I don't like the way this feels most days.
Can you believe I don't like such complexity?
Why is my affection never simple?
Never just one-sided; instead,
It's a moon with phases, with changes
Too unpredictable to pencil down.
It used to be spring tides or none at all
But I've been getting tamer ones lately.
If it does crash, it does so politely, lightly
Carressing my shore with waves of affection.
Sometimes I forget to worry.
Sometimes I forget how heavy-handed I can be,
How easily I can hurt, despite
The dulling of my edges;
And I do this for some people
My affection wants to keep.
I admit it's not the wisest thing I do.
The shackles hurt a lot more
When you jump too far,
Thinking you can make it.
Still, I wonder if that might be better.
I do not like my anxiety, but
I don't like being absentminded in this either.
I do not like not knowing, not holding
The reins of my affection, my hurricane affliction
I do not like the way this feels most days.
I do not like the thought of hurting you.
I do not like it when this moon is new
but I must say, I do like the way you want this, too.
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 5:27 AM UTC
She is a cigarette
She's a habit hard to break
though breaking it won't matter
because I can't stay away
She is a bad addiction
Relapse is my routine guest
Somehow I always succumb
I never get to rest
I lie at night, so anxious
That I'll see her again,
might lower my defenses
I'll ask to see her when
I'm ready and more stable
(like that was ever the problem)
I'll forget that she's my cancer
I'll Forget will be my anthem
I can tell you that I love her
But know, I'll be ashamed of it
She's that cigarette, half-lit
that you keep in your pocket
When your friends come along
and ask you how you're doing
You'll say you're fine
even though she's burning
through your pants and to your thighs!
But you'd choose burns over whatever
their worried mouths will say
It's all a blur, a cycle
Why does she have to stay?
Why does
she have to stay
if after a few puffs,
she'll only go away?
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:04 PM UTC
"oh sorry, i forgot" what? like your house keys on a busy day?
like your jacket on the warmer mornings,
only wanting me around when the night gets bitter cold?
"oh sorry, i forgot" that i was even around to begin with?
Nov 7, 2015
Nov 7, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
god my waterline's a ******* rim of that one red cup
i had to carry over to the other side of the bar,
maneuvering through a sea of people, all occupied
with thoughts and words and sloppy sentences,
breeze through, i try
don't ******* tip me over
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
isn't she lovely though,
when she's bent over like that,
hugging her knees,
hair a curtain torn apart over and over,
laid to rest on perfect skin?
what a ******* perfect storm.
please wake up and look at me again.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
"What is your favorite despicably beautiful thing?"
Two answers: sadness and you.
Both comparable in more ways than one.
You are a million gallons of peppermint tea,
an avalanche of contaminated sunsets,
******* renditions of Gymnopédies.
Remember year 2009? I watched the moon with you.
You wanted to bathe in the half-priced rain shower
and I said sorry, I'm sorry, I'm really ******* sorry,
because I could do anything for you at that moment
but I didn't. I didn't.
The mind is not the heart--
Don't be fooled, my hideous darling gremlin of a self.
The mind. Is not. The. Heart.
And it never will be.
Pitter patter. I hear your calling in every rain drop.
I see your face in every expensive thing I can't afford:
that box of earl grey, those Japanese ******* tea cups--
But I can live with the loss of you.
I can live. I can live.
I am never alone anyway.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 5:37 AM UTC
Oh, I’ve got guns for hands and I might’ve killed her out of passion.
Is it possible for skin-to-skin interaction to produce such electric friction,
enough to ignite these explosives awake?
Perhaps if you base it all on the violence,
the shattering, the sudden release of ethereal presence,
the full-blown eruption of all her emotions and everything in between–
Perhaps if you base it all on that, then you can cut my arms off of their sockets
and throw them out into the sea and I would be more than happy to oblige.
'Cause I’ve got guns for hands and I killed her out of passion and hers is my demise.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
I love you.
Countless poems cannot cut it.
‘I love you, I’m sorry, thank you.’
Not enough, not enough.
Please write a eulogy for me.
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
He has worked so hard
to put a roof above our heads
but it’s raining knives
and I’m bleeding seas
Roof or no roof,
death has its keys
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:30 AM UTC
She’s waiting for a failure
that would turn her life around;
waiting for her lightbulb to burst
so she can buy another one;
waiting for her ink to dry
so she can use another pen;
waiting for her eyes to tire
so she can cry again
Until then, she’ll walk on, asleep,
waiting for someone–
waiting for the failure
that would wake her up
and push her out of bed
Oct 5, 2015
Oct 5, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC