This is an ode to Adderall,

that wonderful mixture of

dextroamphetamine sulfate

dextroamphetamine saccharate

amphetamine

aspartate monohydrate

and amphetamine sulfate capsules

that all combine together

to form a prescribable pill

questionably similar to the Schedule II controlled substance street drug

commonly refered to as "Speed."


This is an ode to the children

who are bundles of energy caged in a classroom

incapable of concentrating

on the miniscule tasks given to them

by pedagogical authorities that

promise societal success and economic happiness

to those who complete their work on time

without a fuss or a doubt as to why they're

filling in bubbles on paper in the first place.

The confused children who watch

as others with calmer brains

fixate eyes on textbooks

rather than out the window.


This is an ode to Society

deeming these individuals as broken

choosing to wound then medicate

rather than proliferate.

That took their inquisitiveness

and locked it in a book with the label "DISORDER"

stating that you will never be anything

unless you think and feel the same way we do.

And much like a mad doctor

lobotomizing those whom he thinks insane

they synthesized a pill

to dampen a torrential brilliance

allowing them to place their sedated children

back in the box where they belonged.


This is an ode to the college students

chained by academic standards

expected to excel towards great things

if only they reach that ethereal diploma.

The students who crave the artificial focus

the increased capacity for concentration

with the broadened spectrum of perception

the sense of purpose in the tedium

the ungodly ability to think clearly

and perform the meaningless tasks they expect of us.

The students who go through illegal means

to purchase said drug

to swallow or snort

and dive back into the mountain of responsibility

with a new found sense of productivity and motivation.

An ode to the students

unable to find purpose in studenthood

the ones who find more virtue in watching the sunset

burn clouds into firework oblivion

before then blessing us with uncritical night.

An ode to the students

who discover more education

in climbing to the top of a mountain

and yelling a nonsense decree of passion

just to watch the echo

bounce from shore to shore

in cathartic reverberation.

The ones

for which our pill

is the only possible manner

of assigning purpose to purposeless assignments.

These are the ones

who must binge

cram for days before

the big exams

going whole nights without sleep

or food.

The ones slowly cracking under the increasing pressure of academia

spending more time questioning why they must complete their homework

instead of actually completing it.


This is an ode to my brothers and sisters

who stand in horror at the mold we must fit into

crafted by an unknown unshakable entity.

The ones who lost the appeal of cookie-cutter success

in exchange for a small understanding

of the way things really work.

The cogs that twisted off the machine

and now sit lotus-posed in the corner.

My fellow birds with broken wings

still expected to fly.

My fellow carpenters expected to build their estates

yet not given the proper tools to do so.

The ones of cursed cold clarities

perfectly capable of clutching

those fifteen minutes of dynasty

yet refrain from doing so due to

the immaculate futility of it all.


This is an ode to a drug induced rant

that no one will read

the one that I chose to write

instead of doing my **** homework in the library

like a compliant student.


This is an ode to the pressure-oriented procrastinators

that delay and yet again delay

their petty necessary obligations due to purposeless and exhausted motivation.

Swallowing substances to summon some sort of incentive

to fill in the bubbles

and cater to the Society they find so confusing

the ones who only under influence of synthesized chemicals

find reason to squeeze into that culturebox

that cascades down a bumpy man-made conveyor belt

branding a diploma onto your forehead

injecting an occupation into your veins

transforming your pupils to dollar bill signs

demanding you breed children

to do the same as you have

and you'll never be happy unless you do these things

right?


This is an ode to those who reside in the shadows

of our broken social system

and conjure up great conversations

pertaining to everything and nothing

that are as wonderful and necessary

as the prints of your fingers

caressing down a comfortable torso

just before the sun rises

the untouchable indescribable realizations of life and love

that are completely irrelevant in their eyes

but are entirely necessary for our survival.


This is an ode to the overwhelming feeling of love

greatly exacerbated by a pharmaceutical delight

whereupon connections with other humans

become both incredibly appealing and oddly magnetic

for a few electric hours.

The oxygenating satisfaction felt

the instance just after the small talk architecture masks

fall to the floor

and right before we put them back on.


This is an ode to the minutes before the amphetamine crash

where the world still doesn't make sense

but we briefly don't mind

because a few fleeting moments of energy and purpose

in this otherwise detestable confine of reality

are all you can really ask for

as you complete the assignments

then step outside

to smoke yet another cigarette (they're absolutely wonderful on Adderall try it some time it'll **** you slowly but then again what won't?)

only to witness our Sun

breeding fire clouds in the east

illuminating the Western Abyss into purple-gold spectral oblivion

and in consequence therefore

between puffs of a necessary cigarette

you grin to yourself in quiet victory.


This is an ode to misaligned priorities

to those who when walking to everimportant final examinations

think not of the curriculum beaten into their skulls

but take careful measure to step on every crack on the sidewalk

who stare not towards the future

but to the beautiful reflection reflecting back from the broken mirrors

that are the weary days and weary ways

of this curious existence.

To those when stepping into the absurd spotlight of Society

unapologetically proclaim:


"Though I must play your game,

you will never win."

Not so far away girl
still so impossibly far
why must we wait until sunrise
to fall asleep?

Why is this beauty only conceivable
after the bottle dripdrips empty?
sinking deeper and deeper into saturn's orbit

youthful vibrant fluffed up peacocks
clucking on about research chemicals
and music festivals and last night and 6 days before
about banking and obamacare
and oh, my they're all talking
all at once
talktalktalking about this this this and that
not even asking for audience
soundwaves echo into nothingness
screaming lungs void of substance
fleeting purposes
failed courtships
unheard unimportant words
and oh, my, what a tedious thing
the night has become
but to stay at home alone
would be even more unspeakable.

Outside the party across the street
there is a tree
splayed out overhead and undergound
soaking up carbon growing tall still growing
slightly sad tree breathing in the silence of our sighs
dancing fallen leaves wrapping up the deadspace around us
deadworld space where we two sit under the edge
of revelry and absurdity
laughing, drunk, with the moon and the stars and
for just a second
feeling
slightly less impossible.

I really wish this wasn't my most read poem, it was a ****** experiment of mine that doesn't have much behind it. Oh, well...






I,
Not
Too
Pleasant

Every
Sky
Feels
Joyous

In the
Near future, watching
Them
Play

Everyone
See, it's time to
Feel happy and
Just right.

Inside where I stay
Neither happy nor
Thwarted by their accusations of
Perdition.

Everyone else
Smiles but him.
Forget it,
Just forget him.

Interminable are the
Nights
That
Pain brings.

Eternal are the
Scowls
For dark ones like you.
Just forget it, let's play.

Et Cetera.
Interminable.

Under bedsheets like rabbits do we crawl
with innocent eyes
far away from the words and shadows
of our illuminated world.

Under bedsheets like rabbits do we escape
from the blare and blur of suburban streets.
Streets with blinding light
in which the constellations suffocate
to shine.

The infinite possibilites
of the infinite universes
of the infinite this
and the infinite that.
So much to discover
and revel in,
the moon will never set
but will hover, golden
over the ripe horizon.

Under the rabbithole of bedsheets
do we find a world where the stars smile back.
Where a curleyheaded girl soaks her tired feet
in a slender river
for even just
a few moments of beauty
and passion
in our world composed so wholly
of streetlights and shadows.

We are told to be happy
told to be healthy
'Go to the university, son'
to be handed intelligence
'Make some money,
marry a pretty girl.'
Force children into the world
to do as you did.

Live in a nice house
for the rest of your days.
Sit outside and watch your happy
healthy
normal children
play.

You'll hardly hear the whimper
of the sparrow
caught in the teeth of your
purebred black labrador retriever.

A bird with a broken wing
expected to live a life of flight.

The leaves are falling but no one is outside.
The roots are withering but no one is underground.
That man is crying but his smile hides the tears.

My world is asleep tonight,
all the people and things
that make me feel horrible have fallen asleep.

I guess it's up to me
to do their job,
until they wake up.

“O thou invisible spirit of wine,
if thou hast no name to be known by,
let us call thee devil!”-William Shakespeare*

It's cold outside and colder in here
Under the surprising privacy
of a blaring crowd
I gleefully lose myself

Put on my pseudo-smile
and talk to my pseudo-friends.

Maybe even forget it.
Forget that I feel like a set of floating eyes
Forget that we're all mounds of flesh and hair
Forget
Forget you all

My eyes are brick walls and fence posts
And I am opening the gate to all in sight
I watch my ethos come crashing down
with every increasingly true glance
of yet another Siren.

Only under the blare and blur
of that frozen house
Could I have ever mistaken formality
(or the lack of)
for some sort of kindness or legitimacy.

I've nothing to say to you
but my mouth keeps moving
I've no joy to give to you
but my face keeps smiling

Curse the fate of the hidden one
destined to reveal himself
under most forgettable circumstances

I didn't remember much,
but let us be honest:

when the sun rises
(as it also does)
and your burning eyes long
for lost innocence and vitality

The air will pulse and the room will echo
but I will be gone:
and I'm taking your memory of me
as a parting gift.

Distress signals emmited from bioelectronic tendrils
blades under kneecaps
seeping into taste
smelling like Spring.
So many bodies kneeling on innocent grass
lined up and lined on
sitting in pews at the park
the limitless stretches of people and people
and everyone
everyone was there!
How magnificent! for the whole world to get together
and have a nice evening at the park
billions of feet stammering on billions more blades of grass
smelling like spring
smoderling summer sun
filling air rotting
sad little whimpers
inaudible under the mumble of the world
over the look in their eyes.
The heat jostled air
radiation poison
burning away life itself
keeping us all warm and alive inside.

so many people
everywhere and all around us
-- I had a thought
I wanted to write it down
before it got lost forever.
I tried.
The words twisted around as I wrote them
the pen melted in my hands
so that the the silly
silly silly words
stupid arrogant words too proud to be written down
I tried to make eloquent or something at all
I tried I tried
trust me i really tried
i didn't mean to be such a cottonmouthed disappointment
those silly words all swirled around and about
begging for anything real.
Hissed for one last moment
before the sun and the sound and the agony
twisted and snapped
melting away all that was
of the words on the paper
ofthe ink in the pen
of the shadows in my brain.
melting out dripdripping
tears as black as silence
blaring like ambient noise
I wish the words would understand
that the real real the world the real greybluechemical world
didn't want me living in it
anymore.
I don't know what I did to Life
to make it so upset
but I guess it just didn't want me hanging around,
said I never fit in well with the crowd.
Go find some other reality to bother.

And then it all set in,
0-60 in a second.
Here was your happiness
and here you are now.
And what an amazing distance that is.
when did those years go by?
why stand so sad with your soul in shreds?
Too afraid to set the strands on fire
so there they hung
ethereal chains jutting from every cell
chains that are a feast that you can't stomach
chains that are that sad song you can't listen to -anymore
chains that are that tear in your eye refusing to fall
all the loves lost if only you had just loved
who is this person in the mirror?
this blackeyed monster with eyes like sadness
and sleep like terror
with ink indignant ashamed of what you wrote
what you wrote deep down under those chains in you
mirror neuron pain must be felt
sadistic black mirror chained down and burning burning and melting and burning
and rambling
on and on and on and on and on and on
and you probably stopped reading long ago.

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.

i would like to spend
the remainder of my days
floating
alone in outer space

past the edge of the universe
where not even starlight could reach me
and I would float in the blackness
without sight or sound or heat
forever

no gravity to press down on my
shattered body
free from the dull ache
of titanium plates and screws
relief to cartilage ripped to shreds

but most importantly
i would be far too far away
for anyone to ask me
if i was okay
or if i needed help

Great Expectations


The moment after you were born
(which apparently was a great miracle)
they slapped your ***
took your footprints
wrote your name on an official certificate
wrapped you up and sent you home.
The doctors said you were healthy:
your parents said you were better than that.

And from then on you were to be exactly that.
Excellent in every way.
Tall.
Charming.
Wide-eyed.
Witty.
Strong.
Unbreakable.
A statue will be made of you.

Affectionately inscribed to
shine in the sun,
you've no need to know the darkness:
only the weak waste their breath
reveling in the moon,
howling the night away.

Great care was put into raising you.
You are not to take it for granted.
Do you not know how high
your parents had to fling you
for you to hit that pedestal so monolithic?

Expecting you to fly
without asking if you feared heights
or sought the soft grass instead.

Expecting you to eclipse the Sun
oh, so long you stared into it
asking how to fly so high
sun in your eyes
darkness burning in.

Expecting you to See the World
in all it's brilliant beauty
with those eclipses in your skull
with the abyss open eyes.

Given a pen to write great words
but I guess they never noticed
it had no ink.

Big bulging eyes expected to see everything.
Eyes taught to see the flaws in everything
eyes with nothing better to look at
but televisions and mirrors.

The bathroom mirror where you first realized
that you weren't good enough.
Hours spent staring at some ugly stranger
too proud for friends
too quiet for fame
too tired for talent.

A living collaboration of flaws
held together by bits of pasty skin
broken bones
and dark eye circles
by all the times you were called a failure
or all the times they said "you did your best"
but you called yourself a failure anyways.

Eyes like mirrors seeing eyes and windows
and eyes and glass barriers.
All those eyes swirling around you
seeing what they want to see,
you can only hope they don't see too much.
At least you've grown cynical enough
to know they're not looking for much to begin with
but even still your stomach grows weary.

Here you soar at the prime of your youth
surrounded by mirrors
eyes full of fluorescent lighting.
sleepy and stumbling.
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 they really didn't know that Life was
the hardest thing there ever is.

Words fallen upon distracted ears.

Eyes that are full of Life
but only the brighter half of it.
Eyes as windows staring at screens
texting all the silence away.
Eyes that are lost in Life
loving and living
taking every step forward
without feeling the weight to ask why.

Oh, and here you are,
sitting, perched on a street bench
watching the passer-bys go about their day.

Looking at those strange eyes
trying to see what they see.
Trying to see how anyone could fail to notice
that sad statue staring there.

All those times you watched
the ones you loved
stand in inconsolable silence
but if only you knew what to say...

...
Nights quiet

the sheen of the abyss reflecting their
sorrows back at them.

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 work
the lead role in the tragiccomedy of your own life
set on the absurd stage of our own gravity.

The gravity that is every day of your life
the aching in your bones as the alarm goes off
the stagger in your step as you stumble forward
the tears at night as you have to do it all over again.
The only thing temporary are those
crashing moments of happiness
that shine bright
but disappear with the thunder.

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
standing naked there with your darkness hanging out.
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,
but then again,
everyone thinks they are.
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 torn and torn again
worn down and weary but somehow
still stepping
strengthened by the expectations
we exchanged
for a peaceful sunset
and a good night's sleep.

For that little light
that we forgot shone
in these tired, confused, marvelous eyes.

Remembering time past.
Hell, searching for lost time.
Idyllic maybe
But
Flowers wilt.

The idle wailing
of Sirens and Daffodils
Allows me to forget:

Nostos holds Algos.
Scylla, Charybdis.
Is the future come yet?

Every word becomes a mistake.
All triumphs a fleeting matter
worthy of none.

Eviscerate my joy and live in its corpse.

"Every inordinate cup is
unblessed and the ingredient is a devil."


The sun has set and the switch between
lives is applicable.
We are all dead tonight. Frozen
in a hidden world far away from
innocence and frowning faces.
Far past the sun and far past
plastic cups and lost inhibitions,
lost in a torrent of ecstasy:
we transform into beasts.

Beyond this and so much more
Beyond undeserving smiles and lustful pursuits
Beyond "no regrets" and spilt drinks
And hollow laughter and moonlit faces
And spins and joy and misery and
And
and this, and so much more.
I will never grow old... I will never grow old.
*And let me the canakin clink
clink

'Pandora left all but hope,
I watched the world unfold from out in a cage,
it was quite beautiful until I lived a life there.

The world I see is not the world I live.
Dare I to choose a life sanctity?
To repudiate the winelife and sit in silence, pure?
I will find pain in both worlds.
Might as well have fun in our misery.'

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.

What is this pulse I feel?
Stark, ever-present, the tumor with which
life is sustained.

The sky today is remarkably dismal
raindrops along the sidewalks
which I cling to:
not out of reliance --
but out of need.

The world is a bleak gunmetal grey
The Promethean fire of our reluctantly naked sun
cannot even bear to expose itself today.
So, it hides.
It hides like we all do.

What is this pulse I feel?

It hides like an introvert at a party
who escapes himself
into the blare and blur of a horrid
solidarity of bottles and children
and the illegal activities with which
they so complacently cling to.

Hides like a man in a pin-striped suit
who is concealed under white teeth and
leather lounge chairs and contemporary
architecture.

Hidden like child at a shopping mall
whose mother is almost attentive
as the child hides in a clothing rack
and screams:

"You'll never find me!
You'll never find me!"

And the mother realizes that her
child is gone
And the mother finds her child.
And the child never realizes
that he will never escape the eyes
of those whom he doesn't want to see.

The child may want a mask but masks never conceal effectively --
and if they do they're uncomfortable
and press against your face and suffocate your skin.
And it's easier just to let everyone see you
than to be an isolated mask amongst the ranks
of autonomy-hungry deoxyribonucleic acid.

What is this pulse I feel?

The child dies in a car accident several years later.
Oh, well.

And so, I am here --
the world is sullen and steel
as the raindrops fall upon the sidewalk.
It's as if the world is a graveyard
no one dares exit their shelters to
let the cold Truth gently fall upon their faces.

What is this pulse I feel?

The water falling from the Sun's shelter
answers my question:
"You are a raindrop, you fall from the sky
and land, cold, onto these concrete streets.
You may distinguish yourself amongst the other molecules
but you are all Hydrogen and Oxygen.
Your identity is nothing.
You are but an off-key baritone singing in a chorus.
The chorus is an ocean;
the aggregation of all human water molecules.
What's one drop to do?"

This pulse I feel?
It is one of billions, and it is indistinguishable.
I cling to the sidewalk as I step further --
hands in my pockets, stepping further.
Step.

I hear the abyss calling.
It takes the form of falling rain.

As Prometheus runs East,
Light leaves and the Underword emerges.

it is too dark to see the wilted flowers
strewn about our lives
and in the eyes
amid the smoke and tears.

It is night and I am alone.

The weight in my eyes increases
turn turn take the stair
into the house so dark and down
(the Door chuckles as i enter)

The eyes that stare --
those big words that make us so unhappy --
the illusory pain -- ever-so-persistent:
all those that make death so appealing
are somewhere.

...But they are not here,

I breathe out smoke
and watch it fade into the Stars.

I'm snorting coke in the bathroom
And what's sad is I'm thinking of you
I lost myself yet once again
I lost myself and I lost you, too.

It's 8 months since I last saw you,
I talked to you once from a Texas jail cell.
The clock it was ticking
And I knew that was well
fitting for the love that we had.

I'm not sure that you will read this
I'm not that I want you to.

I've spent this whole summer
Snorting coke in various bathrooms.
I can't claim that I've always thought of you.
But I can't claim that I am alone.

You are, you will
Forever haunt me.
Just like how these poems
Always fall apart.
I lose track of rhyme
And of reason
But never of thoughts of you.

Ashley,
I will love you always.
Even though
We've drifted along.
The paths we've always needed
To float upon.

Even though
I still die in my sleep.
All the time.
Every night.
I think of you
and then I die.

And you are a ghost
And I love you too
Always and forever
I will think of you.

I 'm drunk on a park bench
You won't leave my mind.

How typical I think
Yet another man who thinks
That he can take your mind.

You're suffering without me.
You suffered so much with me.

What else is there to say?
I'm snorting coke in the bathroom
Of a bar where I don't want to be.
I don't want to be thinking of you
Yet still you penetrate my night.

So frequently do we hear
of the intoxicated eyes
with nothing behind them.

So frequently do they face
repudiation
from the isolated introvert.

They can't see straight
they can't think straight
they willfully walk the line of self destruction.

These eyes swirl around me,
and here I stand:
confused and fascinated.

A brief feeling of at home:
surrounded by eyes
as empty as mine.

Recovering from exhaustion only available
after nights and nights (and nights) of dreamless sleep
and sleepless dreams and mourning pillows that hold
more tears than we'd like to admit. Recovering from night terrors
only possible after decades of shameless meandering along
a rocky shore of somniferous hyperactivity.
Hide your fires no light will find you here.

Wake up, feel the sweat drip from your brow:
your heart is racing and you've no clue why.

Life is burden when sleep is terror.

I've always hated
that question.

I've wanted to die
since I was
eleven years old.

Isn't that
reason
enough?

What are you getting at?
Poetically dispassionate ink
pouring out of your mouths.
Standing half-naked here
with your nasty bits hanging out and dangling.

Fifth grade ******* contest,
tape measure microphone.

'His darkness is bigger than his!'
'Well yeah but his is darker.'
It's okay
maybe you're a grow-er and not a show-er.

Half-poised, microphone voice-box
tell me now, what parchment does
your pen ***** onto?

Caligraphy college degrees.
Upper-middle class tragicomedy.
Skin unscarred,
pretending to know
just how deep a razor blade can go.
Red ink looks close enough to blood I guess.

This vast sea of poetic words,
snotgreen and scrotumtightening.
With your absolute knowledge
of what Joyce was getting at
as he layed there dying and blind
imploring to the world:
"Does nobody understand?"

What awful things has the world done to you
to beget these howls of pain?
What about you
does this dimlylit place,
with it's black coffee and chicken sandwiches,
epitomize?
When was the last time your world was worth destroying?
How did you sleep last night?
Have you ever heard a bone snap in half?
What is your first thought when holding a sharp object?

What will these words prove
when you find that no one's listening?

I am filth embodied,
spending my time
communing with mold and cockroaches,
spending my time
sitting in filth
because filth is home.

I do not feel *****
I feel just fine.
There's month old dishes in the shower,
rot in the fridge,
toenails on the table.
And it is home.

Filth is not good or bad.
Love is not ***** or pure,
it is two naked figures in front of a grimy mirror
marveling at their comfort.

These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.
These dreams make waking up a gift and a chore.
Morning injects me into reality
Like a vaccine: a deadened virus that will keep you safe.
I cannot stomach this infertility,
Not yet.

I am not what I am
The eyes of those who pretend to see:
As benevolent as a mouth full of razors.
The mouths that I always want to kiss.
The lips that I always seem to pursue.
The cuts that I always pretend to cherish.
The ancient lust shakes my blood.

And I am forced to embrace nostalgia
as She and She and He and Then penetrate my mind: a time long past.
What is memory but a slideshow of regrets?
Every word becomes a mistake.
All triumphs a fleeting matter worthy of none.
Eviscerate my joy and live in its corpse.

It is April and we are frozen:
Stuck in a world we never knew
In a love we thought we felt
A life we never lived.

Entering this house is the last twist of the knife.
You're breaking my soul upon your eyes:
No birds sing.
Life isn't very long.
Even roses wilt.
It's rude to stare.

High on sidewalks and streetlights,
The sun has set: will it rise again?
What is to become of this,
My darkness?

There is no clock tower here, and
My full moon is setting too fast.
Day will come, day will come.
Feeling too much or nothing at all.
My heart races and I've no clue why.

And I will come home, to a sepulcher
Void of all light and screeching like the Storm.
I lift the knife to my side,
I look at you, and I sigh....
These thoughts grind my teeth through sleep.

Down to the last drop
of the dark-blue incandescent bottle
lies peace-in-the-chaos,
a welcome break from the weary world.

this taste that burns is all i need
as the bottle drips down farther
and farther

lost
      unreal
cannot stand but willing to strike
                        cannot speak but screaming
will not remember
              not remember what is going on
                                                                  what is going on?

until it's empty
and the world is worth destroying.

Time does not heal, only tears do.
I lay awake and think of you,
too prideful to break down or cry.
A rip in my bones too deep to die.

I meander the Earth with heavy eyes
(you do not let me sleep much)
My body could collapse at any moment
(you've made the days heavy as heavy)
Food and wine taste of dust
and I do not love but lust.

All of this is due
to living a life with you...
And time does not heal only tears do
but I will never cry for you.

I will live a life of misery if it means you don't get the satisfaction
of my sadness.

The Fall leaves are rustling,
forming some sort of poetic image
I guess.

Middle class tragicomedy turning darker everyday
breaching past the line of typical dysfunctional
with every dark blue bottle of ***** and
orange plastic pharmaceuticals fraudlently prescribed
black swollen bruises on mom's face
****** up you asleep drink in hand
with the tv still on drink
while mom cried in the youngest's child's bed
the eldest kicked out for doing drugs
me on the bathroom floor learning how to disembowl a razor
and carve it into my flesh.
West Texas camping trip when you bought a motorcycle
and said have fun
and I crashed into a ditch
and snapped my leg in half
and the helmet flew off
did you know that if you hit your head hard enough
everything before and after will feel like a dream?
and that's when it all got darker
as a 15 year kid dying in West Texas
having lost his will to live 1 year earlier on a plane leaving California
waking up in an ambulance
remembering nothing but knowing two things.
My name is Kyle, something bad has happened.
Born again in a hospital bed
surrounded by strangers claiming to be family.
Leg bones snapped in half
then drilled with titanium
and the pain never went away
not for a second
you took all of my pain pills
you held the medical bills over my head
you told me that it was my fault that I crashed
and yes it was my fault
but I didn't buy the ******* bike
and I didn't want to ride the ******* bike
and you can say whatever you want
because I'm crippled now
and my memory is broken
and I have a headache that doesn't go away
but deep in this broken body of mine
there's a silence that speaks for itself
there's a sadness that doesn't hate itself anymore
there's a tear that refuses to fall
there's a hatred reserved only for you
there's a love born out of spite
a beautiful tortured brilliant love
with room for everyone but you my loving father
my loving oblivious father
sick brained hateful father
and me your victim limping away
from the scene of your crime
that was my childhood.

Sauntering the night away
among Suburban streets
with the cars
the light pollution
the concrete
and all those other signs of humanity
that writers before me loathed so much.

True, Thoreau may admire
an alchemical need for walking
every day and every night
in order to stay sane.
Yet he would shun my use of an
mp3 player
as "too technological"
or "too inorganic."

Yet as I make my way
through paved streets
why does the music
fit my steps so well?

And if the Romantics
would hate my headphones,
why does every happy song
remind me, with a smile, of her?

So cramped in here,
I can barely breathe.
The facade I've given to
the God I abandoned,
to my loving, naive parents,
to the authority we're all forced to pander to.
My facade, it is crashing down.

Oh, how did I get here?
So smart, so handsome,
so handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser.
No more time for poetic formality:
****.

**** **** ****.
This is the kind of ****
that belongs in a ******* Kafka novel.

I remember, even minutes ago
I sat safe and content with the illusion
of freedom.
There is no "home" anymore,
even there is not safe.

These thin wrists were not meant
for handcuffs.
These fingertips were not meant
to be printed in ink.
This mouth is "real pretty,"
or at least that's what I'm told
as I enter the cell.

There are some nights on this earth
when it is easier to ignore the signs
forget the laws and forget the composure.
Some nights ask you to smile
and it would be rude to decline.

It's very easy to forget
how heavy the days are,
sometimes.

We have these nights to remind us that
we try to smile and nothing comes out.
Nights in which it's easier to sit alone
and wait for the world to end
than to try and hold a hand.

Sometimes I wonder
if not all nights
are some-nights.

There are some nights
where joy must be squeezed out
or cracked like an egg --
elsewise it will sit, stagnant:
taunting.

Let the memories flood your mind
and stand in horror at what you find.
On some nights every recollection is
a needle jammed into your cerebral cortex.
Do not fear these nights for they are always.

The world turns and night turns to day
and turns to night and turns to etc.

An old man dies in his sleep,
a flower withdraws into its stalk
the fires subside and guide us
through this oblivion.
She wants him.
He wants to die.
They pass out, one by one.
Words fall to the floor
and sometimes -- if you're lucky--
the humming of insects and streetlights
enfolds every ripple in your brain
and you feel our concrete earth
remind you in a low tone:
'Everything is fine, status quo.
You will live another day.'

There are some nights on this earth
that are almost worth living.

I wanted to write you a poem
I really did
Tried real hard to come up with some words
They didn't even have to be poetic or eloquent or whatever
Just had to be something.
Some sort of proof that anything happened at all.
Do you remember? Do you remember anything at all?
Xanax works in mysterious ways.
Like how our bodies fit into each other and how
we both have these ugly scars and how
you cried in my arms and I knew that I
couldn't say anything to make you feel any better because
I knew what you were going through
at least to an extent
I know enough about sad chemistry to know that words don't do much
but then again
I guess I didn't know about that other guy you're *******
until you told me  he saw your scars and called you a freak
and that was fine because I was still holding you
but then you tell me
you're still not over him
and even that is sad but fine.
I'm not here to judge
I'm not here to make things worse.
I'm not even here at all.
Because this isn't even a poem
And you aren't really a friend
And you can't love what you can't remember:

your lips on my cuts
me holding you tight
and how close it all felt
like how for a brief second it was all terrible and beautiful and
somehow okay all at once
but maybe you don't remember any of it.
And all that's fine
too
because
this isn't even a poem.
It doesn't even have
a proper
ending.

i could not speak and i could not feel
and i saw your eyes among the stars but it hardly
seemed appropriate to nod and I knew I had lost it
but what is life but losing it
i do not think that i want this but i am laughing
so I must but how can I discern between no

i do not sigh and i do not breathe but i can feel my
lungs rattling do you know do you know maybe but it is
of no concern i do not care to

i do not expect to remember this how can i do not
have fear you are smiling guide me scorpius guide me
i do not expect much i just need to stop falling
upwards

these steps take themselves i stand still
and the streetlights slowly pass me

Smoke yourself silly.
Drink yourself drunk.
Cut yourself repeatedly.
Insist that nothing's wrong.
Hope they don't believe you.
They always seem to.
Are you that good of a liar?
Or do they just not want to know?
Would it matter if they did?
It's no matter now:
You've long accepted your own soft, sorrowful implosion.

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.

The illusion of significance
Branded on the faces.

The word interminable
is more than just a word.

Interminable is watching the sunrise
from a sleepless bed.
Interminable is staring at the ceiling
for hours searching for answers
in off-white oblivion.
When your life is just begun
but cannot seem to end quick enough.
When you're happier surrounded
by smoke and strangers
than you are alone.

Do you know interminable?
I think you do
It's when you wander the streets
going to work
going to school
going to live
and the air screams
the sun flickers
and no one is saying anything
but no one will stop talking.

Interminable is the sadness
the confusion
the overwhelming yearning for silence or something graver.
And you know that that too shall pass
that you're not always so sad.
That you've got a laugh able to warm hearts,
but what does it matter?

Why does it matter at all?

Days weeks years of happiness
are but fleeting moment.

But every second of sadness
is as interminable
as the weary days and weary ways
of the burning stars which supercede time itself.

I love you almost
as much
as I hate myself and
I
don't
want
to hate myself anymore.

Sing we for love and idleness,
Naught else is worth the having. -Ezra Pound*

Today, there are no words on my lips.
Love has no surprises and life no pain.
The faces before me refuse
to invoke grief or any whisper of hope.

The dying oak tree in the front yard creaks
and whimpers and begs for peace.
It has witnessed the years and taken
them in indifferent solitude.
I do not think it wants to live
this solitary life any longer.

Under its rotting armor a fragile sign of life.
And just beneath that thin layer of green vitality
lies years and years of death.
I should hope that it heals or falls to the ground.
I do not think it wants to live
this ailed life any longer.
I know it will. I have not the benevolence
to chop it down.

I stare at the flora of branches,
the sun tries to emerge from the clouds:
it cannot. It sheds a tear of futility.
No one hears it, though.

I think of the days of childhood past,
where the laughter was abundant
and the smiles genuine
and the tears flowed without any hesitation.
That was a long time ago.
An innocent version of myself climbed
the branches and appreciated the
tree's fortitude.

I wonder,
can this dying oak support my weight?
Have I grown too much or has it died too much
to climb it?
Have I died too much to climb it?

I disregard these thoughts and continue:
Deadweight swings on a lowly branch.
I fear it will snap but I continue to hang.

It does.

I fall to the ground and appreciate the skinned knee.
The only pain available
on such a lifeless day.

There are no masks at 4 in the morning,
it is impossible to conceal yourself
under such insomnia, such tire, or such intoxication.

This is why we leave our beds where the demons stay
to go to house parties where the 'normal people' play.
Because the masks begin to suffocate your face
and you'd give anything for anyone to see just a trace
of honesty in your life
built of formalities and lies.

The drinks set in, the feet lose traction,
children groping blindly for meaningless interaction.

I will gather myself up
from this scrap heap.
I will, with great care, pick up myself
piece by piece.
From the broken remains
of a tired life
will I become new again.
Not whole,
no! never whole again,
but close.

I will gather myself up
and give you
what is left of me.
Even though I don't know
who you are
yet.

The sun recedes into the horizon.
The moon shines an incandescent sliver.
The stars flicker, briefly.

Oh, so briefly do they flicker.
Eternal beacons existing to remind us of our own insignificance.
Out there, somewhere, is something else;
out there, somewhere, is something new.
Something new in this world composed so wholly
of odds and ends
of what-have-yous...
what-ifs, so many what-ifs.
So many what-ifs.

There is a life to be lived
where the mornings aren't so painful,
and the nights aren't so meaningless.
A life where I try to smile
and I actually smile.
Where holding a hand
or kissing a collarbone
are gestures worth the risk.
Ripe with legitimacy
will I fall in love again.

Beautiful words to be written.
Beautiful women to fall in love with.
Beautiful this and beautiful that
and beautiful everything in between.

So when the stars appear
and try to convince me of my own nothingness,
I shall fly past those nets,
quietly telling Orion
that this is my life

and I do not deserve to feel this way.

I refuse to continue existing
without beauty and purpose
in the marrow of my fragile bones.

All else has failed...
Those who insisted that contentment
comes with perseverance
have lied.

All else has failed...
It's like sitting idly
waiting for the world to end.
There's nothing better
or easier to do.

All else has failed...
Panic attacks and crying spells
on the ***** carpet.
Sweat dripping from meaningless *******
with a girl I tried so hard to care about.
But could not.

Those big words that makes us so unhappy....
I spent so long learning them.
Searching for bliss in my own intellect.
Everything I have learned
about life and love
pushes me farther from it.

I wanted to fight the darkness
but instead fell inside.
And those big words won't help me escape
because I can't say anything.
And they can't hear anything

Nothing is real anymore,
All else has failed...
I'm losing my ******* mind.

It was just past midnight when he fell asleep
which was impressively late considering how much whiskey he had consumed.
The dream began with her,
because, honestly, a bad dream wouldn't be complete
without her in it.
They sat on a vast lake in a small boat
with the moonlight blessing them
for the first time in a long while.

I believe that the two were happy
but despite this fallacy
he still wasn't aware that he was dreaming.

As they laughed
a spider came crawling into the boat.
He was too starled to wonder how it followed them into the water,
andas it's feet scuttered and his stomach guttered
the girl muttered "**** it, please, **** it."
But when he extended his fingers to do the deed
the spider turned to reveal
a bloodshot eye in the center of it's black back.
It's pupil was an hourglass, and time was running out.

So disturbed now from the specter that his fingers wavered
and the widow-maker pounced, biting first his finger
then his wrist, then his heart.

He fell from the boat.
The spider disappeared into blackness.
After a few minutes of breathless panic
he emerged at the shallow end of the swimming pool
that must have been there all along.

She was on dry land
and in his panic he didn't bother to question
how she made it to safety without him
with such ease
why she didn't bother to help
or why she didn't seem too alarmed
at the fact that he was now dying.

He was now only a few steps away from a large crowd,
I think he said something to her

So here was the task of seeking help
in a faceless mass of people
who also didn't seem the slightest bit concerned
over the fact
that venom was coursing through his veins
and dread was settling deep into his heart.

He searched for someone to drive him
to a hospital or a bed
or even just to watch him die so long as they'd sit and pretend to care
over the fact that he would no longer exist.
He realized that she could be that person,
wondered why he hadn't thought of her in the first place.
He turned around to find her but she was gone.

Maybe she was offended that he hadn't thought of her sooner
in his time of dying, maybe she, too, didn't see much seriousness
in his now worsening condition.

His steps grew heavier,
the eyes were losing focus.

Searching the faces looking for her,
she was either gone
or had melted into to the solidarity that seemed to loathe him so much.
They were all faceless, hostile,
avoiding him like the plague
or grabbing at him like a villain.
One man punched his teeth so forcefully
that his jaw no longer opened,
(but in all reality he was probably just
grinding his teeth in his sleep,
but the venom was sinking deeper
and he could not wake up.)

He ran, no one would help him so he ran.
There was his car,
there were his keys.
There were his shaking hands
and his fading vision
and apparently someone else was in the passenger seat
telling him that he was too ****** up to drive
someone who failed to see the distinction between alcohol
and venom but even still he drove because this person was no friend
not even a person
he never saw his face while his heart pounded
and the words slurred together
and she was not there but now was no time to think of her
and the hourglass was running out and he knew it
embarrassing tears dripped as the engine roared and his eyes darkened
the landscape all blended together i don't thinkhis mind could
dream things up quickly enough as he sped by
which might eexplain why he suddenly was standing in the desert
the car was gone the faces were gone
and he thhought "might as well have a last cigarette before i ******* die"

his hands didn't work and he couldn't grab the lighter
even if he could his mouth was still clamped shut
couldn't yell for help even if people would care
the crowd was back they were all yelling something
but it was no matter now light was leaving and no one seemed too concerned
she was gone and i'm not sure she ever was

thus he faded away without anyone to look him in the eye
and agree with him that something terrible was happening to him

The world grew black.
The stars went dim.
His heart hurt.
Their laughter faded
and he died alone.

And so I awoke to live my day
with this dream deep in my mind.
Alive to live another day,
with venom in my veins
and darkness in my heart
that no one seems to notice
or care about.

I wandered blackout drunk lost
trading cigarettes for directions
from crustpunks who took swigs
from bottles of cheap plasticsugar alcohol

Muttering to myself in selfdefense
sublimating the toxic fire in my eyes
into soundwave echoes
bouncing off of plywood windows
and abandoned stolen cars

Angry limping at breakleg pace
down the heroinblessed streets
of yet another vibrant American slum.

Feeling thankless,
but what can I say?
You've given me a body
that's falling apart
and a mind
that's not doing much better.

I had a dream, which must have been all a dream.
Because we two never parted
and we two never cried,
we were neither living nor dead,
but we were happy.

There was a world made of needles
but our skin was too hard to get stung.
As we walked arm in arm through
the faceless crowd, we smiled.
It felt nice.

The Sirens sounded
The world fell apart and landed on our souls.
Even then, no pain was found.
And that was nice, too.

We walked in a stiff waltz
the music was a death rattle.
I found a wilted flower
and hung it on your arm.
You found the knife in my side
that I keep hidden from others.
The blood was so beautiful,
a glorious fountain.
So I wore it on my lapel.
We looked nice.

For a blurry split-second
the world was real,
and oblivion made sense.
Which was nice.

Today the sun is not the sun;
the moon is not the moon.
I ask them for clarity;
they give me only silence.

No, just nights ago
did I marvel at the soothing legitimacy
of those celestial bodies.

Sat in the woods under lucent light
and rummaged together some sort of gravity,
the closest I've ever come
to making something beautiful.
Here was my heart,
filled with hope.

Here was the moon,
so close as to stare back.
The others didn't notice
the tears that dripped
from crater to crater.
Or that cheshire-cat grin,
the devious omniscience
of the closest thing to god
that I've ever known.

Only nights ago,
as I sat with light in my veins
and glasses off,
while the strings of the universe
resonated a brief harmony in me.
For once
I cherished what I couldn't comprehend.

Yet that moon set
and here is a hollow replacement with a plastic smile
stuck in its place.

That music is not here anymore:
an echo forever
reverberating in an alternate reality.

...Yet I am stuck Here:
Here is a child
Here is his sadness
Here is his smile
Here are his words
Here is his heart
Here is me.

Here was your voice,
and now it's gone.

Smiles fall to the floor,
crystal countenance
cracks quietly,
tears heard by no one.
drip drop drip

Age serenades the young,
old woman searches the sky
with screaming eyes.
tick tock tick

The sound of love ending
at night.
The sound of bones snapping
under starlight.

Dance like nobody is watching
Because they aren't
except for me
and I am far too inside myself
To think much of it

It's not
the fascists with their guns.
Or the Democrats with their bumper stickers.
Or the boomers with their Facebook.
Or the leftists with their Twitter.
Or the toddlers with their iPads.

It's not
the billionaires with their minimum wage.
Or the landlords with their land.
Or the hospitals with their bills.

It's not
the ocean with its plastic.
Or the forest with its fires;
no....

The worst part of living in this boring
post-modern nightmare dystopia
is that even the ******* drugs
are poisoned now.