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.

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.

We drank tequila straight from the bottle
and danced naked in the unfenced backyard

We chainsmoked the entire pack
And argued the difference between harassment and assault

We passed around the **** pen
and I don't remember what we were doing by that point

We woke up still naked
and asked ourselves if it was worth it

Is it just me
or is it hot in here?
Do your neurons dull down with age
or is my both-ends candle finally burning out?
Is the plastic methane corporate despair why we never do **** for ****
or is that just a convenient excuse for our valleity?

Did you even love me
or just how I made you feel so much less alone?
Did I really love you
or just how you made me feel like life was still worth living for?
And while we're asking questions...
what's the difference?

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.

We used to be twenty
sitting around complaining
and smoking
like twenty year olds do.

Now we're thirty
sitting around complaining
and vaping
like twenty years olds do.

Poisoned memories rot through
my veins.
These dreams are incomprehensible,
a shaky bloodbath. I am the antagonist,
committing atrocities I'll instantly forget
and forever regret.

There are horrible thoughts welded into my bones,
I am forced to carry them in
infinite tire.

And even though these plagues
are as inexorable
to me
as my abyss-jade eyes
(which will love until
they fade forever)

today, I cannot help
but stand in the sun

and thank myself
for remaining alive to live this day.

I'm not sure if
I miss you
or if I just miss
being
your favorite person.

I hate the suburbs
Because of the yuppies.
I hate the ghetto
Because of the anxiety.
I hate the country
Because of the lonely.

I hate trucks
Because of the waste.
I hate mirrors
Because of my face.
I hate food
Because of the taste.

I hate love
Because of the exposure.
I hate ***
Because then it's over.
I hate goodbyes
Because of the closure.

I hate talking
Because of my voice.
I hate my body
Because of its poise.
I hate living
Because I have no choice.

thank you everyone
that's found anything from my words
your support has made things
much more worth doing.

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.

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

I've never shot up ******
it's not that I'm above it
I just don't know where to buy it
and even if I did
I'm too lazy to leave my house

I used to have two ****** friends
one is dead
one got sober
I don't know which one I envy more.

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.

Every time you cry
You look so beautiful
And every time you lie to me
I believe you
It happens all the time
It happens every night
And I don't even want it to be true
'Cause then you wouldn't be so far away
And I think that I love you more
With every step you take in the opposite direction
From me

And all those things you said
You said so many awful things
You said that your smile was chained down
Deep inside of you

For every time you lost yourself
I gave you twice of me
I ripped my soul in two
One for me
And one for you

And every time I try to love you
It fails in the exact same way
It fails just like it did the first time I
Laid my eyes upon you
Reached my hand out toward you
Felt your heart as hard as stone
Colder than the Winter that you left me

??????

I do not know if I would still love you
if you were a happy person.
I do not know if you would still love me
if I was in less pain.
I do not know if I would still love you
if you were less depraved.
I do not know if you would still love me
if I hadn't pushed you away.

I do not know the point of the exercise
or why we dwell on what cannot change:
You are not a happy person
and nothing can fix my pain.
I claw away at those who love me
and you will always be
depraved.

I should have seen this coming
You warned me you were cold.
But the silence doesn't hurt much less
Just because it was foretold.

We sat close, huddled for warmth
in my freezing abode, a lone candle
lighting the room. Hands
with a mind of their own move
and caress
and cannot help but hold you.

We shared our worlds
and painted our faces
and laughed like children.

No one saw us and we were happier
that way.

I remember your voice as you read me
your favorite poem:

"...Of human love,—renounce for these, I say,
The Singing Mountain’s memory..."

And your brow furrowed as you
listened to mine, looking for some
hidden message in the words that were not mine:

"...Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves..."

We smiled like we used to
(before we forgot how.)
We told secrets we didn't know we had.
And nothing felt wrong
or ill-at-ease.

We slept most of the night as one,
holding each other like we couldn't let go.
So close that my skin was your skin
So close that we smile, and kiss, and smile, and kiss...

...And I woke up with sweat on my skin
and a tremble in my spirit.
Reluctantly knowing that it was too perfect for reality.

You are gone and never were.
Today is ruined without you to wake up to.

i feel so empty
so do you
we feel so empty
all of us do

strangest friendship
we were not friends
we were
only
what we thought
we could see of each other
from the mirror

a splinter in my nail bed
i never can sleep
disconsolate perspectives
on what i can't see
left only to imagine
what we might have dreamed

I finally nicked an artery.
Blood pulsing out with every heartbeat.

Going deeper
gets easier
everytime
and now
I can't go
much deeper
without dying.

And I don't want to stop.
I don't think I can.
I wasn't supposed to live this long anyways.
Such a shame.

This isn't a poem.
I just have nowhere else to put this.

I hold your hand despite your heart
being held by another.
I kiss you with care knowing that
I am but a brief distraction
to a much greater
much more devastating love
than mine.

I take this burden in quiet contempt,
what am I to do?

You’ve marked me as yours
but you are not mine.
I’d tell you that you are beautiful
but you’re looking away from me,
at him.

I know that you are alone,
quiet, and without a hope for tomorrow.
You've heard the same songs over
and over and over again.
You've had these same thoughts
over and over and over again.
Pain takes its toll with repetition.

I know that you are alone, tonight.
Your friends and lovers are not here.
(Where are they? I do not know,
but they are not here.)
Silence is overwhelming,
the crickets and lilies are your only friends, tonight.

I know that you are alone, tomorrow.
I know this because it never ends,
you pray for hope but hope never comes.
Time will not fix you tomorrow...
...or to-morrow or to-morrow...

I know that you are alone, every day and every night.
You are alone in the crowd
You are alone on the sidewalk
You are alone in the smoke.

Yet, in some strange fashion,
you are not alone.
While you sit alone in your quiet room,
while you lay alone in your cold bed,
while you cry alone on the bathroom floor:
others are dying alone
too.

And thus:
we are not alone because we are alone:
a mountain of bleeding corpses all bleeding together.

The only thing keeping me alive is the
fact that my life has been utterly unremarkable.

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.

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.

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.

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?

The illusion of significance
Branded on the faces.

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.

She said
the closest thing to joy that
she’s capable of feeling is
a fleeting acknowledgment that
things could be worse.
But in truth she used different words.

I said
that she of all people
deserved every ounce of joy
this world has to offer.
But in truth I said nothing.

I quit drinking because
It made my stomach sick
I quit cutting myself because
I ran out of space for it

I quite being sad because
It took a lot to cry
I quit ******* up because
It takes less effort just to try

When you texted saying that
you had
started sleeping with your ex again
shrug emoji

I pictured in my mind
a razor blade cocktail sliding
down my throat
capillaries

I had only met you once
You told me things were messy
I knew all of this from the very very start

I kept my countenance
Texted back a few glib things
Already knowing they'd end up that most awful thing
left on read

I resumed my laughter night with close friends
Chatted with the uber driver on my way back to the city
Then got home and
cut myself repeatedly
as i am wont to do.

None of this was really about you.

You were just a concept to me.
I think the doc might have been right
when she told me
*you have BPD

scarlet lies
bloodshot eyes
broken bench where bats fly
perfect night imperfect still
soft embrace on jagged metal
a night that ends in moans
until we depart to
homes that are not homes

I said I loved you
you said you were falling in love with me
which is different

I said I hated everything
you said you didn’t hate wildflowers

Everything is for sale
Including
You

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.

I will take you deep inside of myself.
From the tips of my fingers
to the metal in my bones.
From the ends of my unkempt hair
to the most primal facet of my reptilian brain.

You who have seen the world for what it is
and not run away.
You who see the world for what it is
yet smile in the wind and the sun.
Show me the world in which we live
and I will show you the home I forged in hiding;
it is not spectacular or brilliant
but it is a home few have ever known.

I will take you deep inside of myself
and show you everything
so long as you hold my hands and heart
and tell me what it all means.
What it means to be a cynic and a lover,
a stoic and a lion.

I am learning a lot these days.
Or at least I'm trying.

I am trying to learn about bread and blood types and shale oil economics and Rocky Balboa.
The triangular fibrocartilage complex.
The Kennedy family.
Chinese billionaire real estate investment and the reign of Xi Jinping.
And, you know, other similarly interesting kinds of things.

But, most importantly,
I am trying to learn how to be happy.
Or, at the very least,
I am trying to learn how to try to be happy.

I am trying to learn what happiness really is.

If it's some strange ethereal something in plain view just behind some stranger still wall of glass that I haven't quite learned how phase my mind and body through
--or by what strength or courage or cowardice it might take to shatter and simply walk past.
Or if it's something else entirely...
A myth, intangible yet important.
A legend, absurd.
A god, disturbingly ambivalent.
Perhaps it is the warmth on my skin and the chill in the breeze on this first month of spring.
Perhaps it is the water and oxygen that flows through every living thing.
Perhaps it is that wall of glass itself.

I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know if happiness is real.
I don't know.
I don't even know what it is I'm actually trying to learn.
I don't know if I am learning what happiness really is or if I am learning that it truly doesn't matter either way.

I am learning a lot these days.
Or at least I'm trying.

I am learning that perhaps it is less salient to try to be to be happy
and perhaps instead I should just
simply be
happy.

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.

I'm not sure if anyone
I have ever loved
ever truly
understood or felt
the awful things that I think
and feel.

The sadness
The mania
The nights alone
on the bathroom floor or the ***** carpet
tearing into myself
because the blood kept me sane.
That curious yearning for death
that I've carried with me
for all those years now.

Not sure if anyone I've ever known
has ever seen the emptiness in my eyes
without standing in horror at their reflection
staring back at them

I do not know, maybe they have.
This is quite possible.

But Stay,
or (perhaps) but Soft!
or but any of those other decrees of feeling
from those sad protagonists
whose tragic lives came before me,
saying "What light yonder…"
before falling into the arms
of the only person in the world
who came piece them together.

But Still, my lover,
your hand
in my hand
is the only anchor I can rely on
in this Dread with 5 Acts
and no intermission.

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.

I'm losing money by the second
I'm losing my mind most every day
I lost my car keys twice this morning
I lost your love just yesterday

I found myself alone again
I found myself drunk at 5 am
I found myself how I find me best
I found myself in another mess

I don't know where to begin
I don't care how this ends
I lost my mind a million years ago

And you can't act like you're surprised
When I tell you yet another lie
It's what I said I'd do right from the start

And while you cry yourself to sleep
I sleep so well I forget to breathe
It's why we both look so tired all the time.

I'm trying to learn how to stop hating myself
so that maybe
one day
I might even learn how to love myself

I think about the good things I have done
and try to understand the circumstances behind
all the not-so-good things I have said and done.

I think of the beautiful women
who maybe understand me better
than I understand myself

H is quitting a job she doesn't hate
because her boss told her that
she has to wear a god ****** bra
--I love her for her conviction
--she loves me, too, for some reason

A has got these voices in her head
and they're mad at her for being too busy this weekend to get ******.
--I love her for her tenacity
--she loves me, too, for some reason

M is off to Mexico
excited and afraid to pursue her dreams
instead of just talking about them
--I love her for her ambition
--she loves me, too, for some reason

If my love is reciprocated
by the three most beautiful women
I have ever had the pleasure of loving
perhaps I should find some way
to hate myself less
if only so
I can
love them more.

I have neither the time
nor the words
to actually write this poem.

My lunch break is almost over
and I have come in late
too many times already.

I'm too sick to write you this poem
or any of the others you would have
otherwise inspired.

I just liked the title.
Lovesick Lover

Isn't that fitting?

Please not again
I don't think I can take it this time
I don't have anything left

I don’t need friends
I’ve got myself.
But god I wish
I was someone else.

Maybe I cry too much.
Maybe I lie a lot.

Maybe I drink too much.
Maybe I don't eat enough.

Maybe I learned the wrong things.
Maybe I care the wrong way.
Maybe I love the wrong people.

Maybe I broke too many bones.
Maybe I had too many surgeries.
Maybe I should have had pain medicine.
Maybe I grew up with drug addicts.

Maybe I can't think straight.
Maybe I hit my head too hard.
Maybe I should have seen a doctor about it.
Maybe I should should see one now.

Maybe I'm sick.
Maybe I'm depressed.

Maybe I shouldn't own a gun.
Maybe I shouldn't keep it loaded.
Maybe I shouldn't keep it in my nightstand.

Maybe I'm just being dramatic.

Maybe I'm just tired.
Maybe I'm just tired of being so self-aware.

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

She had no mirrors in her house when I met her so
Ourselves we never could see.
But I knew that I loved her.
And she knew that she loved me.