People pleaser.
Socialite.
Constant agreer.
Doing it right.
I bet you sleep so soundly at night.
I bet you sleep so soundly at night.

Someone different.
Something else.
Don't need nobody.
Don't need your help.
You want in.
I want out.

Attract and repel.
Attract and repel.

One solves a riddle.
The other lives a dream.
One longs to be loved.
The other wants to be free.

You say so many things that I can't feel.
And even though they can be pretty,
dreams aren't real.

Dreams aren't real.

The ones I'm writing now
and many that came before;
they belong to you.
All these words are yours.

The thought that I put into them.
The effort to make it true.
All these words I've written;
they belong to you.

Do with them what you will.
They are payment for a debt.
The one incurred by the inspiration you've given.
Consider us even.
This is all you get.

But that shining silver disc
with twenty favorite tracks -
those songs belong to me,
and now I want them back!

So take these words and thoughts.
They're yours,
but that CD is not!

Those songs are mine.

I never asked you to jump into the fire.
I admired you for staying devout.
So cool under pressure -
you held such grace then.
I thought you could pull me out.

But it wasn't my hand you were reaching for -
you were being pulled toward something else.
So I burned alive with your image in my eyes
and the taste of charred hope in my mouth.

From the ashes, I crawled out.
(insert phoenix metaphor here)
Only after everything else had disintegrated
was my fate revealed loud and clear.

But now you're there.

I was foolish then.
You were just a kid.
I always had my doubts.
I looked at you to do something that I had to do for myself.
This role-reversal is almost complete;
I can do for you what you couldn't do for me.
You've just got to ask for my help.

Fresh pain from an old ache.
A blow to make the heart quake
after having been painstakingly
reassembled.

Eyes ablaze,
she held my gaze
as I stood on rubbery legs
and trembled.

You can't play on my sympathy.
Those strings are off-limits to you.
This ***** is in need of repairs.
The piano has gone out of tune.

You can't count on my curiosity.
I no longer care what you do.
The experiment is over.
I can't put this data to use.

You can't depend on my desire.
I'm not turned on by your moves.
I refuse to be your dancing partner.
I will never slide into your groove.

A hard day's night.
My car's on the street.
The lights of the bars are beckoning me.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep . . . )

"Walking disaster -
how long can he last?"
They place wagers on my defeat.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams.)

I go faster,
and drive right past.
I've made promises I intend to keep.

(The woods are wonderful, dark and deep,
but these aren't the trees I've seen in my dreams,
and I've got an axe.)

A hard day's end.
I drift off to sleep.
Another mark tallied; this makes three weeks.
Robert Frost and I celebrate small victories.

I carried my memories like a bag full of bricks.
I'm over feeling nauseous and vertigo makes me sick.
Fell down some deep wells.
I've crawled out of the abyss.
They say it stares back,
but it's nothing I'll miss.

Some people like to break **** when the mood hits them right.
Go back and fix it in the middle of the night.
Set up a date with that person you hate.
Meditate on all the things you can't wait for.

Some people's kids end up as some people's parents.
Some of them never grow up.
Maturity is strictly overrated.
Fill your cup after you've finished your chores.

Some people are neither here nor there.
Most of them have no idea where they are.
**** fancy cars, I want to ride shooting stars.
It's not my fault real life's a bore.

Feelings are fleeting,
and I won't pretend
that my thoughts aren't unreeling from a pole that will bend.
You broke me once -
it won't happen again.

Take that to the bank.
Go tell a friend.
There's a gap between where you begin and I end.

Fighters are fleeing,
but it's not so tough.
Can't see red until you give me enough.

You've given me nothing,
so what's this about?
A war over who gets this castle of clouds?
It's always been mine.
I'm kicking you out.

Servants are sweeping.
Seasons are seething.
Grumpy is Sneezing.
How's that for a painting?

Feelings are fleeting.
Anger and doubt.
Peace and serenity.
Go figure it out.

What's going on between passion and peace?
Why do they seem to be mutually exclusive?
Can't they go hand in hand?
Like the calm before a storm,
or afterwards -
everything's damp.
Returned to a state of rest.
Cleansed.

I like to think they can.

The postmodernists claim that man is little more than a confluence of forces.
Metanarratives absorbed around the age of four
developed in tandem with an ever-changing world.
Old ideas replanted then growing toward the rays of a shifting sun.
Your ideas are not your own.
You're not the only one.
There is no such thing as an original thought.
But the postmodernists are wrong.
A confluence of forces,
I am not.

Existentialism states that a man's life is his to create.
We make our own meaning.
We define the stakes.
Whether a great victory or a tragic loss,
but never merely a leaf being tossed by the wind.
Everyday is a blank page in the novel of our lives,
and we hold the pen.

Hope is a slippery thread that's worth hanging on to.

I resent this emergence of televised li(v)es.
A pathetic attempt to make our own feel less worthless.

Mother,
don't you realize?
You're wasting away.
I don't care about who the Bachelor sent home today!
That's not real love.
All that ****'s fake.

You spend your whole life staring at screens.
Get out of the house!
Please, do something!

One day, I'll have to tell you what it is about your poetry that compels me.
But why break the spell?
Why ruin a good thing?

One day, maybe,
I'll say all the things I've ever wanted to say to every person who looked the other way.
If I say it all to you, would that be okay?

One day,
maybe one day soon,
I'll finally figure out what's so fascinating about you.

It has something to do with so many things:
personal history, idiosyncrasies, a myriad of strange beliefs.  
Particularly those concerning coincidence and fate.
Something in the way you remind me of hopes lost and dreams gained-
of past mistakes.

One day, I'll tell you.
On a day when I'm not bogged down by sorrow.
A day when you have nothing left that I'd like to borrow.
When poetry no longer does it for me -
that'll be the day;
the day after tomorrow.

I look back at the past and it strikes me like art.
We spent those days splashing through invisible paint.
Revealed years later as we lie in dark rooms.
Life is a stage.
We played our part.

I look at the present and it feels like a war.
Everyday there's another battle to be fought.
Lost some comrades along the way;
trapped in memories I forgot.

The future is a shifting plan attempting to be set into motion.
Like a melody in the head that's yet to be written.
Like a day spent purposely thinking silly thoughts
in order to ensure a night full of silly dreams.
It's like trying to predict what the monument will be
to commemorate those who served in a war
that hasn't even started yet.

I guess they knew it all along,
though I never let on.
Games are much more fun when no one knows they're playing.

Beat this one before,
but I'm not keeping score.
You can only make so many points with what you're saying.

So tell it to the wall, babe
cause I'm not staying.

I have daydreams of turning you down.
You come on too strong and I uncomfortably say,
"Uh, I should probably go now."
Then I leave and you cry, wishing I had stayed.
While on the road I feel pity, but know it's better off this way.
I'll laugh about it as I fall asleep,
then wake up to never think about you again.

Meanwhile you'll slip into a downward spin
full of drinking and drugs and self-destruction.
A series of abusive men will leave you lost in a haze.
Dumped by another boyfriend, you'll go through a lesbian phase.
And for your fall from grace, it'll be me who you blame.
You'll spend the rest of your days cursing my name.

It's just a reverie, I know.
Only romantics truly drown
and you are not a romantic!
I have fantasies of turning you down,
but in reality, it's the other way around.

It's cheap because this place is haunted.
The hallways echo with the laughter of its last occupant.
Who was she?
More of a squatter, really.
She lived here for a long time without paying any rent.
I tried in vain to kick her out repeatedly.
("Legal issues, you see.")
At least, that's what I told my accountant.

She was something else, I'll say.
Seeing her was always a major event.
What happened?
Just up and disappeared one day.
Must've took up residence in some other poor sucker's head.
Part of her spirit still lingers, however, as I've already said.
She left me with little more than her safety deposit, and a ghost.
I'll always resent her for leaving like she did.

I could have loved her the most.

Rider in a groove, nobody strides like he does.
Writers on the move, trying to capture the rush.
Stumbling over each other, pen and paper in hand.
Caught up in a flush.
It'll take more than four of a kind to understand.

Place your bets right now.
Stake your claim while you can.
Whatever suits you.
This one's a winning hand.

Three Kings over two Queens.
Four cheeses are more than enough to capture a mouse.
I'm hungry too.
How much food can we get from your Full House?

There is a place that we don't like to revisit.
A topic that perpetually stays off limits,
but every now and then,
stars in space align in such a way
that cause us to relive it.

Good God kid!
Now I remember all of it:
I was just a do-gooder passing through.
Like some sort of ghost, like a wisp,
amazed that I had somehow found my way onto the guest list.
No wonder I got so drunk.
No wonder I was constantly throwing up.
I couldn't handle it -
being in the midst of such intelligence.
But I was hooked.
I knew this was where true inspiration lives.

But it scared me so I fled into self-sentenced exile.
You knew she wasn't the one, you knew all the while.
I struggled and bled. I thought of things we had said.
I tried to lead a proper life,
but I felt already dead.

So I returned,
but in the wake of a irrevocable mistake.
Much like I remembered, but it wasn't the same place.
A shadow loomed over. Everything was changed.
And though you were glad that I was back again,
it was clear that you were devastated by the death of a friend.
I couldn't relate.

Still, I tried. All those that knew him; how they cried.
There I was, with just a broken heart.
It felt like nothing compared.
I'd never loved anyone who had died.  

But time goes by, and supposedly, it heals all wounds.
We were having fun again, feeling alive before too soon.
Then everything changed when you were going to move.
Afraid of what I stood to lose,
I decided to move with you too.

We got ourselves into situations with which we could not cope.
Communicating got harder and we began to lose hope.
The gap between one life and another can seem so vast.
I moved back home again and our lives took separate paths.

Here I am rehashing the past,
without you.

So where are we now?
Has it all gone so south?
Seems like there's more complaints than profundities spilling out of our mouths.
Where did we go wrong?
Was it our fate all along?

No.

No way.

Fate was always something we defied.
But I worry about you sometimes.
I thought about you today.
Why didn't you take my call tonight?

I've got to drown one last time before I can swim.
Sink down into the whirlpool and pass through the eye.
Feel those winds on my face under a stormy sky.
Curse the gods with a dizzy head while clinging to life.
See it flash before me in all its bliss, pain, and strife.

Just one more time.
One. More. Time.

Before I can come out clean and dry on the other side,
to finally leave that maelstrom behind
for good.

"My dear friend,
how have you been doing?"

Not so good man - think I'm losing it.
I'm goin' off the deep end.

Relax.
Take a deep breath.

((. . .))

"What are you doing this weekend?"

I know you're independent.
I can tell you're never scared.
You've plans of conquering the world.
I'd just like to be there for it.

When I stare into your eyes,
I see the best parts of me reflected.
I don't want to weigh you down.
I don't want to be your anchor.

Sail on into those unknown seas.
Brave those winds without fear.
I'll wonder if you ever think of me,
but I'll be too proud to shed any tears.

Then again,
when I stare into your eyes,
I swear,
I want nothing more than to kiss you
and run my hands through your hair.

Music inspires my poetry.
Lyrics describe my life.
I'm in love with the sounds that capture my soul.
I'll sacrifice it all for the sake of a melody.

My heart pumps in tandem to this beat.
Three or four minutes to relieve all strife.
If I get into a fatal car wreck tonight,
I want this song to be playing.

When I put pressure on piano keys it's like I'm freeing myself.
Pouring it all out between the notes.
It speaks to me and here's what it's saying:
This is my release.

Some nights are for writing.
Some nights are for reading.

"If you ever get better,
then I'll only get worse."
Somebody call an ambulance.
Somebody call a hearse.

"If you ever make it out of here,
then you'll be the first."
Somebody call the presses.
Somebody spread the word.

One of us made it out alive.
Escaped the trappings of our modern-day world.
"He did it for himself!" They say.
But I heard,
he did it for some girl.

I want to have grace, like she did.
I want to have patience like this one.
The most intelligent friend of mine once told me:
You're like some sort of chameleon.

I want to have skills like his.
I wish I could play guitar.
I want to have money, like their parents.
I'd like a reliable car.

The most psychotic friend of mine once told me:
Art is truth in disguise.
I want to be bold, like she is.
I want to reflect the fire in her eyes.

So I'll go and change colors again
into a new skin that matches the times.

I want to be beautiful,
like the one who'll never be mine.
I wish I could sing like she does.
I wish I could blow her mind.

I want to vibrate with vibrant energy.
I want to echo sounds that fill my soul,
like how the most reckless friend of mine once told me:
I'll die before I grow old.

I want to combine of all these things to make a new mold,
and reform myself from its grooves.
I want to shine like a statue made of gold,
with tinges that reflect the best from all of you.

These poems are for posterity (because mind-loss runs in the family.)
I dedicate all this poetry to my progeny, but most importantly,
to the one and only Future Me.
That old guy who's worn out and world-weary.
The one who's losing his memories,
and can't keep track of what he thinks.

These are all for you.

I'll record the lowest lows and highest highs.
Presented for the perusal of his (yours, my) rheumy eyes.
I might embellish at times -
I might even lie.
I just want to be able to look back and realize:
It's been an incredible life.

Is like being a fly trying desperately to avoid spider webs
while longing to be caught.

On the back of my heels.
Things are starting to feel unreal again.
Exit in sight, but my feet are on the edge of quicksand.
I've got plans of running away.

She's been feeling alone.
I'm sitting too close to the fire.
I'm wary of hell in her eyes.
Can't take the heat.
***** that desire.
I cannot stay.

Sounds are getting too loud.
Colors are becoming too vivid.
It's all too bright.
I don't want this life.
Escape to a place where everything's black and white.

I told her that I had a problem.
She attempted to show me her own.
It's all mathematical nonsense.
We can't solve them.
She said that numbers don't make a home.

If 1+(2-1 who doesn't belong + 1 who could be true = what could come from the addition of me and you)
I asked about the decimals.
She said I'm only trying to give you clues.
I answered:
that math leaves me with only 1/3 of you.

I want the whole pi or nothing at all.
She said every parabola has its rise and fall.
I told her I'm more into asymptotes;
Edging ever closer without touching the wall,
but I'm not a withholder.
She asked me to prove it,
so I showed her my ruler.

If I got paid by the bottle, then I'd be a millionaire,
but cash flows in the opposite direction.
The world's not into funding despair.

If heartbreak was a skill set,
then my resume would be top-notch,
but corporate tends to frown upon
stumbling fools who reek of scotch.

The value of dollars tends to cheapen when it comes so easily.
With E! News stories of drunken coked-out celebrities,
I swear,
I've had it up to here.

Our number one commodity -
the American Dream -
has turned into a nightmare.

Remember when I told you that you don't scare me?

Run on toward a brand new sun.
Move forward. Stop for no one.
Drop from clouds and hit the ground.
Land on your feet in full-blown sprint.

Slide into a brand new scene.
Send that dance floor spinning.
Flinging spit in every direction.
Hitting sheep of plasticine.

This race never ends,
but I'll be ****** if we're not winning.

Climb the ladder to dive again.
The water's warm and waiting.
Pity those stuck indecision.
They'd might as well be *******.

Fly through town while howling loud.
Stick out in crowds of wolves.
The wild ones are homeless now -
forced out of their woods.

I'm not one for promises,
but I'll be ****** if we're not making good.

Spiral in then pinch the seams.
Sealed inside infinity.
Circle round the center like sharks in bloodly seas:
Recyclers of misplaced energy.

Drink it up.
Blast that song.
Crack concrete.
Run on.

Run on.

What I told you yesterday had an impact on tonight.
Combined with what I said today makes it kind of frightening.
I've been extra-sensitive to coincidences lately.
My mind readily noticing when irony strikes.

If I've told you twice, then I've might as well told you a thousand times:
my friends are not good people,
and I'm not very nice,
So take a hike.

What I said two thousand years ago just echoed back tonight.
Recalled saying it just yesterday,
back in a different life:
My friends are all I have,
and they make me feel alright,
so if you've got a problem then go and take a hike.

Ninety million years ago,
dinosaurs roamed the earth.
The bulky massive precursors
to all of my friends' births.
They say a man can be judged by the company he keeps,
and these are all just metaphors,
but we've got claws and jagged teeth,
so come and get yours.

I spend my time with predators
learning to prey on the weak.
They accept me because I know all of their secrets
in a language I've spent two-hundred million years learning how to speak.

I've been extra-sensitive to coincidences lately,
like how all of my friends have such thick skin.
I suppose it's got something to do with my past lives,
the way they let me in.

I said it yesterday and I'll say it again.
Stegosaurus never stood a chance against Tyrannosaurus.
A well known fact amongst my friends;
Believers of evolution and survival of the fittest.
One day we'll rule the earth again.

Everything's alright.
I mean, I still act like a **** sometimes
and wake up screaming in the middle of the night,
but that's just a part of life.
Am I right?

Even if I'm wrong.
Even if I act out and commit crimes
just to feel a rush.
We dream of what we might be and do what we must.
I'm just saying,
you've got nothing to do with it.
I've got defense mechanisms to deal with my defense mechanisms.
It's just a part of life.
Am I right?

I'll go to great lengths to avoid a fight.
It's hardly ever worth it.
Justified or not,
punches make for a rough night.
Nothing but bruises to show for it.
Just another part of life.
Kind of silly,
am I right?

Let's forgo the *******.
Been there and done that.
We've both got nothing to show for it,
but regrets and things we wish we could take back.
Just another part of life.
Am I right?
You don't have to agree,
just believe that everything will be alright.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is hardly ever there.
Only showing up after mistakes are made.
Saying **** like: "Whatever. What do you care?"
*******, me. **** me, I swear.
You just hang back and pass judgement.
It's not fair.

You should be here helping to deal with these things,
instead of leaving me all alone.
If only you could understand.
You never will.
You live in objective, third-person, meta neverland.

It must be convenient not to feel anything,
but I resent the emptiness.
Forgive me for trying to fill that void with something.
I'm sorry if that makes us enemies.
For the record, I've tried everything to make it easy.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is always condescending.
He thinks my life's a joke,
he thinks that I'm pretending.
I say "**** that" and do what I want.
Even mistakes can have a positive way of working themselves out -
With or without your help.

I know that I can count on your abandon.
You only show up when I'm all put out.
To carry me through the ******* -
I suppose I ought to be thankful for it.

You'd **** well better,
you melodramatic fool.
Everything I do is for you.
It kills me to see you waste it on such senseless endeavors.
What are you?
Some sort of emo Dr. Seuss?
Nobody cares.
You use writing as a way of escape.
We've got a doctor's appointment tomorrow (because of you, thanks).
I wish you wouldn't tie me to your leg whenever you drown yourself in   sorrow.

The part of me that knows what he's doing is always ******* things up,
but I'll bet he'd say the same about me.
God forbid we work together
to find some sort of harmony.

Lover of Disney.
Connoisseur of fairy tales.
With stories of lonely-girl-turned-princess
and wooden boys swallowed by whales
(just longing to be real).
Ever a believer in Happily Ever After.

I thought I could be your disaster.

I raged.
Hurricane gales with lightning and thunder.
Earthquakes and landslides.
Stormed into a blunder.

I thought you were frail,
but you're corrugated steel.
A bastion, a bulwark; impregnable.
A stronghold made up of shining white stone.

When the rampage was over,
the only foundation destroyed was my own.

I think of your poems when I'm in a crowd.
I memorize your lines and recite them out loud
into a sea of unsuspecting faces,
so that they fall in love with words, like I did yours;
strung together by the wisdom of your golden graces.

I want to bask in the glory of sharing your story,
and celebrate tonight in honor of you.
If I make your poetry a part of my life,
can I become a part of yours too?

I will tell you of their laughter and smiles.
How they wept, danced, rejoiced -
how the whole crowd went wild.

I want you to hear of their praises because I think you're divine.
I'll spend the rest of my days writing odes of thanks.
Forever indebted to you and your kind
for letting your words become mine.

Most definitely, they know what it is.
Even without knowing.
Don't you see?
That's the beauty of it.
Ignorance is bliss.
I could die right now and be fine with it.

Scream loud as possible into a freshly washed pillow still soaked with dreams of snakes and her face and friends who don't give a ****.
Raging against self-inflicted wounds wrought by the subconscious.
Two weeks later and infested again.
Muffled yells at half-volume to deal with it.
Manifested from fears like that kid from my nightmare last year with the macaroni in his hair.
I'm still haunted by it.
Feel that wrench in the stomach like an egg-beater twisting my guts.
Scream as loud as I can into a pillow twice-washed.

Punch the walls, feed the host, burn the demons, starve the ghost.
Scream without a filter and break all the windows.

Sleeping again but it never ends; never stops, never quits or gives in.
Always creeping below the surface.
What did I do to deserve this?
Screaming into a pillow thrice-washed.
Laugh at the clock and make friends with the dark.

Burn the walls, starve the host, please the demons, feed the ghost.
Bleeding from a punch to the window.
Self-inflicted ruin to appease the subconscious.
Scream as loud as you can into a wet pillow.

There's a feeling that I get
when everything's fallen to pieces.
Suddenly it all makes sense.
Old theory's busted.
Time to come up with a new thesis.

I'll state that I know nothing
but my own experiences.

She told me a fanciful story of woe.
I could relate.
"It's like suffocating, you know?"

Turns out that my ruling planet is Venus.
Laughter.
"That must be why you're so effeminate!"
"Stop. Whatever. Everyone knows that astrology is *******."
"Maybe so, but it's still fascinating."

I'm more interested in how we'd fit,
but you've made your point.
Really, it is though.

Her feline inspired lines are amongst the best,
but she's still a cat lady, nonetheless.

A hermit's heart may weigh lighter than the feather,
but he's spent all his days longing for something better.

The lonely are often alone by choice -
that's the way it seems to me, at least.
I'll take to writing and forgo my voice;
plan it out while I walk down lonesome streets.

One look.
A stare.
That's how this all began.
To end it,
I swear:
I'll never look at you again.

I want to get inside your head.
(The deepest part of your bed)

I want to crawl under your skin.
(The driving force to your sins)

I want to haunt all of your dreams.
(So you'll never forget me)

I want to always be there.
(So I'll know that you're okay)
You don't have to be scared.
(Just believe in what I say)

How could I have thought that there was anything to gain from you?
All you've ever done is remind me of the things I lost.

He's got a flair for the ironic,
and a stare that's sardonic,
with an attitude that clearly puts people off.
He's got a problem with getting turned on
by the things he thinks are wrong,
and he does it all to better relate to the lyrics of a song.
Attempting to live a literary lifestyle,
that kid is some kind of wild.
He's got soulful eyes,
but I don't trust his smile.
Not the kind of story I like to read.
Surely, he's trouble.
That one's a bad seed.

It starts with curiosity;
fascination,
admiration,
affixation.
Excitement and expectation.
Fondly falling for flutterings.
Paying too much attention to alterations.
Getting hung up on fluctuations.

It turns into frustration.
Feelings of inadequacy.
Indignation.
Self-abasement.
Fear and loathing.
Dread.

Followed by annoyance.
Re-evaluation.
Revulsion.
Remembering what's important.

It ends with indifference;
over it.
Free again,
thank goodness.