there's a reason we don't look back
because we most definitely don't need that
there's a reason we haven't relaxed
under the weight of steel tracks atop an overpass
and we've yet to stop running
and we've yet to stop deconstructing
we've concluded we can conclude nothing
a trick so tragically cunning
we've been tending to processes of the heart
pretending and mending images in your yard
posted up against the brick wall behind K-mart
where graffiti fades from concrete canvased art
there's a reason we don't look back
there's a reason we haven't relaxed
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 9:51 PM UTC
I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you I take the long way to class
in a Chicago January
in the snow
on foot
just to finish dissecting Teenage Dream because you said that song reminds you of me
I will tell you I devote time out of my day solely to thinking about you heart heavily.
Because I am always thinking about you, fair warning.
And if I let myself indulge a week's worth of thinking of you in one minute,
maybe I can study some for my midterm in the morning.
I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
In those blindsiding instances of stark realization,
when I get a knee **** reaction putting on my scarf that still smells like fruit passion
because I made you wear it on the El platform to fend off a wind that round every corner could bend,
I will take out my blackberry, tear off my gloves, and tempt frost bite on the tips of my fingers
to send you a text that reads “I miss you.”
I won't tell you I love you when I don't.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don't.
Baby, I need not be insincere, I am not in love. Yet.
And it’s not you, and it’s not me. It is everyone else here.
Everyone else beating my brain in with cosmic signs
of Matt and Kim playing on the radio when they never play Matt and Kim on the radio.
Every poet pleading with me personally will flip their pages and I will be deemed defenseless against all odds.
I will tell you I love you, and I will mean it so fiercely
my chest will cave in upon itself thumping like a cartoon and creating a gooey mess of pink hearts.
Because you heart pink hearts.
I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you embedded in the endless, elusive scenes of whimsy that make up my insides,
that song by The Darkness will play over every loudspeaker in the Student Center
because you paused,
you looked at me,
and you said “I love you. I really love you.”
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 12:32 PM UTC
waiting
waiting
waiting
hands on dripping hips
heads hung, lashes laced
waiting, the waves were
fading
fading
fading
gone. but! what's that?
you missed us?
we missed you too
slowly
slowly
slowly
with sweet beckoning
and gentle coaxing
from our pruning lips
lightly
lightly
lightly
the rays rose higher
you could have left
but you came back
thank
you
friend
and we're off! charging forward
laughing!
screaming!
catching
our
breath.
this used to be enough.
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 7:03 PM UTC
drm dor open
drm dor closed
the latter suggests
intertwining toes
rapturous song
from bunk to bunk
twisting embers
young and drunk
unless of course
he does not know
how to move
lacking an O
drm dor open
drm dor closed
the former implies
an ending posed
nope, not it
not even near
still no good
was i not clear?
he left abruptly
he had to go
frustrated i am
he never found the O
Nov 17, 2010
Nov 17, 2010 at 1:21 PM UTC
i'm keeping all of your shirts
i would **** all over them and mail them to you
but i like the way they fit
all of my friends loathe you
they told me you were basically a ******
i said they were full of ****
and on to the next host
to **** dry and feed frantically on false love
a mark pulses where you bit
was it the ***
that bred this bond? was it ******* because
you never found my ****
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:57 PM UTC
tooty fruity on rudy.
rudy is a prostitoot.
tooty fruity is a *** act.
tooty fruity all over rudy.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 12:17 PM UTC
We’re all just so clever, so tragically unbalanced
But I woke with a new kind of obsessive disturbance
I’m finally shutting up with all the pretentious little dialogues
I’m not special, I’m detached, burn down the inner monologue
This scene’s dead, this scene’s gone
there’s no enlightenment in store
This love’s dead, this love’s gone
Just leave me to rot with futile lore
I don’t belong to meaningful existence
I’m never coming back despite your persistence
Highly stylized poseurs, highly addictive pills
So glamorous, my life’s work will be cheap thrills
You write your ******* witticisms and poems to adorn
Crushed between pointless inner battles, constantly torn
Encircled by the same ******** unsolvable your entire life
Ok, you’re brilliant, but I’m free, but I’m going out tonight
And every night I sleep, my conscious becomes softer
And every morning I wake, I wake with nothing more to offer
So stare up into the stars, direct your profound scenes
I used to waste so many nights planning, wondering what it all means
Micro manage feelings while I succumb to blurry haze
Controlled by a constant pounding beat, sensuality ablaze
You’re too curious, too poetic, and far too intense
I’m living in a world ruled only by impulse, only by decadence
Your burdened search for originality
You’re brilliant, but I’m free.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 11:17 AM UTC
I wrote you a letter.
I mailed you that letter.
And blew Marlboro blue pack all over the envelope
In hopes that you would choke
And know that I am still smoking.
I smelled ****
I smelled **** that boldly resembled zoo smell.
And knew this is what your insides smell like.
Inside you are ****
And a big *** panda just **** in you.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 10:44 AM UTC
You must be proud.
You alone
can take sole credit
for destroying
all the goodness
and
willingness to love
and
faith in people
that once existed
in a tiny conquistador.
twice.
Impressive.
a reply would be hastily burned without being read.
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 9:43 AM UTC