Everyone's looking for love.

To be that cute couple in the coffee shop sharing whipped cream kisses,
With "Good Morning, Love" wake ups,
Anniversaries and flowers.
Sweet love notes, gestures, and uncontrollable smiles.

Not me.

At this point, I'd much rather be lusted and longed after,
So I can run away and be someone's only thought for a the next few weeks until they finally realize I really am not coming back.
I'd much rather cancel last minute on a hopeful young heart instead of showing up and making a real effort to love somebody.

I don't want to do it.

I don't want to be romantic, sweet and kind.
I don't want to be charming, blissful, and whole.
I don't want anyone to be my Sunday rest, my ocean breeze or my favorite holiday.

I can't do it anymore.

Cotton wisps of clouds do scuttle by
Newborn babies first voiced cry
As if believing in the earth
The willow bends and dips with mirth
Collections gathered over times
Possessions bagged stand all in lines
Deep held thoughts released in breath
Towards our future with one step
Tomorrow fades to today’s yesterday
As upright do the faithful pray
Gathered spirits once thought spent
No longer even anger do we vent
For casting eyes from shadows deep
White sunshine dawns horizons creep
Bringing warmth to solitude
No longer to self do we delude
Visions splashed across clear skies
Forward progress banished lies
Treetops skimming at first try
No longer do we weep or cry
As if in being crystal scene
Life taking shape within our dream
Sorrow banished to the past
Eyes looking forward thoughts we cast
(GE2014)(C) Reserved
………..

A pure treasure since she was born,
Deserving to be delicately placed on velveteen pillows.
Looks like that are lusted after
Like line after line of ******* in an upscale bathroom.
But all the pretty girls are like that.

Their red lipstick and lacy lingerie,
Cocktail dresses and long legs.
Swift movements and carefully crafted bones.
They feel their beauty really sink in with a needle full of ******,
and a high that knocks them off their perfectly pedicured feet.
My God, they are so lucky.

All the pretty girls do drugs.
And all the pretty girls get high.
All the pretty girls smile and wave in their size zero glory.

I keep waking up everyday just the same,
A little lonesome, a little pain,
But overall I'm okay.

I lost my job last week,
I've been getting by pretty fine.
All I have is my thoughts now to help slowly pass the time.
I'm trying to give myself a purpose,
Since I lost mine with my job,
And I can't answer the phone and say "good morning!"
Or talk to mike about his new dog.

But whatever.

That's what I keep saying.
When I keep thinking about hurting myself,
And I think "you're not that person anymore"
But maybe I am.
Maybe I am so much so I can't even rhyme about it because I'm dead ******* serious.
I'm wasting my life right now,
God, I am so ******* special and I'm wasting it.
And I fill all my voids with tattoos,
Soon I won't have anymore room,
I'll have to address and assess this situation sometime,
But I guess I'll wait till then,
Hopefully it's not too soon.

There I go rhyming again.
Looks like I'm okay after all.

Dear Talia,

I don't want to be a tortured artist.
I don't want to be depressed and I don't want to be anxious.
Competitive sadness and disorders treated like accessories disgust me.

The world glamorizes mental illness, and I don't understand why. There is nothing romantic about being mentally ill just like how there's nothing glamorous about a broken wrist or a torn medial collateral ligament. There's nothing romantic about constantly being afraid that the world will fold in itself and **** you with it. There's nothing romantic about feeling like you could break down and cry at any moment.

This is the first piece I've written while being medicated.

I want it to be Christmas already.

The world dreams itself a halo, but can only attain horns. The halo is an illusion and the horns are an idea.

I'm due to take another Lorazepam. Would I look cool to the kids who idolize dysfunction and misinterpret pain as style, if I were to take one of these, with water and a distant glance, in front of them? Geez, to have their approval would to have everything and nothing at all.

I'm not sure why I've written as much about this as I have.

You.

It is 2:48 am and all I can think about, in this moment, is you.

I can't wait to spend Christmas with you. I can't wait to wear bad Christmas sweaters, and be the couple everyone hates, as we sing Christmas carols and spread holiday cheer.

I wrote this poem a few minutes ago. Sometime around 2:30 am. I'm not sure. I'm exhausted:

I sat on the edge of my bed, and on the edge of my life,
medicated to the point of pointlessness. Soft.
It was the nineteenth, not the twentieth,
and I wished I saw the fireworks with her fifteen days earlier.

My gasps tore the shingles off of the house.
And they hung suspended above the hole in the roof.
And God stared down into my room, as the shingles swirled skyward.
"I see you," I said, "but I don't believe in you."

I left home and ran until I was a dream that had passed itself.


I hope that was okay.

I love you.


Yours,

Joshua Haines

Your sweet lips
taste just like hers
I've tasted them before
Tasty honey lipstick
on top of yours
You rustled me
out of her door
Now you're on the inside
taking more than I could give
Sighing with your lips
on top of hers
She's wanting more
Give her another kiss for me
then hurry home
and kiss me with her lipstick
while I think of her
on top of yours.

r ~ 7/18/14