Touch my subconscious and I'll love you forever in dreams.

In this place, I have no face
And no future which can daunt me
On this night, I can close my eyes
And remember all that you've taught me

On this street
My feet know where they're going
And I can find my way home
Without even knowing

Slowing only enough for me to take a deep breath
Realize this moment lasts forever
And forget about death

I got a little carried away
by the way you say my name.
A little caught up by your make-up.
Lost in your eyes -
it's hardly a surprise -
how easily I fall in love.

Oops.

I just made it real.
I've felt empty for so long,
and you made me feel.
(Oh, to feel!)
I didn't mean to project my feelings onto you,
but everyone seems so fake,
and you seem so real.

Oops.

I didn't mean to smile that time.
I've been trying to stay mad at you
for making me lose my mind.

Oops.

I've got to get away from you.
These feelings make me want to die.
I'm jealous of everyone you talk to.
Why can't you be mine?

Oops,
oh ****,
I really ****** up this time.
I can't see a thing,
your beauty's got me blind.
Abandon ship!
Get out fast!
I swore I'll never love again because it never lasts.

Oops.

I died.

I didn't mean to,
just like how I never meant to turn red
whenever I heard your voice.
It's just so full of life.
Could you please sing at my funeral now that I'm dead?
I bet that'll make 'em cry.

Some people are too quick to tell you that you're being a ****.
Meanwhile, there are others who are way too polite to even think of mentioning it.
If you're the type to give a ****,
then this could be a real problem.

I look forward to nostalgia twice as much as forgetting.

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

I'm having a devil of a time trying to define the stars around your eyes,
but hey, I'm not a cosmetologist.
I just thought maybelline we could dream about pretty things,
and make up lines that coincide with our collided fantasies.
With puffed up lips and fluffy language as safeguards against sudden incites,
tonight we'll finally smash our parts together if only to discover that we don't even like each other -
not even a little bit.

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.

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.

Brilliant little lines etched out to stretch the time.
Minds placing X's and O's in an attempt to make straight lines,
but a circle never ends,
so let's pretend we're stuck in spiral.
Swirling through the twisted bits,
like DNA strands spinning in a double helix.
We're nothing but a mix of atoms mashed together.
An explosion of fused matter;
spattering the heavens with our essence.

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.

The sickening sinking feeling that comes with sleep still persists.
Is this what dying feels like?
I know bliss is fleeting, but it cuts deep,
and gives me a reason to continue to exist.

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.

Fields of bridges burn while I'm
waiting for my turn,
and she looks into my eyes while I
hear my feelings die.
Screaming loud and wild.
I pull them down beneath the surface
to drown under my silence.
My heart is blackened tar.
My mind's a searing furnace.
Your eyes are just a canvas for my mental plants to flourish.

If you have somewhere to get to
Just come and let me know
I will gladly take you anywhere
Every place you want to go

If there's anything you need out there
Anything at all
Just know that I am here for you
Don't hesitate to call

Helping is just in my nature
At least, when it comes to helping you
I just can't seem to help myself
I'll do anything for you

Even if you just want to talk
I am an excellent listener
I could listen to your voice for days
Tightly wrapped around your finger

I really wish you would call soon though
It has been quite awhile
I yearn to do somethings for you
I want to make you smile

I'm worried that you haven't called
And as I'm wondering why
I see you walking down the street
Holding hands with some other guy

So it seems you found someone new
To do all of that stuff
All the things I used to do for you
I guess you've had enough

But I know for a fact
That he won't last
He doesn't know you like I do
Before long
You'll come crawling back
You'll see that I'm the one for you

Because he doesn't know what position you played
In little league when you were a kid
He doesn't know about when your grandpa died
Or that he wore a wig

He doesn't care about the movies you like
Or that you only wear one shade of lipstick
He's probably just like every other guy
And only cares about your ****

I bet he doesn't know what pulls at your heart
Or how you wish that you could paint the moon
So I can't allow myself to fall apart
I know you'll need me again real soon

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.

Believed he held some sort of holy grace.
Fought to form a different way.
Risked it all then lost his bet.
Never tried to save some face.

Preached his own progressive agenda.
They attacked him with a personal vendetta.
His story is one we try to forget.
The deeper he's buried-
the better.

Thought he could have been the one.
Took his turn at playing modern messiah.
Burned him at the stake, they did.
The price that's paid of a pariah.

Empathy is a curse,
but apathy is surely worse.
Make me feel something when I feel hollow.
Get away from me when it's too hard to swallow.

A patchwork quilt.
A square of some color.
One semblance of meaning;
What we meant to each other.

A rainbow coat.
One chromatic series.
A shade of you.
A tint of me.

The only way to smooth the edges is to keep them tumbling constantly.

My mom likes to feed the ducks and storks that frequent our lake.
We often refer to her as the "Bird Lady."
They congregate in our backyard, waiting to be fed.
She throws them cereal and dried up old bread.
She's given most of them names.
Whenever one becomes a mother,
she keeps track of the ducklings.
Most of them don't make it.
They fall prey to hawks and cranes.
I can always count on her for an unwarranted update.
"Juliet lost another baby today."
"I don't care."
If they lose them all,
she likes to call them Bad Mothers,
which I find ironic.

This morning, I saw three pelicans in our lake.
I guess there's a first time for everything.
They were white with black-tipped wings.
They were feeding with a sort of unexpected grace.
They'd dunk their heads then come back up with something in their long orange beaks.
The bottom of which would shake. All loose and leathery.
After they had their fill, they flew off in unison.
One after the other,
like one, two, three.
And afterwards I thought,
"**** swans."

He tears petals off flowers with a limp wrist,
hoping one day he'll hope for something more than just another tryst.
But his hope, like his desire, is lethargic.

He wastes no pennies on a wish.

He's convinced a seed was sown long ago,
when he let a stray emotion get the better of him.
But he's never let the water touch the soil since,
for fear of what would grow.

He resists having to tend a garden born from a whim.

Just a snake wearing a farmer's skin.
Too distracted by his own hiss to hear the promise of kisses.
He pinches his pennies with off-green thumbs held close to his chest,
and he wastes none on wishes.

I slid down the tunnel like a morsel down a throat.
It's true what he said:
Down Here They All Float
I felt all my hair rise up in static.
I almost forgot that breathing was automatic,
and in between breaths I felt so close to death.
Suffocating as I wondered if I'd ever come back.
A sound like a freight train shook my whole frame.
A hive of cicadas roared in my brain.
It's true what they say:
This Is How It Feels To Go Insane

People, you know, are like never-ending rainbows.
Nauseating colors and no pots of gold.

People, it seems, are like toxic streams.
Flowing endlessly with waters that you can't drink.

Like piles of so many strands of straw,
hiding golden pins underneath.
If I could find one I'd ***** my fingers and bleed
all over these troublesome docile stacks.
Light it on fire and turn them to ash.

People are like so many cigarettes in a pack -
always craving another even as your insides turn black.

And people, I swear,
they act like they care,
but when push comes to shove they all cower in fear.

So people, beware!
For I am not scared.
My strength comes from inside.
I'm self-aware!

And people (me too) know not what we do.
Spend our whole lives pursuing beliefs so untrue.

That's okay, people.
I forgive you.
And through your existential struggles,
I find you beautiful.

Truth is, I'm just a charlatan who's gotten very good at pretending like my opinions are wisdom when they're really just a bunch of after-thoughts regarding dumb decisions I've spent my whole life making.

I know the best plan is to go to bed,
but waking up tomorrow just fills me with dread.
Time is an illusion, and now never ends,
but with indulgences, I can pretend
that tonight could end with some kind of punctuation.

Sum it all up within a single sentence.
Exclamations and question marks the X of the equation.
Narrated in a literary sense.
Life imitates art animating life inspired by metaphorical interpretations of unexplained phenomena.
I felt it all in a single wave of interconnected particles.

Pulled apart, but each piece responding to the other with common stimuli.
All of my atoms are secretly whispering to each other:
One day,
he is going to die.

What would a poet write about if they ever actually grew up?*

I'll take a stab at it.*

I've got about six errands to run today,
then I'll pick up the wife to join George and Mary for a double dinner date.
We've reservations at a restaurant where it's $90 a plate.
We'll debate the pros and cons of a 401K
against a solid stock option investment strategy.
"Why not have both?" - that's what I always say!
Oh, that reminds me;
I need to update my résumé.

My credit rating went up 78 points this year.
I can finally afford everything I've ever held dear.
I forget what they are . . .

Who're you getting back at?
This act has to be directed at someone.
Are they watching?
Will they see
the instagramed photos of you kissing me?
Will it make them jealous?
Will it make them angry?
Will it result in a late night text message that reads;
"Please come back to me!"

Doomed to forever be concerned with the things that most won't notice - let alone take an interest in.
Fated to state the rules of a game of which most don't know they're playing - whether or not they may be winning.
Always curious.
Ever grasping.
Despairing when they realize that the quest is everlasting.
What is it that makes it thus?
Myself,
the world,
random floating motes of dust.
I'll assign them meaning just to see it fall apart
in the face of a smile.
In the face of indifference.
Caught up in a desperate attempt to recapture one's lost innocence.
A few misplaced words can turn you into just another madman scribbling on the walls.
What keeps it going?
It's the hope that someone,
somewhere,
will understand it all.

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.

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.

This reminds me of home.
The smell of wet pavement and damp grass,
the sound of a chirping toad mixed with rain dripping off the rooftops and echoing down storm gutters.

If I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can almost believe that I'm back in the swamps.

Short stories with breakfast
A novel at lunch
Non-fiction for dinner
but not too much
Passion at night
The most eloquent dreams
Waking with dawn's light
and feeling serene

I really am just full of all kinds of ****
You deserve better than to have to listen to it
Yet there you are
And here I am
And I can only stand to be
Exactly what I am (tonight)
So go on and tell me
How much better off you are without me
I'll say it's okay
But then I'll still try to stay
Until you finally tell me to go the **** away
I'm not going to argue
Because I know it's true
I don't want to be your sweetheart
I just want to play with you

Let's all have a pity party
I'll share with you all my laments
Then you can croon your condolences
So that the healing can commence

Let's all share some sympathy
And mewl and condescend
Let's all feel better about ourselves
At someone else's expense

We'll be nice
And give advice
Convinced that we are ever so kind
Our victim will be flattered by our attention
By the fact that we took out the time

Let's guilt them into forsaking their self worth
And bend their will to suit our own
We'll reduce them to the status of a begging dog
And then we'll throw them a bone

Individuality is to be abhorred
As are the flaws in their body and face
We have to all get together on this
Someone's got to put them in their place

Then we'll hang a sign around their neck
Which reads "Don't Be Anything Like Me"
This is turning out to be a great success
What a grand ol' Pity Party!

It may come to you as a shock,
but I've never held back.
Even when you were stuck on this.
Especially when you were stuck on that.

I'm not here to announce the fact
that there was something going back and forth.

I held your words in the palm of my hand;
blew on them for luck,
then spread my fingers and took a chance.

It may come to you as a surprise,
but I've never been afraid to roll the dice.
With you I always felt lucky.
I never expected to roll snake eyes.

"Do you remember when we used to be sad?"

"Oh man, some of the best times I've ever had . . . "

___
1. Verb
2. Adverb (must end in "ly")
3. Adjective
4. Noun

I was lost when you found me,
then I got loster.

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.

I hear them come quick
in short little fits.
Tainted bursts lifted out of lungs thick with poison.

Deal with this.
"Yo, pass that ****."
Glide through mists of green grass, red brick, and grey stone.

This is not my backyard.

"Please stay with me so I'm not all alone."
Pale fingers on a quest to make contact with skin.
"I'm so overwhelmed, I don't know where to begin."
I'm never going back home again.
It doesn't even exist.

She says there's a system.
God made all the rules and set it in motion,
then calmly walked away
to leave us to our own devices (enterprises, surprises, demises)
Come what may.

"There's a philosopher who said that some people spend too much time playing with the meaning of objects in their heads. It can get to a point where nothing makes any sense, and they go crazy. Some of these people find a way to describe it, and they're known as poets."

The moon knows better than anyone,
with her sly smile reflected off the lake,
and all that light stolen from the sun.

"Do you know what I wish?"
No, and please, don't finish.
We are far from being done.
Let's not end it before we've begun.

This is my backyard.

If I'm just a zero,
then you are the one.

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.

You're so full of light
May I just stand inside it?
I know that I have my dark
I'll try my best to hide it
With you on my side I feel
I have the strength to fight it

You shine so bright
You star
Do you know just what you are?
You've got the drive to save a life
And the will to go so far

You've got the key to unlock these chains
That keep us all enslaved
Please, please
Unlock mine first
And I will help you on your way

On second thought
You'd better not
It's safer to leave me be
I don't know what I might do to you
Just stay away from me

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.

Springboarded into the future,
and now I can finally afford a decent piece of furniture.

But the disassembled futon in the unused bedroom looks as if it's been manipulated by some angry spirit whose soul doesn't know any better than to linger.

My oldest friend and first girlfriend gave me a tarot card reading while I stayed at her place when I was midway towards my new life in this strange state.

It was vaguely upsetting.

But I can't remember the trappings of a mind that I've taken every endeavor to leave behind.

The thing about a banana bar is that it's really just banana bread with frosting; banana cake, really, is what it ought to be called.

Banana fish can only be caught on a perfectly banal day, but it's the kind of thing one shouldn't wish for, ever.

Rewound into the past,
and for just one moment I can finally relax.
Stretch out the tightly woven brain matter and let it splat into ink blots that sort of remind me of that one time that we had a great time while expounding on our little personal explorations into emotional forefronts where all judgement was either suspended and/or explained in such a way as to not affect us at all.

Pioneers of living a life without societal fears where we were free to steer the wheel of progress in any direction we saw fit . . .

Aw ****, I have to work tomorrow.

He kicked the can before any of us had even been frozen,
but it was full of his in-law's dip spit,
and so in his mid-sprint he slipped on the tobacco slick and accidentally slid straight into Elizabeth, who felt sick from the sudden hit to her stomach, so then vomitted all over Kent's apologetically bent head.