It’s like a growth that you know is there
but you refuse to seek medical treatment
You just avoid touching it
trying to convince yourself that
you’re okay
You’re not dying
It’s a scent that will linger on
like skunk on a dog
No matter your special remedies
the smell isn’t going to go
Until it goes on it’s own
But I’m convinced
This feeling isn’t killing me
or straining my senses
I’m okay
I’m not dying
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
I am the game
that’s hard to appreciate outside of elementary,
or foreign language class in high school
I want to be your bingo
The excitement you get over luck
The small but sweet surprise prize
and the twinkle in those eyes,
all over a few (phone) numbers
and (love) letters
I am the game
that is often neglected
until one realizes adding monetary value
makes everything worth risking
but the truth is Honey
I won’t always pay out
Mar 12, 2015
Mar 12, 2015 at 6:55 PM UTC
My brain is a soft serve swirl of
no's and please don't go's and
I love you so's
and
I can't really get in there
to stop it from dripping
down into my chest cavity
and making a sticky home
with my breaking heart
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 3:31 PM UTC
You are the vapor
that escapes my lungs
and the clashing
of two confused tongues
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
You and I
went through
phases
nutella and
new music and
Children's television and
taco bell and
movie going and
the lottery
We never won
a **** thing
Then there was
sleeping in and
not sleeping at all and
neuro something-or-other and
youtube
My head on your lap
Your hands on my head
Your eyes on the screen
Lastly
there was
5 guys
but
how many did it take
to sever me
from you?
just
one
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 3:00 AM UTC
How could a still evening
spin this cloud of smoke
so brilliantly in front of
such a dark night
illuminated only by
artificial light
and
how could it be witnessed
with no thick frames
accompanied by lenses
enabling that flashing image
seemingly waving
from the end of the pavement
to be understood
How can the information
being inferred
from a pixelated screen
be processed
She is just curious
Her
How can that
be processed
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:20 AM UTC
My stomach grumbles, as do I
saying "I'm done, throw this away."
Shoveling a picked apart parcel of pulp,
placed pleasantly in front of me paces previously,
back into the bakers basket
All I could do was try to taste this treat,
as it constantly tantalizes my taste buds
I reach a treaty with Me each day
again I say
"I'm done, throw this away"
Then again, it will probably always whisper
from the waste basket
so maybe
it's okay for me to love just the voice?
So
Maybe
it's okay for me to love
just the crumbs?
Maybe
it's okay.
No, no no
It's okay
"I'm done
Throw this away"
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
There is a kink in my back in need of a crack
and somewhere a question with an answer I lack
Life's water flows through me but I've lost the cap
So my brain leaks it's juices and forgets to synapse
There is a picture perfect being lingering sometimes
but the string has been cut to disable the blinds
All seen through the window is through scratched glass
I lift up my light source to prove you exist
Love, I have burnt all the wax
There is a light behind your baby blues turned on when I'm up close
and from far away those secret windows seem boarded and closed
If I threw the rocks I wield at them they would crack
expose all the complete products I lack
place me again on a downward track
sicken me
I'll no longer be your after school snack
I'll only be rotten and stuck in tupperware
watching you from the fogged up plastic
my own rotting wheat sending shivers down your spine
far unlike the way you send them down mine
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
I walk up the stairs in a rather unorthodox way
preferring my step pattern to never stay the same
since for years I dabbled in forever and
always pays
always laughs
always makes the first move
Now,
always late, always last, or at least never first
an unquenchable thirst for connections and friends
and un-sad yet unhappy terms coming to ends
with immune systems weak, we're crumbling in the end
but it's only me bleeding out my ends from a poor ulcered tract
For years they've begged me to put on a smile
and I still find it a struggle to stay in tact
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
The decision has been made
after digging an early grave
perhaps the feelings will fade
and affections will halt, as I'm no longer brave
It was the alcohol that spoke
puff after puff of smoke
All the words that it had uttered
let your hand, my head, stroke
and oh how I said no
Oh, how I fought it
Respect is something I've tried to learn
it's a lesson though
Who taught it?
Not me
nor will I ever.
be yours?
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC