LOVE CAN’T GROW
FROM SIDEWALK CRACKS
NO MATTER HOW MUCH RAIN
NO MATTER HOW MUCH LIGHT
SUN SHOWERS ARE MY SIGN
THAT SOMETHING WILL PROPAGATE
FROM THE HURT AND THE HATE
THAT WE’RE SUFFERING FROM
MY HEAD IN THE SAND
ONLY DIRT UNDERSTANDS
CAN’T GET ENOUGH OF YOU
WHICH IS BLACK, BARREN LAND
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 9:08 PM UTC
KNOWN FAILURES INCLUDE
“FOSTERING RELATIONSHIPS”
WEAKNESS ARE NOT LIMITED TO
“FEELING UNSETTLED"
WHY DID I THINK I COULD
KEEP MY HOUSEPLANTS ALIVE?
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 9:07 PM UTC
PINK FLOWERS ON MY WALK
I SHOULD TAKE THAT SHOT
TEXT REPLY, HERE’S WHAT I GOT
WENT OUT TODAY TO FIND YOU
SOMETHING YOU’D LOVE, OR LIKE A LOT
MORE PINK FLOWERS...
DOWN THE BLOCK
I WISH WE HADN’T FOUGHT
BE YOUR ANCHOR, BE YOUR ROCK
HATE TO THINK THOSE IMPURE THOUGHTS
THAT I MIGHT BE HERE TOMORROW
JUST TO HEAR THAT YOU ARE NOT
WAIT… MORE PINK FLOWERS?
****
THERE WERE NO SIGNS
I MADE THEM UP
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 4:25 PM UTC
STOMACH HURTS
SAD ****
WHY’D YOU GO AND RUIN EVERYTHING AGAIN?
SAY NO, NEXT TIME
THERE’LL ALWAYS BE A
NEXT TIME
HARD FOR ANYONE TO KNOW
JUST HOW ALONE
WHEN ALL YOU DO IS CRAVE TOUCH
WANT MORE, ASK FOR LESS,
AND LOOK BORED
NEVER BEEN A FIRST TIME
IF THERE WAS IT WAS A
LONG TIME AGO
AND HARD TO MAKE FRIENDS
KEEP ENDS MET AND TIED
WHEN THE DISPOSITION’S
ALWAYS CHANGING FROM
DREAM GIRL TO A NAIL GUN
WE’VE NEVER BEEN TOGETHER
WHEN IT’S RAINING BUT, TODAY
IS A DOWNPOUR SO WHY CAN
I ONLY HEAR YOUR VOICE?
Aug 11, 2016
Aug 11, 2016 at 3:53 PM UTC
The inseparable image between who you might be and who you showed me
and the inseparable image of things said and things done and the questions,
self posed, so selfish, so vain and involved ask yourself
"why me?" in case you didn't know you did it to yourself
and I wonder where you are, and Los Angeles is sunny?
Shoot, man, I hoped it'd be gloomy since you left me didn't leave me
when people leave they say "good-bye"
self posed, so selfish, so vain and involved ask yourself
"what did I do wrong?" I was only there where you left me hanging on your every word
unable to enjoy the scenery of those around me as they offer their surprised looks when I tell them
Life isn't what it's meant to be when people leave and Los Angeles is sunny?
Don't want to hear your name but I keep saying it, and I've been literally laughing in my sleep picturing places where we'd eat tacos and talk, no touching, just feeling and being
Drinking cheap beer with full flavour and catching you catching me and saying that I'm pretty
self posed, so selfish, so vain and involved ask yourself
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 10:56 PM UTC
Timid August rain hits my roof.
It’s cold and all the air's aloof.
But not warm, either.
The rain picks up and dies off often
beating shingles like fists on coffins.
Inconsistent, indecisive
Never mean but save the niceness.
Laying without motion.
No emotion, a resting ocean
Big and blue and deep with notions.
My breaths are natural,
spaced and quiet.
When I breathe in, it's like a diet.
Too hot for sheets; can't sleep exposed
Burning hands and nipped, ice toes
Trace my stomach with finger tips
Part the sea, my ****** lips.
Carving goosebumps on my forearms
Digging in to sever; no arms.
I’m not thinking but, my mind is full of thoughts.
I’m not dreaming, but not awake.
Not listening, but church bells ring.
My mouth's not dry, my cheeks aren't wet.
Memories I can't forget.
I am not here, but nowhere else
I am inside my own sad self.
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 3:29 AM UTC
I dreamt last night that you might love me.
That between the sheets were whispered words
Cradled verses.
Our tongues rolled like tiny boats on the highest tides
And when I let out bellowing laughs, you covered my mouth
I dreamt last night that you might need me.
That we drove for centuries in a lemon of a car
Just to get away.
We rolled the windows down in stormy, icy weather
And when I could not stay awake you let me sleep
Last night I cried so hard I thought my house shook and shifted from its base.
I felt no relief this morning.
I felt no freedom, no sighs escaped my heavy heart and sagging lungs.
Only longing, only wanting.
Only questions filled my mind.
Bed ridden
I dreamt last night that you were miserable.
I wasn't crying then.
Aug 23, 2011
Aug 23, 2011 at 2:09 PM UTC
My bed shivers…
My bed quivers…
My bed won’t ever feel my love.
I won’t sleep there
I won’t weep there
It won’t ever feel my touch.
It won’t embrace me;
It won’t face me.
It makes no noise, but a groan.
Inside its sheets I am sinking
Beneath pillows I am thinking
And it makes me feel alone.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 11:08 PM UTC
For all the mistakes I’ve ever, I’m sorry
For every equation, mathematical explanation
For every wrongdoing and in shoeing and for every left turn I ever made, I’m sorry.
For forgiveness, I am sorry
For apologies sake, I am sorry
I was born in sickness and from the moment I walked I felt Atlas’ burden on my shoulders
I am selfish, I am unruly, I am forgotten and regretted and in debt to the people who reached out to me
I am moving forward, starting backwards, put my arms around my head for I am shattered
I have a heart with an empty home and clichéd voice with whose words I yell, I roam a lonely earth and put arms around my head, my mind in fact, for I am shattered.
A race of humankind I cannot love nor relate to and I feel like I relate to you but lately I feel as if I’m drifting backward
And not to say I’d like to move away from you but what else can I do when life is moving me backward
And backward, and backward and like a future so pre determined I feel as if no choice is now my own and no choice is ever free will
No cosmic force would remember me and I am sorry
I do not want to be something you forget and you’ve always told me I am something you remember.
In a shade of cobalt blue or a burning red or a golden yellow, I want to be a colour you cannot describe
A taste you yearn for, a smell whose memory remains
But all the same, I want to disappear.
I am sorry in terms long over due for all the things I do and have not done yet because you don’t deserve their scorn and yet I cannot leave them behind for parts of me for which you fell for remain inside me, and always will.
I am sorry for who I am and choices made and I will always be here whenever you decide the pieces I can’t leave behind are pieces that you cannot forget.
I’m sorry, my makeups both genetic and aesthetic are not pieces I enjoy or wish would stay a little longer
And for this I am sorry, and all in good time I will make up for all the sorries given, driven, laid to rest here in these words.
I am sorry for things you don’t deserve.
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 10:53 PM UTC
I’ve spent the last year inspecting my ceiling.
Every night or free afternoon, I crawl into bed.
My massive, hopelessly needing bed.
And I lie on my crooked spine and stare at it.
I think it changes everyday based on how lucid my dreaming is
I suppose I could say that about anything these days though, couldn’t I?
That everything changes based on my perceptions of life.
Or just based on how tuned into reality I am.
It’s a funny thought.
My ceiling is eggshell white.
I remember picking out what white I wanted with my mum in the hardware store.
“Ivory or snow?”
I don’t care, mum.
“Well it makes a difference you know.”
No it doesn’t, mum.
“You say that now but, we will come home with snow you’ll realize you wanted a yellower tinge and we should have gotten ivory.”
Fine, get ivory then.
“I think we have egg shell in the basement. Let’s save us the trouble and use that.”
So we did.
And now whenever I crawl into a state of disillusion and forget what the world is supposed to feel like under your fingernails or through your hair when you’re sitting in the sun, this is what I see.
An eggshell ceiling.
Which, in retrospect, sounds graciously poetic.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s possible to concentrate so hard that you become lighter than air and float up into my ceiling.
I fear that the eggshell colour influences how durable it is.
As if it literally might be eggshells and I could burst through it and keep going, further and further until no one can find me.
Maybe if we had bought ivory that day in the hardware store it would be tougher and hold me in.
But, honestly, I don’t know which is scarier.
To be trapped, safely bound, into my room by the ceiling above me
Or drift aimlessly until I hit a satellite dish or even just an airplane or tangled in a kite and fall back into the great atmosphere.
I wonder where I’d land.
I wonder where I’d end up if I just started to drift.
Would anyone notice?
Of course they would, how foolish of me.
A giant gaping hole in my fragile ceiling.
Even if no one went in my room I’m sure they’d notice when the rain that fell through the hole started to flood my room and leak out from under the door.
I wonder what the world sounds like from so high.
I wonder if it’s noisy up there.
I wonder what colour your ceiling is when I lay there now.
I hope that it’s eggshell.
Or cotton ball, or wedding veil.
Something you could tear through and drift through until you found me.
******* hell, I want you to find me.*
I’ve spent the last year inspecting my ceiling.
I haven’t found anything interesting out about anything since I started
Aug 22, 2011
Aug 22, 2011 at 8:31 PM UTC