I'm not sure if it was the music,
The ****, or the sheer dreamlike joy of it all, that disguised and distracted me from the click-click-click of our coaster cart climbing ever higher.
  Strapped in tight, I had long gotten over my fear and anxiety of the ride we were on.
  After all, we had waited in line for what seemed like years before getting to experience the thrill they all sing about.
  Before I knew it we had reached the top.
We sat there for a brief eternity, appreciating the view, enjoying each other's company. Your hair looked so dark against the blue sky, and my skin felt so warm, in the high-sky breeze. The birds we always watched were practically our peers for just a moment.
  In a thousandth of the time it took to reach the peak, we were halfway through our freefall, all the beauty we were enveloped in, now merely a blur.
  Although at first fear gripped at my mind when my stomach turned as our cart plummeted, it soon gave way to joy, as I slowly realized this was the true ******. These moments of helplessness as we are whipped around each curve and loop, are the parts we climbed that hill for. The parts that end up in songs, and poems.
  The view was great and calm, but the rough parts, the parts that might leave bruises, are the parts that give it meaning.

I used to write such beautiful things,

About such beautiful things,

On and on would go my enamored rambling,

Like the longest winded songbird on the years first Snowy morning,

My head would spin as I turned to take it all in,

The blur in my eyes as they dart from side to side could lead a Pagan to consider a God,

Each microsecond my eyes could process could’ve been framed and hung in a gallery,

Each with its own placard listing important details, noting the set and setting of each shock across the meat inside my skull,



I used to write such beautiful things,
About such beautiful things,

But a beautiful thing about those beautiful things,

Is that even if you close your eyes and do your best to ignore them,

Or lie to yourself and try to see them as ugly,

They are still there, waiting for you to peel your eyes back open,

And remind you how beautiful,

This whole thing is

Its a toss up,
Its a potluck,

Its a wash out,
Its a cold shower,

An open wound,
And a clean bandage,

Its a great song,
Its a boring sermon,

Its a brand new day,
Its the same old ****,

Its a load of crap,
But its a beautiful thing.

I try to do little things for myself,
Take a few liberties to try and break through the barrier between being alive and living my life.
I read books and take walks, I have beers and write poems.
    I enjoy those things but sometimes its not enough to break through that barrier. Sometimes I'm just here. My first weekend back home my brother took us tubing on the lake. Its kind of weird to think but sometimes that's what life feels like. Like everyone's on a boat and I'm behind it on a raft holding on for dear life. Mostly I'm good though, I always enjoyed tubing.

My sandpaper tongue,
How it chews like dried up fat,

The crystalline grass,
How it crunches underfoot,

The paper thin skin,
How it tears like it was pleated,

The rambunctious quiet soul,
And the storm cloud in its wake.

How did it feel,
Your second wind,
Your heartfelt final effort?

When I try to look back,
It all feels like a drunken stupor.

I’m just a symptom of your untreated ADHD,

You text me when you need a pick-me-up,

When you’ve hit another low,

When you decide not to take your adderal,

Those are the times I come to mind,

And the in the same breathe,

I’ve completely cleared from it,

The ups and downs give me vertigo,

Tummy twisters like I’d get as a kid,

And that same feeling of being adrift.

Ive stopped making poems and art out of everyone I encounter beyond the surface.

I’ve stopped making myself a Martyr to my own feelings,

I’ve stopped forcing gorgeous jewels upon the crown of regular people.

Its funny in the same moment I go from longing so deeply for the past, to stumbling upon a brand new beautiful angle of the shots and im overwhelmed with joy that I've lived the life I have.

I'm sure he'll treat her just as well,

in the end she'll leave him behind,

The way the ocean does a shell.

It’s still such a conundrum,

The way it hurts to remember,

But to die at the the thought of forgetting

To tell the truth im absolutely miserable and not worthy of a shred of pity.

I thought I'd been weathering this storm quietly, but my friends have been the support beams through it all.

Silently stepping in to hold me up on the days I've lost the heart to do it myself.

The summer heat bores forever on, the iced cream man is hard at work.

As a kid I couldn't contain my excitement enough to savor the treat, id haphazardly  discard the wrapper and let it melt all over my hands while I ate it.


These days I eat mine in the shade, and try to catch every runny drop as it melts away.

Life was such a beautiful dream then.

I guess it still is really, quite a beautiful dream.

My tongue is covered in scars,
Can you feel them when we kiss?
Even then, do you understand why they exist?
Almost daily there are words whos lives got cut short before they started,
The potential of some being far more vast than any aborted fetus or abandoned plans. The weight they carried stays on my tongue making speech harder with each slain saying. Making laughing a workout. And making kissing interpretive dance,
Me trying to tell if you can read Braille well enough to read what wasbt said. You trying to decide if this is still worth it, if this, like your major, is what you ACTUALLY wanted.

It’s been a long time,

And by now I’m mostly numb,

But still,

Watching you bleach the canvas,

Watching you clean all the stains,

Like a thief hiding every scrap of evidence,

Ridding your legacy of all our transgressions,

My throat tightens,

My eyes water,

My nose burns,



It’s fine,

Pinky promise,


I’ll keep my pieces safe for us,



Pinky promise.

As another year has ticked by,

                       This one was especially a blur,

And For a long stretch of it,

      The days passed like breaths in an

anxiety attack,

  Quick and sharp,

          With little lasting impact,

I realized recently how much of my last year was spent toiling. Giving myself fully to something in the hope of being better again.

                     Carrying my candle,

                     Trusting the process.

   In the end I’ve not a lot to show for it but **** did it feel good to feel a fire for something again. In some sort of roundabout way I ~Feel~ as though I’ve ~Felt~ very little at ~All~ this year. Which is a statement that marks this year as standing in stark contrast to the previous one, and is only true romantically.

I had a dream about cutting my hair,

And hating the results,

I googled the meaning and supposedly it can mean taking control of your life,

Or

Supposedly, that you’re having a hard time with a decision and your subconscious is telling you to think twice about it.

Among other, assumably equally applicable interpretations.

I think it’s because I have been thinking about cutting my hair a lot.

I’m not sure what the next year will hold,

I still warm my hands over the wick of my candle,

Hopeful as ever to see another year tick bye.