As most of you know,
I am catastrophic.
And as most of you know,
I feel alone.
I see cobwebs collecting cluelessly in between the lines of your poems.
They age and sit and stay the same,
those poems from forever ago.
But aging is healthy, and time can be good,
what makes me sad is the static.
There are only ever old poems. Never new thoughts or feelings or the same thoughts and feelings strung and wrapped in different words.
It’s just cobwebs.
I used to read your poems religiously, I used to ponder what they meant.
But now I think I have my answers, and now I’m sure I’ve lost a friend.
What used help me cope has now become just a bigger reminder,
That everything I love will leave me in some way or another.
But I still read and I still write and I still think about the past
like a ghost in an old library reading only ancient texts
and I can’t conjure up the courage to say anything face to face
so I put it in a poem and I pray that you will find it.
Even if you do not write I pray that you still read.
Even if we do not talk I still put pieces of you into my words.
Even if we hate each other’s guts I still hope that you are happy
and I guess all I can really do is just keep on writing:
yes, this one IS for YOU
I saw you cry, you told me later you lost a friend to suicide
and when we sat there in that pizza joint,
the whole world was you and I,
you looked at me through mist and told me
"I swear to god this **** gets better,
and every person in this building feels this pain some way or another"
And I saw the funeral and the poems and the piece torn from your heart,
your sadness justified by loss, and that loss tore your soul apart,
and I knew that in that moment you were picturing it with me,
and how you can't afford more heartbreak,
how you can't stand to watch me leave,
You said "I love you"
and it echoed in my mind
My world stopped burning
I'll think of joy from time to time
"So sing for every buried moment that you'd thought would never end.
And sing your fears about the future; and a dirge for faded friends.
For all the love that you had held to, why it somehow failed to keep.
And sing each minute you've been frightened; every hour that you've lost sleep.
And sing for all your friends and family; sing for those who didn't survive.
But sing not for their final outcome; sing a song of how they tried.
We live amidst a violent storm; leaves us unsatisfied at best,
So fill your heart with what's important, and be done with all the rest."
I would die for you even if I didn't have to
With red rivers on my wrists
We are a car wreck,
watch how we burn,
on the shoulder of the highway, melting snow.
We are still breathing,
our chests rise and fall,
laying in a bed in the deepest pit of hell.
We are still something,
Though our story is macabre,
So long as we're not nothing, I will still burn with you.
So long as were not nothing, I will still die for you.
There was a knife by the window.
There was a pair of shaking hands.
There was a letter he could barely read.
There was a silence in the room.
There was a coffee scented candle.
There was a broken music box.
There was a photo of a stranger.
There was the death of a poet.
said the vulture to us as we fell,
out of peace out of love we could tell,
when our ties were unbroken we'd yell
And we stitched up the woulds from the fight,
from the fight.
For the heartache unable to die,
think of times we were able to fly,
when the maggots eat, our throats are dry,
And we wonder why we looked so grey,
oh so grey.
And always you hold value in the corners of my mind, and we hold our bags of feathers to remind us how we fly, how we fly with such purpose, how we fall with such stillness, and always you will look at me as if I'm just your illness.