There are beautiful words in my mind
aching to inform you
of my admiration towards your heart,
my longing for your lips
of the beauty in the fragile lines of your palm.

So many things to be said
about you and about us.

But if my mind is a pen
and you are the ink
I suppose that
there isn't much to be said
after all.
Because your silence is
beyond-noticeable
and my weariness is
growinggreater.

And those words are fading
with every quiet night
when you aren't here
and the phone won't ring.

A naked body next to yours
won't make you feel
less alone.

A kiss as soft as moss
won't quell
the shadow's voice.

A clean escape
won't ease your steps
as you walk away.

But those things don't matter much,
because it's dark outside
and cold inside
and you can't sleep
and the phone won't ring.

From the first moment of conception,
as yours cells sprang to pull apart from one another
as if making two from one was an admirable accomplishmen
excellence was expected from you.
"Excel boldly towards great expectations!"
Affectionately inscribed to
shine in the sun.

All those eyes swirling around you
insisting you smile so bright.
Bloom to a flower despite the rocky soil
of suburban streets.

Master your studies
Love like a poet
Live like a saint
Make lots of friends
Make no mistakes
Contribute to history
**** like a champ
Take the pain in stride
Then die like a hero

Great care was put into raising you.
Your parents stood from a pedestal
and flung you into the sky
expecting you to fly
despite your feeble limbs
and fear of heights.
Flying through the air with
eyes like eclipses.
Given a pen to write great words
...guess they never noticed it had no ink.

You stand in the mirror for hours
they think you a narcissist.
You couldn't be far from it,
just confused.
Confused as to how anyone could
think of you as special and grand.
Confused at how everyone else is so much better
at simply living their lives.
Like it weren't such a great,
tremendous ordeal.

It's like no one else notices the beauty
in watching two specks of dust
converse in the breeze.
How is no one else fascinated at sitting, perched
on a street bench
watching the passer-bys go about their days?

Staring at those strange eyes
trying to see what they see.
Trying to see how anyone could fail to notice
those corpses for eyes you have.
Eyes where the iris wilted;
nothing left but pupil.
Black, monstrous pupil.

All those times you watched
the ones you loved
stand in horror at those eyes.
The sheen of night reflecting their
portrait back to them.
Seeing far too much of the world.
Seeing what they don't see.
Monstrous things, terrible things.
You want to scream these overwhelming thoughts to the world but
theysuffocateamidtheblareofbusystreets.
Words fallen upon distracted ears.

You found shelter in the darkest corner of existence
still expected to converse happily
still expected to live with a smile
still expected to hide your unfortunate understanding
of the way things really worked
in this absurd world in our infinite Universe.
The abyss gazes also
and its faced has likened to yours.

You do not fear eternity
eternity is every day of your life
the only thing temporary are those fleeting seconds
of happiness that others seem to reside in.

But I shouldn't say that you don't care.
You do
You can't help but care.
Hell, you tried not to. You really tried.
Tried not to care for the quiet girl across the room,
or for the gutter cats with no bowl of food
the children across the world
whose problems are so much worse than yours.
You've fallen in love so hard you tore you heart in two
one for him and one for you, one for her and one for you.
All those countless times the moonlight messenger solemnly informed you
that your love died in a tomb, never to be revived.
You looked to the sky
but it was cloudy,
there weren't even any stars to defy.

You're expected for great love
but you never expected the way your heart pounds
and your stomach turns
when you fight back the tears
of a great love lost.
Staring into a devastated face
seeing in perfect form a heart you've shattered.

It's like they don't know just how burdensome
these great expectations are.

But perhaps -- most importantly --
they don't understand
the beauty of a sunrise after a sleepless, crying night
or the gratitude felt from finding a legitimate hand to hold.

You are expected for great things,
everyone thinks they are.
Let them earn their degrees
to live in boxes with greatly expected children.
Let them live their lives, they are just trying to be happy.

But you, but me, but all the rest of the people like us.
Let us leave this place
with the preoccupations and the pedestals.

Our bodies strengthened by the expectations we abandoned in exchange
for a peaceful sunset and that little light
we forgot shone
in these tired, confused, marvelous eyes.

Well, here we are:
stuck in the ambivalent winds
of our landlocked state.

Warm mornings
without warning
curse us with cold
before the clock tower strikes four times.

The landlocked people dressed for warmth
then scurried for shelter as the chill
seeped into their bones.
Fearing cold they hide their brains
safe from love, safe from pain.
It's like they don't even know
to just wait five minutes.
It'll all be different in five minutes.

In five minutes there will be time
Time for
floods and droughts
ice and flash fires
infinite wrath, infinite despair.

Trust in Oklahoma means
to stand on a faulty bridge
and fain stability.

Looking West in Oklahoma means absolutely nothing
There is flat in all directions.

And so, here we are:
landlocked lovers
amid a complacent population.

Let us not trust weather,
it can not make up its mind.
Let us not trust the wilted Mistletoe
the only flowers I need are in your eyes.
Let us not fear the cold or the heat
in five minutes there will still be time
to blanket ourselves in warmth
or strip ourselves bare
in the devious Sun.

And they say it'll all get better
(eventually!)
That all these things will vanish
with time.
I am far too young to know of pain,
far too proud to ask for help
far too tired to leave my bed
far too ****** to care.

No one warned me that life was this long
or that every second of sadness
is a lifetime
compared to those fleeting months of happiness
that disappear like thunder in the storm.

No one likes poetry about being sad
written by pretentious college students
read by strangers on the internet.

But I've once been told to write what's in my heart
and writing about sadness
is better than writing about nothing.

Cigarette for breakfast
at least I still have the energy for that.
Panic attack last night
at least something can raise my heartbeat.

A wish that my bed was a casket
at least there's one conviction that doesn't change
after the night ends
and after the sun rises.

A path lined with shards of glass
from crystalline tears
and secret glances
the brief encounters
the blank stares
the nights spent searching for what is gone
or forcing breaths into flattened lungs

the pain of stepping on all those hearts
that I have shattered.

True: tall, handsome, writes poems
and makes them smile, even when he can't.
Ultimately left alone to walk
this path of shattered glass.

I would shatter them all again,
if it meant I could feel anything at all from their love,
if only just the feeling
of glass in my steps
and regret in their souls.