There is just something I want you to know.
We knew that we would never be great,
we would never feel fire in our heart
when we congregate
in the libraries and alleyways.
We have lost our edge,
our static charge, our blaze,
and it beyond us recover it.

We were amazing at something
that the world had no patience for,
so in those moments when we shone
the world chose to ignore.
Now we have lost our flair,
we will never have another encore...
Because we were spectacular at something
and it has rotted away
like so many of our hopes
and aspirations
and this tired procrastination
has gotten us nowhere.

We made a world, for every and anyone
who chose to share it with us...
but it has drained away
from the land and sea,
now us tired artists
must join reality.

Time and time again
I have raised a hand
or a fist, or a blade,
to destroy this thing I love
and all the things I've made.

Perhaps it is this skin,
that encompasses me
like an unwanted lover,
that makes me see these flaws
in one thing or another.

It is most likely me,
not you or they,
who created this unholy rage
that has made me hate this art
and set fire, not pen, to the page.

The foolish churls
and putrid youths
who plague and prowl these hallways
who abuse this sacred art and leave it
lost among the daily craze.

While I may applaud your work
and hand out digital hearts,
there are others amongst the crowd
who pervert the most basic concept
in any way that they are allowed.

I swear to the eternal void,
to the primeval seas of blackness,
to all that will ever last
that if this kind of beauty can be ruined,
then we all should die, quick and fast.

In a better world...

every TV, in every house hold,
comes with it's very own blindfold
so that the children won't be able to see
the horrible, bloated beast
that media has come to be.

Because faulty showers left you still soiled.
A million parts of water to one part salt.
Heretofore,
no more to be spoiled by the appetites of those too hungry for
beach burgers.
Sandy fingers curled 'round chicken tenders drenched in
ranch.
Circumnavigate the globe just to circle back around to the same *******
circumstance.
Looking forward to a summer of love:
Drugs, freak outs; doomed
romance.

I keep forgetting to remember the things I've reminded myself to forget.
Pump my head full of helium and fill my body up with lead.
I got yelled at by the driver of a car that almost hit me today.
I said, "You'd be doing me a favor!" as I walked away.

I keep finishing at the start and beginning with the end.
Earlier tonight, I made an emo playlist for my favorite ****** friend.
If only we could pool our feelings together and then . . .
****, I forget.

All bills have been paid, and all the letters have been sent.
Somehow, we're still falling deeper into debt.
I poured my heart out to an apathetic page
and yet, we're only getting paid for what we'd rather forget.

I keep making sour faces at the sweetest scenes I see.
I've been waking up early just to get there late.
I'm having trouble doubting things I've never believed.
I keep getting angry at people I long ago forgave.
Will they ever forgive me?
Have they already?

I forget.

"Well, poetry, you know. Poetry, especially. Poetry is for the purists. It's like at the essence of everything. Like, music is the poetry of sounds, right? And a song is sort of poetry set to music. Art can be like, the poetry of paint on canvas. Arranged in a certain way? The arrangement is the most important part of it, sort of. It's what makes it poetry. Dancing is like the poetry of a body in motion. Movies are like, the poetry of moments - certain moments - you know, they call them scenes. And they're all presented in this kind of sequence in order to, umm, like make an impression?"

"Wait. So then, what is poetry? It's just words, ain't it?"

"Well, yea. It is and it isn't. It's more than just words. It's like the essence of things - it's hidden beneath everything. It's the sort of thing that you can only see if you're actively looking for it. Well, that's not true. Sometimes you see it when you're not looking for it. Like, (slaps hands together) wham! You know? And that's when it makes the biggest impression, and if you see it, you feel this sort of compulsion to share it."

"With words. I mean, it's just words though."

"Right, you said that. It is just words, but it's more than that. It's playing with ideas, and feelings, and meanings. It's playing with the meaning of things! It's an attempt to define the undefinable. To capture the intangible and sort of present it in the form of words. Which is ridiculous, really, because it's impossible. That's the thing about poets, they're all crazy. They're all trying to explain something that can't be explained, but they can't not do it. It's like a compulsion. It's like, you know, from math. It's like an asympto -"

"But it's just words! You already said. Math is numbers. Poetry is just words. Like, what are you even saying right now? You're not making any sense."

"Sense? Who's trying to make sense? No man, that's not what it's about. Like, what even is Sense? It's just a word. All of this. What we're saying; it's all just words."

"Right. That's what I said. It's just words."

"Yea, so then, why are we even saying them? Why are we saying 'just words.' Why are we saying these words? Right now. Why are we saying these words at this particular moment in time? Like, why? Because of poetry, that's why. Poetry is the attempt to figure out that why. And it is that why. It's the question and the answer at the same time."

"Whatever man. You don't make any sense. It's just words. Case closed."

"Right. It is and it isn't. It's more than just words. It's Just Words.
Just.
Words."

With deja vu at the head of it,
followed by a longing for coincidence.
Those kids left a trail of mist wherever they went;
chasing the tail-end of everlasting moments.

I get scared sometimes,
by a coldness in the reflection of my own eyes.
As if they know something I refuse to believe.
Like he's daring me to see beyond the lies.

I've written poetry about chess,
as a central metaphor for the way I go about living life.
I confess that I like Knights the best.
They're the only pieces with the power to jump the rest.

Sometimes, I worry
that I'm just being used to create some kind of story.
That any chance I might have at Happiness
gets thrown under the bus for the sake of His glory.

I've often accused my mother of having multiple personalities.
She refuses to take any tests.

I've made a little man out of paper clips.
I hung him from a rubber band noose
that hangs from a shelf above my desk.

Sometimes, I'm filled with fear.
I get the shakes in grocery stores during the middle of the day -
paralyzed by the thought that I'm not really there.
Afraid of the things that my ghost might say.

I once wrote a poem fully explaining your mental state.
I know I've got it saved somewhere.
By the way, I think you're pretty great;
these and other phrases you've no desire to hear.

"Knight to e6,
I believe that's checkmate."

Paper Clip Man hung there for weeks,
but his steel wire neck refused to break.
Eventually, he got a hand around the knot,
and used his strength to gain another breath he never again thought he'd take.

I've never written a poem about backgammon,
but they say it's one of the oldest games ever played.
I bet I'd be real good at it.
I'll learn how to win some day.

I know this magic trick where I throw my heart in a hat
then pull out a rabbit.
Only, it's not a rabbit -
it's a snake.
And this is a swamp,
not a stage.
And there are three bite marks on my leg.