My body is a vessel
A teapot, if you will
With my spirit boiling deep inside
Drink from it if it soothes you

And if it suits you
Then wear it with pride
I bare my scars with arms wide open
To embrace you when you need it
Warm you up when you feel frozen

Because truth be told
This life can be cold
And I'm so tired of shivering
So let's wake up, and spread this love
It's a message worth delivering

Sometimes I burn with passion
It makes me cry and think I'm crazy
But it also makes me feel alive
Let's start this fire, baby

Because passion is where it's at
We'll take our freedom back
What's that? You've got a great idea?
Oh yea, let's all do that!

There once was a whale
Or maybe it was just a giant fish
He hung around in the shallows
And all of us anglers wondered if
Catching him wouldn't make us rich

If only that glory could be ours
To win that battle between nature and wit
We set our bait and cast our lines
And in the meanwhile, we wondered, "what if?"

And at the local gas stations we give them our cash
We ask for the many itches that we would like to scratch
We look at the numbers with all our fingers crossed
Hoping that all of our hope is not lost

It's funny how the sound of a cricket can bring on feelings far beyond it ever intended.
I heard you can tell the temperature from it.
Toads are in high demand when everybody wants to lick them.
I heard Salmonella cases went up in percentage after the release of that Disney film.
It's funny how much of an influence one frog-kissing princess can have.
The media is like a bad disease that everybody has.
If I were a prince,
then I'd pass laws to rinse our culture of it.
If I had magic powers,
then I'd used them to silence those who abuse it.
Animate an army of brooms to wash it clean.
I realize I'm infected too,
but don't you see?
That's exactly what I mean.

The woods are wonderful dark and deep,
but really I should get some sleep.
The patterns in my head are gold and red,
but really I should go to bed.
What dreams may come aren't always kind,
but don't be afraid to close those eyes.

Life's a mess but nevermind.

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.

I miss being a kid
and strolling through rows of books in a quiet library -
scanning titled spines and waiting for some divine revelation;
a serendipitous instance of the sudden realization that
this is the one, I can feel it!

Slipping it out of its place on the shelf slowly,
as if it were a sacred and fragile thing.
Reading the dust jacket and thinking:
Yes! This is it!

Opening it slowly, (is it weird to say something about savoring its scent?) and reading a few scattered sentences, enthralled, before closing it quickly and clutching it close;
head scanning left to right to make sure the coast is clear.

*No one must know that I've found it.
They all thought I was nuts. They called me crazy,
but I knew it'd all work out if I continued to believe.
I've finally found the most magical book in the whole wide world;
the one that's been written
just.
for.
me.

Can one be traumatized by another person's trauma?
(Isn't that kind of how it works?)
Is there a known cure for an addiction to drama?
Can an entire family tree suffer from PTSD?
What about a whole country?

I used to have fun
I used to take walks
I used to have something special that I feel I've since lost
But for the life of me
I couldn't tell you what it was
Youth
Vitality
Maybe a soul
Whatever happened to it
Where did it go?

Years ago, when I lived on the coast,
I made friends with this kid who was a salesman at Sears.
He once sold a coworker his ****.
He was very upset when he told me about it.
(That's the thing about regrets,
they're the type of thing one never forgets.)
We used to hit the bars,
but it never went very far.
He quickly lost interest in it when he learned I wasn't into chasing skirts.
One night we ended up on the beach in our best shoes and shirts,
and he told me how his father had drank himself to death.
It's the type of thing I'll never forget.

I threw an intervention for my self,
and all my friends were there.
We got loaded on alcohol,
then drank a ton of beer.
When the last one was on his way out,
he hugged me at the door.
Lots of people say they care,
but these ones -
they care more.

He started stringing dollar bills along with his words to increase the odds of someone picking up what he was putting down.

A young man bangs on the screen door of a small house.
The glass inside it rattles with his urgency.
He stands back and calls out a name.
An anxious pause.
He bangs on the door again.

The door behind the screen opens.
An old woman glares at the young man through the black mesh.
"She ain't here,
and even if she was -
she don't want to see you!
Now go away!"
She slams the door shut.

The young man stares at it, bewildered.
Stamps his foot.
Calls out a name -
louder this time.
He bangs on the screen door again,
the glass nearly breaking in its frame.
He yells out a name.

He shouts, "Are you in there?
I need to speak with you!"

"Go away,"  heard faintly from the other side of the door.

The young man walks to the side of the house.
He is grumbling underneath his breath.
Phrases like, "old hag," and "miserable old hag,"
can barely be heard.
He stops at a window.
Its curtains are drawn.
He knocks on it.
He calls out a name.
He yells,
"Please!"

He pauses.
Puts his ear against the glass.
He hears nothing at first,
then footsteps.
Grass being crunched under heavy feet
coming from the front of the house.
A large man turns the corner.
He stares at the young man.

"She's gone," says the large man.
"She left last night."

"What do you mean 'she's gone?'
Where has she gone?
I need to see her . . ."
He suddenly looks behind the man.

The old woman has turned the corner of the house.
She stands slightly behind the large man.

"She's gone with him," she hisses.
"**** good she did too!
He'll be able to give her more than you ever could in a thousand lifetimes!"

The large man growls at her from over his shoulder,
"Get back in the house!"
The old woman glares at the back of the large man,
then she gives the young man one last
disapproving look.
She huffs,
then storms off.

The young man stares at the large man.
He says,
"Has she really gone?
Is it really all true?"

"Yes. The part about her leaving is, anyway."

The young man goes pale.
He looks off into space.
He closes his eyes.
The large man looks away from him.

After a long pause,
with his eyes still closed;
"Was she happy?"

The large man looks at him, confused.
"What?"

The young man opens his eyes. Stares into the large man's.
"Last night,
when she left with him.
Did she look happy?"

The large man stares back at him for a few seconds;
sees the desperation in his eyes,
then looks down.
"Yes," he says softly.
"She looked happy."

The young man closes his eyes again.
One hand goes up to his head to clutch at his hair.
A range of emotions cross his face.

The large man looks up at him,
briefly,
then looks down again.
The young man sighs softly,
slowly.

"Ok," he says.
The large man looks up at him.
The young man is pulling something out of his pocket.
He walks up to the large man,
places it into one of his hands.

"Do me a favor, please."
They are staring into each others' eyes.
"Hang on to this for me."

The large man stares down at the object.
He looks back at the young man, confused.
"What do you want me to do with it?"

The young man is staring right at him, hard.
His face is devoid of all emotion;
all but resolve.

"Just keep it somewhere safe, please.
Keep it somewhere safe where no one can find it -
not even me."

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.

The scene dissolved easily once I realized she was bleeding.
Why'd you do that to yourself?
There's a discrepancy between what was seen and what's believed.
She could hardly believe it herself.

"I don't know why.
There's something wrong with me."

Nonsense.
I don't get it.
I don't understand.

"There's nothing wrong with you."

We hugged each other as hard as we can.
Could*

Would you believe me if I told you that life is worth living?
She says she's tired of swimming.
She says she thinks about suicide every single day.

*******, ___,
I love you.

Don't make me feel this way.

I had a dream that I was rollerblading
in quick sand,
on a treadmill,
down a never ending tunnel,

Swerved just in time to pass by my escape.
Narrowly avoided making a fatal mistake.
I'll live stuck in this.

I admit, there's more than I can chew on my plate.
Flung it like a frisbee at that ******'s face -
Swing and a miss.

I've found another safe place,
and something akin to bliss,
but I can't stay here.

In a way, I saw this coming.
I tried my best to warn you.
I could say that I'm clairvoyant,
but you'd know that I was lying.
A plant that goes too long without water
just can't help from dying.
I've had it with these metaphors,
and I've been done trying.

I don't like that I like it.
I'm uncomfortable with it's familiarity.
I hate that I love it.

I despise the obsession.
I loathe the acceptance.
I confess that I'm upset with the extent of its influence.
I'm not okay with how okay I am with getting lost in this confluence of forces.

Please don't coerce me into this kind of metamorphosis.
I don't want these wings.
This isn't the sky that I'd care to travel.
These aren't the clouds I'd choose to drown in.

The next thing I swallow won't be a mouthful of lies.
Certain circumstances notwithstanding;
I'll burn these feathers before I use them to fly.

I'd been holding out on living until I found out she'd died.

Moonlight bounces off a blank white canvas.
The artist stands in front of it
poised with palette and brushes in hand.
Lost in cosmic visions;
projecting them onto the rectangle of empty space.
Several seconds of silence pass,
then a sudden burst of force like the Big Bang!

Streaks and slashes of vibrant color shoot out in all directions.
A whirlwind of flying shades splashing surfaces without discretion;
canvas, rooftop, face -
not even the moon is immune to getting hit with flecks of paint.
The whole sky bombarded by crashing waves of pigment based rain thrown up with the force of a raging typhoon.

Slapped on thick,
the globs hit canvas with a deafening splat.
The stars themselves left shuddering from the impact.

A few final touches,
then the artist stands back.
The universe is struck dumb by its essence reflected
in a 29 x 36" frame.
She signs her name
and smiles.

Bad black widow;
The yo-yo queen.
7 different flies tied to 7 different strings,
attached to the end of 7 different legs.

Here's one bug that got away.

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.

There's a formula that can keep me going indefinitely.
They say immortality's nothing but a myth,
but I've got the recipe.
It was passed down to me as an ancient family secret:

"Three strips is never enough."

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'll black out the windows if you pull down my drawers.
Slip on a ****** and lock all the doors.
I'll show you mine if you show me yours.
I'm ready to go,
what are you waiting for?

I'll debase myself if you'll meet me in hell.
Swallow us whole -
the seed and the shell.
The holy unknown along with the rest.

I'll fill you up if you're feeling empty.
Say hello to your hallow.
I'll play your notes on my frequency;
caress the ******* underneath feigned sympathy.

"You complete me."
These and other clichés.
I'll fold you into countless shapes
that contour to fit my insecurities.

Slide through another phase of identity.
Subconscious characters carrying out chores of clarity.
What could be simpler than the contours of your body?
I rest my case.

"I'm ugly."

"*******.
If you're ugly, then flowers are hideous,
and sunsets are a joke.
Butterflies nothing more than grotesque insects with over grown wings,
and the night sky is completely overrated.
If you're ugly, then a child's laughter is grating,
and music is just atrocious noise.
A smile's just a contortion of the face,
and poetry is just words.
If you're ugly, then a garden's just an arrangement of plants,
and dreams just nonsense played out in the brain.
Art would have no value,
and brilliant people would just be insane.

You are the farthest thing from ugly,
so don't say **** like that,
because if you aren't the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,
then beauty doesn't exist."

"It's raining skulls again," sighed jelly head,
with his brain leaking out from his nose.

"Nevermind," she said
with a tissue in her hand;
"Skull rain's good for the bones."

I've always wanted to **** a psychiatrist.
I think it'd be hot for someone to hear all my *******.
On the couch meant for listening, while their legs are spread;
I'd pay what's more than fair to know what goes on in their head.

I know this kid who once made his psychiatrist cry.
I swear to god, he's my hero.
I worry about him sometimes.
But I don't get paid for that ****, you know?

They're so fond of handing out pills.
Psychobabble jargon and all of that swill.
"Your emotions are too strong. Take these and they'll be killed."
******* psychiatry.
It's adorable.

"Did you know that your profession has one of the highest suicide rates?
What are you doing tonight?
Wanna go on a date?"

I bet they hear a lot about ****.
Do you think they might get off on it?
Poor *******.
Your career choice was a mistake.

No, really though, I think it's pretty great.
Trying to help people function properly and stuff.
Psychiatrists are hot.
They can all get ******.

"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."

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

I'm distressed. Everything's gone grey,
and I'm just soOOoo depressed today.
I can't seem to shake these blues.
My life's a lie that I can't make true.

I want to curl up into a little ball, in the corner of the room.
My days are all filled with gloom and doom.
These rhymes are tired, and so am I.
I'm just waiting around for the day that I die.

My soul is empty.
My heart has holes.
Bliss and Happiness -
Who are they? What're those?

You could ask me who I am,
and "Nothing" is what I'll say.
Just one more sad poet.
Another bad cliche.

We could be lovers,
or we could stay strangers,
but we can never be friends.

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.

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)

"What you need is a true friend.
A girlfriend/boyfriend.
Someone to play house with and make pretend.
2.5 kids and a white picket fence.
A dog and/or cat - you can't forget about that."
(I see a red door and I want it painted black.)
"What you need is a woman,
or maybe a man."
I took the **** prescription
and threw it into the trash can.

Lost in the clouds where we stored all our dreams.
Fell to the ground in a million tiny drops.
Each one, a wish we don't remember making.

Leapt in the air and broke through atmospheres,
just to get some space.

We carved our names into the face of the sun.
Fell from the stars and hit the ground running.

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

When I say "Always,"
I really mean Never
But I do mean it when I say
That we should get together
When I say "Sometime,"
I really mean Forever
I believe you hold the key to making my life better

When I say I'm content
I really mean I'm not
When I say that I am happy it means I don't know how to stop
When I say "I like you"
Or that I think you're cute
It means there are so many things I want to do to you

When I say you can help me
It really means I'm ******
If you think that you can save me then I'll say to you, "Good Luck"
If I say that I'm alright
It means I'm falling apart
And if I start to show you all my pieces you'd better hold on to your heart

Beware of anyone who claims to be in love with Ayn Rand.
Beware of anyone who fears what they don't understand.
Beware of overthinking,
and slipping into mental quicksand,
but if you do,
then don't be afraid of reaching out for a helping hand.

I understand that you're working ******* your karma;
that you're toiling toward keeping that feather weighing more than your heart.
I get that you somehow get off on going above and beyond what other people expect of you after you've agreed to do something for them.
(Though you should know, that because you do it every time, they always expect you to.)
I can clearly see that you've been collecting good deeds in order to redeem them at the end of this thing for a better seat to whatever the hell it is that you think is going to happen;
that you treat each one as an eon shaved off of the wait time you'll have to spend in the line to get into heaven.
No really, I get it.
It's your thing, your MO; your shtick.
But me personally,
I've got better things to do than bend over backwards for opportunists.

Eyes closed;
shuttered windows.

Compassion is rare these days.
It's always been rare,
but you've got it in spades.

I'd tell you to beware;
not to just give it away to anyone -
that it's possible for it to be drained . . .

but I'm pretty sure you know better than I do,
and that it doesn't work that way.

I'll try my hardest to refrain from mounting this phony high pony and preach to you,
and to keep from using ******* rhymes and fancy lines that do little more than convolute the truth,
but the fact remains that there's a certain amount of irony inherent in all things,
and I can see it clearly raging inside of you.

Blah blah blah.
These and other platitudes.
You're struggling and you're sad and you're lost and confused.

Don't you realize that you're just climbing up and sliding down the eternal staircase that the rest of us have already grown accustomed to?

Of course not,
and that's why you're smart.
Giving up on the race before it even starts.

What do you want?
No, really.
Out of life,
out of love,  
with hell below and the stars above,
where exactly are you aiming for?

You don't even know,
and somehow,
that's what makes it beautiful.

There's a storm abrewin'
and everyone's gone insane,
but I've never been much of one to mind a little wind and rain.

There's a prevailing sense of panic,
but I've got Bob Dylan in my head,
and I bought a pack of smokes 'cause you can't smoke 'em when you're dead.
And if it is my time to go,
well then I'll make good food for worms,
but if it's not then I'll give thanks for shelter from the storm.

The first embrace was electric.
The second was on fire.
The third was cold and frigid.

A scenic analytic man with figures pouring out his hands might come across you one day,
Sitting oh so lonely in a dark and dismal way,
Extending out his hand in a gesture of affect.
What will you do to process this abstract?
Reach out in a gesture of "I know it too,"
To bridge that tiny gap between a me and a you.

Ford and folded to the river bloated.
For whom should we give thanks that our liver floated?
I'll bet three shanks that we'll hit the banks of the gold coast before we'll ever be able to afford it.

The odds aren't in our favor.
Cashed out and half-cocked but still fully loaded.
Goaded into a rhino's bargain for a goat whose milk has already been exploited.

I told you this was a bad idea.

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.

Freak me out, please.
Say something to make me drop to my knees.
Not in praise or glory -
I've had it with that story.
I want something unpredictable and gory.
Do you know what I mean?

All of these people
Just trying to get along
And I've got my keyboard
And I've got my song
And I sing it out loud
To find out who will sing along

All of these thoughts
Now have somewhere to go
And I plant this seed
And I'll watch it grow
And somewhere in between
The most spectacular show

All of these feelings
Succumb to being overwhelmed
A desperate attempt of the lost to be found
And the trees sprout up from the soft fertile ground
And the birds give words to the sweet subtle sound
Of a life never lived giving birth to right now

I always wanted to be good at everything.
Who doesn't?
I was egotistical enough to cling to the notion that one day, I would.

I dabbled in the arts.
Concocted my potions.
Ran experiments.
Made love when I could.
I calculated numbers.
Explored the ocean,

But my favorite hobby was always psychology.
My first case study being my mother.

There's nothing deeper than the depths of human emotion,
or the correlation of what one life means to another.