Bouncing back and forth
with a slap or gentle tap.
Seems like a dance at first,
but it's just buildup for the attack.
The crack of wood on plastic.
Simple rhythm interrupted by a smack.
You got me good with that smash,
but I'm gonna get you back.

The moon does more than pull the tide,
it pulls on insides too.
It twists intestines into knots while causing monsoons on the other side of the world;
a swirling pool in the stomach of a girl.

"Why are you telling my any of this?"

"I don't know . . .
I can't really afford a therapist."

Amber rays shine on a hand that weighs the pros and cons
of an ace of spades against a flush of hearts.
Trade one in to get it started.
A three of clubs leaves me brokenhearted.
Deuces wild;
meanwhile, I'm delaying tricks that will leave them convinced
that I've still got their number.
Stacked as such,
drawn into a straight pulled right out of my sleeve.
Your queens over kings ain't got **** on me.
Ante up.
I'll put you all in.
I only ever play for keeps,
and I always win.

Your rough edges have all been ground down.
Calm little pebble, you're so smooth now.

Easy come and easy go.
Things used to be hard.

Feels like forever ago.

Everything burns, pierces and tears.
My head's blown to pieces by the force of these cares.

A word not spoken.
A stare gone too long.
A perfect plan ruined.
A beautiful song.

My heart is in shambles.
It's tortured and raw,
and riddled with holes that leak until there's a pool beneath my feet.
And I drown.

What I need is to be free
of all these things that hurt so much.
What I wish for is for nothing
to ever touch me again . . .

Bam Smash Break Crash Wham Whomp Kazoo

Your wish is my command and now well how'd ya do?

Nothing can touch me.
Yes! Finally!

. . .

Nothing can touch me . . .

Oh god, no.

If I were here,
before I got here,
then I swear I arrived on accident.
I think I'll leave before you get me to believe that this is all just a concraxodent.

This aimless floating isn't working out.
I've been living entirely in my own head.
I've been thinking a lot about drinking again.
I'm a ******* island.
If I sink at least there'll be fish to swim with.

"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.))

Every day contains another series of unknowns:
Unforeseen troubles, unanticipated worries;
untold tales of woe.

But deep down in my bones,
I somehow seem to know
that you'll show me something beautiful.

I'm just going to listen to this song for a little while longer,
and pretend that I don't to have work tomorrow.
If I died right now, it wouldn't be so bad,
just so long as this song is playing.

If my life were a movie,
I'd put you all in the credits.
Don't get your hopes up though -
no one would pay to see it.

If my life were a poem,
I bet it'd be ******.
All the rhymes would feel forced.
It'd probably trend though,
but that'd just make it worse.

If my life were a painting,
it'd be some Jackson ******* splatter *******.
Interpret it a certain way and you'll see
that I'm nothing but an idiot.

That **** don't even make sense.
What is sense anyway?
I've explained this all before.
My point was that it's nonsense.

If my life were a sitcom,
then the canned laughter would **** me off.
Did you know that they're mostly dead people laughing?
All those laughs were recorded so long ago.
I don't need dead people to laugh at my punchlines,
I'm too busy laughing at theirs.
Life is a joke and death is the punchline.
Death is a joke and life is the punchline.
It's one thing or the other.
Whatever, who cares?

If my life were real life,
then I'd be sitting right here.
Drunk again and typing some ****** poem,
in the hopes of getting a few likes.

I'm just going to listen to this song for awhile longer.
It's a completely different song by now.
I still happen to like this one though.
I'd die to it too,
just so you know.

You give me answers to questions I never even asked.
Why do you do that?
It's as useful as knowing something bad's about to happen,
just after the fact.
I've never been there before, so how could I go back?
This feels like a joke taken too seriously -
not even good for a laugh.

There are bones in this bed;
abandoned teeth and torn out ribs.
If one were to sleep in it,
they'd dream of falling into a bottomless pit.
An endless abyss.
A pool of tortured spirits who have long since been devoured by it.
They'd have nightmares of bared fangs
and bled veins
to wake up drenched in sweat -
swept up by a river of tears;
to live the rest of their lives suffocated by inexplicable fears.

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.

A mother and son standing at the edge of it.*

"What happened?"

"Some say it was a fire, but I don't believe it."

"Why not?"

"Well, a fire that big would've left marks, but there's no scorched earth or anything."

"Then what was it?"

"Poor engineering, maybe. Or some great storm came and knocked it down. Maybe a combination of the two? No one really knows for sure. What do you think?"

"I think . . . I think it just fell in on itself. They built it too big. It couldn't stay that big like that. It just broke apart one day."

"Hmm. Well you know what?
I think you might be right . . . "

My fingers sting from playing a six string.
Neglected piano keys notwithstanding.
Small pain for the sake of understanding something.
Learning starts with touch.
It'll hurt worse before I'm done.
First the basics, then the fun.
I'll climb this rocky learning curve;
playing cacophonies for no one.

He swore to ignore every odd-ball notion that came awkwardly knocking at his door.

Irregular patterns tap-hapata-ladding like some kind of fiend desperate for human interaction.

"It's just a lump of useless tissue with issues I'll never be able to correct." - That's what the cardiologist thought as he had a heart attack.

Some doors should stay closed.
Certain things are best left alone.
Curiosity killed the cat,
and took its soul into the great unknown.

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 bars and stars and cars and races.
The dates and states and quakes and phases.
The quirks and shakes and guilts that stack like spinning plates.
(Not everybody makes it.)

When they come crashing down, just look for a broom.
If you use your hands you'll get blood all over the floor,
(and we don't bleed over lost causes anymore.)

He doesn't feel real.
He doesn't think that the things in his life that are real should be that way.
He wastes his time away wondering about ambiguous things;
a different way of living life that could,
in theory,
lead to happiness.

"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.

All these nights of "fun."
I'd gladly trade them in for quiet ones spent with you.
We could cancel all our plans with friends
to stay in bed reading-
Just us two.

You give me hope when I have none left.
You fill my lungs when they're out of breath.
You show me how beautiful it is to be alive,
despite the impending weight of death.

You give peace to my troubled soul.
A value that's worth more than gold.
You trip me out,
you fill me up,
you give me more than I could ever want.

You catch my thoughts when they're out of bounds.
Everything I've lost has suddenly been found.
You make me want to sing Amazing Grace,
but I'm struck dumb every time I see your face.

And in the silent spaces between,
I give thanks.
Thank you, beautiful.
Thank you for saving me.
Thank you for existing.
Thank you for everything.

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 . . .

Laughter resonates through my funny bones.
We're all having a good time
so that we don't feel alone.

It's grown inside my brain;
this constant repetition of the phrases:
It's all alright. It's good. We'll be okay.
I'm fine. As a matter of fact, I'm great.

Nevermind never minding all the things I love to hate,
and the crying sessions in between.
This ****'s ******' funny.
I'm laughing my *** off.
No, but yea. Seriously.

I once read about a word that is defined as the pain that an idealist feels when reality inevitably falls short of his or her own grand ideas of how things could be.

The crownless head is unbearably light,
while the body floats off into the night,
with limbs popping like balloons against a jagged sky.

Fools pressed and folded inside paper walls.
The echo of one passionate wail can tear this whole thing apart,
but to think twice would be to think for far too long.

The trick is to convince yourself that you're not only dreaming.
That this scene features more than just one meaning:
To wake up screaming in a silent movie.
To spew vibrant ***** all over these monochrome paintings.

(To dance in a bathroom while the discharge of bowels are drowning down the bowl.)

To crease rays until your shadowed mainstay bathes in fire -
stealing meaning from featureless things to replace the ones you've been leaking your whole life.

You were so solid.
A statue in the face of a coming storm.
You saw it,
but you're not one to flinch.

You ate it whole.
A whirlwind dive down a steady eye.
Now we're lost in
the place that you call home.

Won't you spit us out?
We fell through the cracks of our many flaws.
You never doubted
what it was all about.

I'm sick of over indulgence.
I'm tired of disgrace.
Won't you give us all some leeway,
so that we may save some face.

I
Fell
For You
In Too Many Ways

I spent my days crying
while longing for escape.
You always knew the simple path was long since overgrown.
I guess I have myself to blame
for the price of being another chip on your shoulder.

Holes in the heart.
Holes in the head.
It's a heavy burden to carry such emptiness.
It's true what she said,
whoever she is;
this kind of thing is rooted in dread.

White washed days.
Black out nights.
Holes in memories.
Holes in eyes.

Vomited out the soul with the rest of my insides.

Trying to fill the gaps between thighs.
Cutting through the silence with heavy  sighs.
Getting high, always trying to stay high.
Replace the missing pieces with beautiful lies.

I'm sorry I didn't recognize you.
(Those few years between might as well've been centuries.)
It seems you were just the guard rails on a bridge I burned a long time ago.
I should have hung on.

Thin walls.
Ear plugs.
Windows.

Whatever, do what you gotta.

Shut it out or let it in.
Bring on the feast:
Let the games begin.

13 minus 27 is 38.
Took the east-bound train to Missouri by mistake.
Halfway between the station and my home-state I got decapitated by a snowflake the size of a plate.

I sit and stare
I think and drive
I wonder why this is my life

I think and stare
The lights go by
I feel so numb
I sit and drive

I see the road
Through my cracked windshield
I signal and turn
I brake and yield

I go through the motions
I stay within the lines
I sit and think
I stare and drive

I see the scenes go rolling by
I sit and stare
And wonder why
I make a turn
I sink and die

Whether you're in her way, or she's in yours,
she'll be sure to apologize first.

"Oh, so sorry!
(I'm just so sorry to exist.)
No really, you go first.
Of course, I insist."

There's something so depressing in it.
Couldn't you just quit?

"Don't be. It's fine.
No, really. It's okay."

*I just wish you'd find something less depressing to say.

Watching people watch football is like watching a competitive sport of its own.
A kind of histrionical show-down of who can be the most obnoxious;
Who can really drive home the fact that they want this particular group of color-coded men to win more than the other,
with egregious displays of enthusiasm being the most popular mode.

In a parallel world, some of these folks could make decent actors.

My brother, for instance, reminds me of a young Leo:
He yells and shouts but never quite manages to sell me on it.

My uncle's more like a Michael Caine. Calmly sharing reassuring statistics and factoids throughout the game.

Meanwhile, my father's much more stoic. If he has any real interest in who's winning, he doesn't show it.

I've seen this behavior on display in other venues
(the workplace, concerts, church,)
but it definitely seems to be the most pronounced with sports.

There are some people,
these are their thoughts.
Here are some arrows:
Aim for the heart.

I hate.
I hate, and hate, and hate.
I take a break
to read a book no one appreciates,
then clock back in
just to hate again,
and hate, and hate, and hate.
The things you love.
What you think is great.
Those are all of the things I hate.
I hate, and hate, and hate.
I hate myself for hating it.
I hate the way it makes me feel.
Like everything is meaningless.
Like nothing is even real.
I hate you so much for making me hate the way that I am.
I hate every situation that I find myself in.
I hate that I love you in spite of it.
I hate.
I hate.
I hate you for it.

His to act on her prone back
with a rope attached to circumvent that.
Because who knew there was always a way out?
Another definite reason to second question double doubt.
I've had enough to fill my quota with or without squared facts.
Cubed into four dimensions to contain the bouncing reflected stream of light that cuts through every fine line drawn by pinpoint pens.
The ink is solid but the tips's worn thin.
I'm about to dive right in,
with seven limbs minus two and a half.
Crack the sphere that's not welcome here with a hammer and a tack.
I've circulated every memo.
Can you remember that every word read gets retained in that blank black back space that hides beneath every keyboard key?
Wait, scratch that.
Hit delete.

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.

While staring at a moon that looks like it's been scorched.

Maybe the worst thing is not realizing you miss it until it sinks in after you're 15 miles in toward the only place that's open within a 20 mile radius at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Sometimes I wish I still lived in a place where it felt like magic exists in an oppressive way,
but I did 6 outlandish things already this week, and that's not even counting today.

The lights on these tractors late at night are twice as blinding as any car's high beams. I don't know why yet. Maybe to keep the rabbits away from the machinery?

I get an almost perverse satisfaction out of seeing the weeds in my yard slowly wither since I've sprayed them with the toxic concentrate mixture that the guy at the hardware store recommended I hit them with.

The brand new mower is anxiously awaiting its moment of glory.

Sometimes it bothers me that we don't say things to each other like we used to, although it's also kind of a relief.

The thing about the girl in town who I think I might have some chemistry with is, she's a fantastic listener.

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

is that one day you might miss it.

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

When I was very young,
my biggest fear was of being possessed by a demon.
Once I realized that demons are just a superstitious figment of a self-loathing imagination,
my biggest fear became of going crazy.
Once I realized that "crazy" was just a political term used to categorize those who live outside the social norm,
my biggest fear then became of dying alone.
When I realized that I'd always carry the memory of everyone who had ever made an impact on me,
I found out that life is profoundly beautiful,
and I'm no longer afraid to die.

You're ilk as folk,
cracked the egg to its yoke,
as the dyslexic kid couldn't help but laugh at his own joke.

The ice hit teeth,
but the bite bit deep underneath as the asphymatic kid fought for every minute of his sleep.

I woke up in a sweat after having a dream about being so misunderstood that it swept the world clean.

But here's the part where the bristles start to scrape away the dirt that's been left unattended for too long.

Missles out of mole hills,
shot into the long arm of the smartest kid in your advanced placement lit class,
who's been busting his *** washing dishes ever since.

The current bet is that whoever wears the gilded hat is as sure as **** to live in its brim.

I'd just as quickly double it on the off-chance that he'll win.

Nine million maniacs scribbling nonsense on the wall
in a mad but noble attempt to make sense of it all.

Talking about religion and the meaning of life,
with some foreign guy I met at a bar.
My friends have all left.
I'm just making noise.
I keep taking longingful glances at my car.
We could figure it all out tonight,
but I've done it before.
I wouldn't get much out of it,
and I can't be late for work.

We're here'd,
we're weird.
Get used to it . . .

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.