Amazing people
capable of such great understanding,
like the most beautiful sea shells
scattered few and far between
a hundred million grains of sand.

How terrible is this,
and how awful to admit;
that drinking and thinking while smoking
is the only way I find bliss.

The emotional/intellectual gaps between people
are so much farther than miles.

If I fell,
would you catch me?
If I climbed,
would you follow?
If I spat out all my insides,
so that I was empty,
would you attempt to fill that hollow?

I had a dream that you Snapchatted me.
When I woke up the next morning,
I had the hardest time determining whether or not it had actually happened.
What was it that I opened?
Caught between too convincing possibilities.
Still, I miss the dreams where we used to transcend reality.
What ever happened to them?
Did they get buried beneath our physical limitations?
Did we get so caught up in our own problems to the point where fantasy became too outlandish,
even in sleep?

**** that.

I'll dig them back up -
No matter how deep.

Ever-conscious of the cage,
We take comfort in our cells.
Dreaming of escape,
But making no attempt to free ourselves.

"Hey kid, you'll go far
because you're just so friggin' smart,
and nevermind this art ****."

Common sense dictates that you'll have to pay expenses.

I'm being pulled apart by forceful influences.

They say,
"Everybody's dying just to get the disease,"
but their silly guilt trips don't make me want to fall down on my knees
and pray.

Oh they say,

They say quite an awful lot of things,
but none of it means anything to me.

(Let them make all of their money.
Let them say that I look funny.
I won't let them swallow me whole while they rub their hallow tummies.)

Common sense dictates that I'll have to pay expenses,
but I take offense to the thought that I'm being pulled apart by outside influences.

Let them talk . . .

But if I soared into your fence I'd be electrocuted in an instant.
Nevermind the environmentalists several miles off in the distance.
They can't save me.
They've got their own sinister agendas.
In some way we can trace all the blame back to Brenda.
That *****.

Green is the color of envy.
Green is the color of American money.
I need that money in order to survive.
Green rhymes with broccoli, kale, and dandelion.
But only not at all.
Green is just a scientific thing,
like chlorophyll.
Green is just a color.
Green doesn't mean anything;
It's just a misunderstanding between each other.

I was writing something amazing up until my phone died,
and there's something to be said about the techno-ego-logical sort of life.
But I won't say it now because greater men have said it before;
and surely they'd have no respect for just another social-media *****.
Like how blogging has become such a ***** word,
so let's just call it poetry.
Disguise our senseless needs to vent feelings through rhyme and metaphor.
I've become everything I've always hated.
I can date it back to the day I acquired a smart phone.
But I'll lose no sleep over confessing how it makes me feel less alone.

Please don't hurt yourself more than I'm capable of hurting myself.
I couldn't bear it if your pain was unbearable to me.

Let's just both go to sleep.

A dusty trail fades into the dark.
A comet strikes a villain at his core.
A simple-minded walker contemplates the stars.
These trees are all reaching towards God.
How could one want more?

A torn spirit leaves its blood-stained mark,
with an echo that echoes.

The herald of hedonism dove headlong into his own soft spot,
with just enough pressure to puncture it.
Awash in thoughts of lost humbleness;
Swimming in his own *****.

Tore the skin to reveal blood and guts.
Nothing left but guts and blood.

Animated by some force of destruction.

Feel the heart that sinks through floors.
Float the farce -
crawl on all fours.
A spider never lost its step
when caught in its own web.
Weave the trail that eats the mist.
**** it in.
Explode essence.

Before you fade off into sleep,
remember to forget about thinking of me.
I'll be the one making that irritating sound;
the one that echoes throughout all your dreams.

When your slow-motion legs sink into quicksand
as you try your hardest to outrun the bogeyman,
I'll be there on the other side -
offering you my hand.

Don't you dare take it.
The chasing devil and saving angel might be one and the same.
Those who know it all and claim to know nothing are without a doubt the most insane.

Give me a break though.
This can't be Real Life.
It's all fake.

Somebody pinch me.

The tide rolled in and tilt the cup,
and thus did spill the final drop
upon the lips of thirsty sands;
brought out by the waves again.

The earth shook twice then caved right in
upon a few unfortunate heads.
Shook it off then rose above;
thank god for helmets.

The wind howled loudly as it toppled trees.
The earth split open and swallowed cities.
The volcano spat and ate Pompeii.

Nature giveth then it taketh away.

Silence tastes like a bit tongue.
A mouthful of iron -
ready to spit blood.

Safe in omission.
Silence is stubborn.
Guilt through admission,
but hidden in cupboards.

Break all the glasses.

Silence sounds like a drama on mute.
Destitute actors waving their arms in vain.
The quiet makes us different,
but it always sounds the same.

Muse of many.
Committed to none.
Play on lovely lyre,
play on.

Guiding light to the lost.
Promise of hope for everyone.
Shine on lovely star,
shine on.

Don't call me a genius,
because I'm just a drunk.
Don't tell me I care,
'cause I don't give a ****.
Don't say you'll be there,
because I'll just as soon leave you.
And don't you dare say you love me -
I'll never believe you.

Take me away,
words.
Show me a place where people are more than just what other people have heard.
Where the sound of their souls echo off the ideas that make up their essence;
"Life is a matter of a miracle that is collected over time by moments,
flabbergasted to be in each other's presence."*

Make me believe it,
but do it quickly,
because if I hear this flawed character's views on what's Wrong and Right one more time,
I think I might lose it.

Blow my mind,
words.
Cure this disease that's become a curse.
Reveal my muse once again in all her awe-inspiring glory.
Tell me a tale.
Share your story.

An idealized version of The Best and The Worst.
Truth may be stranger than fiction,
but real life is starting to feel rehearsed.

Let me get lost between your words,
so that I may believe in the depths of my dreams;
They've such absurd dynamics,
with hints of sibylline profundities.

Take me away again,
words,
but please do it quickly.
My faith is starting to wane,
and I've got work in the morning.

I showed the librarian how Dostoevsky predicted the internet (and what we'd use it for) over a hundred years ago.

She seemed unimpressed.

Between each and every line.
Feelings can build monuments,
as they can be our own demise.

Traced in trails of scented dreams;
The vapors of eternity.

Condense into a thicker form,
and pour your warmth all over me.
Diving through liquid sunsets -
We'll melt in pools of love.
Flowing towards the horizon,
forever.

Crammed inside the tightest space,
two atoms come together,
to make something completely new:
Fantastic Holy Molecule!

Mash our masses.
Break us down.
Grind us into the finest powder.
Bound to the other by an unstoppable force;
transformed by its power.

A good kid,
just caught up in the mix.
An inescapable situation turned into a monument.

With every fountain passed,
he trades a hard earned coin for a wish.
Just hoping for vacation.
A temporary relief from the horrible sound embedded in him.

The truth is a problematic ensemble of violent violinists.
He's tired of of hearing it.

Say it isn't so,
and maybe it's not about me,
but I can't help but take it personally though.

It's the type of thing;
Some people call it a disease,
but it's the only one that people can (justifiably) hate you for having.

Please believe me.
Please allow me to make these words ring true.
I want all of it.
This and that and everything;
Just tell me what to do.

Don't judge me, Nefertiti.
I ought to turn you sideways.
It's your profile that's famous -
Not so much your face.

I miss getting high with my friends,
and just people-watching.

My sober dreams freak me out.
(Is that a good enough reason?)
This is the only way I know how to escape the memories of things that never actually happened.
(Won't you help me out?)
My convictions leave me full of doubt.
I'm caught up in absurdities.
Awash in irony and drowning on beliefs.
Please throw me a life saving word that can define me.
Just spell it out -
before I lose myself.

The piece that fits the hole.
The air that fills the gaps in my soul -
Pressed against the vacuous space that pulls gravity towards sorrow.  

What if I told you that my bones are hollow,
Because how else could I fly?
Blow beneath these feathered wings -
Lift me high above tomorrow.

I swear we'll never die.

With boulders on my shoulders,
and a great weight bearing down.
The last thing I could ever need
is another reason to doubt.

A monkey on my back,
but a blue bird on my wing.

Yo chimpanzee,
come back me up;
I'm about to sing.

Our story is amazing,
incredible;
fantastic.

But the truth is often messy,
raw,
and tragic.

I'm hoping we can build a bridge between the two.
(I still believe in Me and You.)

The truth can be real awful,
but our story is so grand,
and there's something to be said about idealism that only you could understand.

The past is far from dead.
We've zombies in our heads.
Though we try our best to stay present -
there are things we can't forget.

The future is a mystery,
but maybe we can solve this riddle.
Caught between dreams and reality;
come meet me in the middle.

And that's it.
And this is it.
Left alone in an unfamiliar room;
Trying hard not to feel tragic.

Yea, I might stay up,
But I won't do anything indecent.
I can't think too clearly with this constant ringing in my head.
Despite this.
In sight of this.
Blindsided by this.

I wish.

I swear I'm on to you;
your subtle way of flirting with every single thing you do.

I'm not into it.

And maybe you're just sick -
infected with an early development problem that's grown into a nasty habit.

Whatever the case may be,
it's become a source of contention.
Lately, I've been thinking -
you're just some ***** who craves attention.

There'll always be a person behind the mask.
Even if the answers were disappointing,
at least we had the gall to ask.

Sometimes when I look back,
I'll smile or laugh.
No matter how bad it seemed at the time,
it all turns out to be alright.

Sold sideways to commiserate with the product-placed abuser.
Got no time for delayed gratification;
pay extra for it to come sooner.
Make haste.
You've one life -
don't let it go to waste.
Now congratulate yourself on being the consummate consumer.

How'd you get so dark, kid?
Where did that **** start, kid?
What's it like to walk that twisted line between hero and villain?
How'd you come to be so haunted?

Why do people write?
Is it because their thoughts are too loud?
Is this the only way they've found to somehow dim the sound?

Like a pressure relief valve.

The pen as a wrench.
Use it to unscrew that hydrant;
let it all pour out.

To all the people in love with the moon,
and to those who love the sound of the rain;
this one's for you:
We're one and the same.

He walks in through the front door;
a slim jim in one hand,
a four pack of beer in the other.
He looks at the tv screen to see a blond teen crying.

"What are you watching?"
he says as he crosses the room.
"Intervention," she says from the couch,
with a cup of beer on the table in front of her.

"OOoohh," he says with sarcastic interest.
In a way, it makes sense.
"It makes me a better person . . . " she says quietly,
almost to herself.

But he heard her.
"Watching a tv show makes you a better person?
How the hell does that work?"
His words full of doubt.

"Well, because I've had two husbands who were addicted to drugs, an-"

"And you're not? Ha!
Alcohol's a drug too,
sweetheart."

"Yea, but . . . it's not like I get drunk every night."

"Denial," he says, as he makes his way to the fridge.
"That's the first stage," he exclaims, as he pulls a beer loose from its ring.

"You're one to talk!" she yells from the couch.

He says to himself,
"Yea, well; takes one to know one,"
as he walks out.

We're all together,
yet still far apart.
With no end in sight,
we've come a long way from the start.
Tugging on the tenuous strings of our heart
just to find out which are strongest.

I'm fond of every bond we've made.

Hearts are such fragile things;
how easily they break.
Please keep my pieces somewhere safe,
and I'll keep yours held tightly in hand.

I don't care how much they might bleed,
because you'll always understand.
Everything I could ever want and need.
Everything, all the time.
Everything at the speed of light.

I'll keep the pieces close to my heart.
I love you infinitely more now than I did from the start.
With no end in sight;
we're all together tonight.

Regardless of where life may take us,
we'll always be stars.
Reflecting each others' light -
no matter how far.

What do you do if you can see the strings?
What happens when you can trace them back to their origin:
A pair of double crossed wooden instruments in the hands of some magician?

What do you do then?

Should you muscle The Man out of the way?
Take over, so that you can put on your own kind of play:
enacting the way you've always believed it should be?

Or would you instead,
brandish a pair of scissors
in an attempt to set them all free?

My hubris will be my downfall;
knowing this might help.

I don't want to write tonight.
I'd much rather, like,
read Dostoevksy,
photograph lightning,
and drink a beer -
all at the same time.

Chain smoking and drinking ain't poetry -
it's just a swollen brain leaking out thoughts.
I've been thinking a lot lately;
I'm not quite sure how to stop . . .

You're super sweet.
Like a fruit that's nearly rotten;
like an apple that's overripe.

Like how if you leave apple cider in the darkest corner of your room,
it will become alcoholic in time.

I wouldn't be too sure about drinking from it though -
it could do a number on your insides.

My favorite number is forty-two;
you know,
because it's the meaning of life?

I don't want to turn you into my confessor,
but I'm quickly becoming obsessed with telling you my thoughts.
Too much honesty can get everything *******,
and my heart's already in knots.

There's something frightening in you,
and I've always been attracted to the things that scare me most.
I guess you could call it a counterphobic attitude.

Just as all these words are meant for ghosts.

But I'm sick of the sound of crunched eggshells,
and the elephant in the room leaves me crowded.

So hand me that broom;
this dust is being swept under the carpet.

I understand that you were hurting.
I understand I helped you hurt yourself.
I'll understand if you never want to see me again,
but it will still **** me.

Do you know that saying that goes:
"Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but words will never hurt me?"
Of course you do -
everyone does.
Well, as far as I can tell,
poets feel the opposite.

"It's such a simple thing."
(Quite silly, really. (The word "trivial" comes to mind.))

"It's no big deal."
(Though it didn't seem that way at the time. (I suppose it never was.))

"Let's not make a fuss over it."
(I've already made enough of a fuss for the both of us (but now I'm done.))

"It's alright. Don't mention it."
(No, really. (I'd prefer if you didn't.))

((When) a heavy weight gets lifted(, what does it sound like?)
(and)
(Somewhere in the background, (just barely audible (in order to hear it, you'd have to be really listening.))
applause.))