not trying to hurt you
Do you hear me here?
You won't love me, love me
You won't love me, love me
We won't be together
You said you're sorry if I regret telling you this
And maybe it'd be possible to find someone who shares the same interest
So I can move on from you
You said I'm wasting my time on you
But sometimes, I feel it'd be easier to waste time than have to move on from you
That's how much I love you
You can keep this a secret
I assume that
You can talk to me whenever
I hope you know that
You can live
You can breathe
You can live
And you can breathe
You say it's not my fault
I shouldn't be ashamed
You can be uncomfortable
And I'll be the one to blame
You said I'm wasting my time on you
But I feel it'd be easier to waste time than have to move on from you
Please don't feel weird anymore
And like the Spill Canvas said
"Fate is an elegant, cold-hearted whore."
I wish the world would turn
upside down and inside out
in every possible way
so that the power of men
could be taken away
I wish the animals
could hunt us for a change
maybe then we would realize
the size of our derange
nature would stop silently crying
and screaming in pain
we wouldn't sleep peacefully
to the sound of the rain
we would hear Earth praying for our souls
blackened with arrogance and greed
our eyes would be burning with tears
from our vicious deeds
I wish we would cease to exist
in a material form
and become ethereal love
veiling our world
I wish we would deserve
to be loved by the universe
for we are the only kind
ignorant and blind
I wish we were better beings
than we pretend and claim
more humane and deserving
of our name
Its not possible for me to be anymore done than I am right now.
I have to go back,
And I have to let you go.
Im going back to my old ways.
Nobody can stay strong,
And hold on forever.