People want you to believe
that happiness should come easy.
That life rains it upon you
like a brief and pleasant rain
during a hot summer day.

They want you to think
that if your life doesn't bring
those little drizzles of happiness,
something must be wrong.
Wrong with you,
wrong with your life,
or that other people
are oppressing your happiness.

What they don't tell you
is that happiness takes work.
It's a conscious decision,
it's constant maintenance of the mind,
it's a light in the attic,
it's a reminder to not look down,
to not look behind.
It's an internal war.

Happiness starts with a decision,
and it only gives up
when you do.

I watched
As you
Twirled
And
Spun

Now I just
Remember it
Over
And over
Again

Taste of blood
Like the
Taste
Of a
Gun

I'll just
End up
Where
It all
Began

I watched
As you
Loved me
And
Sprawled

Now
I just
Remember
It
Dying

I watched
As you
Gave me
Your
All

Now I
Can't
Even
Remember
Why

Why I just didn't see it
At the time

Why do I find myself
In this paradigm

Sometimes, sometimes sometimes sometimes.

Sometimes it's hard
To not feel like a false man.
I work hard, I pay my bills.
But still,
It can feel like I
Don't believe myself.

When I put my boots on in the morning
I feel like a child trying on his father's boots,
I feel like I'm pretending.

I didn't do any of this on my own,
This apartment, this career,
Everything I've ever done.

I just got lucky.

Who am I
Living my
Life for?

Am I living my life for me?
Or for this imaginary person
That I think I aught to be?

Maybe it doesn't matter,
This over complication
Detracts from the simplicity
Of just doing. Just being.

I should give a **** less,
Lighten up.
Don't take it all
So
Seriously.

Dawn brought a bruised sky with it,
A spattering of trundling snow clouds
Scattering the radiant light of the rising sun
Into nothing more than a blue and purple smudge
Peeking through the gap in my bathroom curtains.

It was just enough light to see a silhouette
Of myself in the mirror hung above the sink.
It's fun to imagine the reflection isn't a reflection,
But a window into another universe, another
Perspective on how I actually exist and persist.

I want to reach into the silvered glass,
Like it were a puddle of polished chrome,
And give the silhouette a squeeze on the shoulder.

I want to let him know that
He's doing a good job,
And that I'm proud of him
For everything he's done.
Even the little things
Like getting laundry washed
And waking up on time.

"You're doing alright man,"

Were the first words I spoke that day,
Smiling to myself.

A little more light was pouring in now,
Liquid day filling the room a bit,
And for a second I saw the silhouette
In the mirror a bit more clearly.

I could've sworn he mouthed the word:
"Thanks."

She stepped in,
As she was stepping out.
Not that it's her fault,
That's not what it's about.

Seems seldom indeed,
That I've felt so in need
Of this kind of company.
Where does this leave me?
Somewhere distant,
Some how resistant?
There's change in the air.
These winds tousle my hair
And carry a faint scent
Of bitter self resentment,
But that's no reason
To waste my favorite season.

So let's go for a walk
Through the woods,
And we can just talk
If that sounds good.

That little strip of tissue
Connecting my tongue
To the bottom of my mouth
Is all torn up.

Every time I feel it,
The pain tastes like pleasure
And my mouth waters
In anticipation for more.

She hides her little sighs
Behind bouts of subtle laughter,
Her eyes whisper lies
Of inevitable disaster.

I mostly smile as i drive,
With thoses eyes in my mind
And wonder why fate
Has been so uncannily kind.

Fate? Or maybe a wheel
That was designed
To whip around and around,
Like a great cog of time.

I slip past a fellow
With my eyes on the lines,
Blasting across double yellow
To leave my problems behind.

The clocks are all laughing
At my desire to rewind
Because whats done is done
And she's so naturally kind.

Momma said, momma said,
It might be time to try, but
Now momma's long dead
So maybe just one more night.

Indulgence.

Miles of art
All buried beneath
These mounds.

Mounds of dirt
Meant to drive away
Silent hill people.

Under the art,
Under the mounds,
The world's on fire
Under the ground.

This place feels like
A cemetery.

Tap into a new state of mind,
there you may find
something worth your time.

You've said that you just don't know
what it means to see growth.
It's rather slow.

I missed
the good and the bad,
the happy and the sad.
They passed me by.

But these walls still
whisper your name,
it's becoming a game;
staying ignorant.

Honestly not much has changed.

Just little things like
rodents uncaged.

It's tough deciding
whether I miss you or not.

It's a lonesome matter,
and I'm just a selfish ****.

I don't miss the mania,

I don't miss the mania.

I need a war.
We all need a war.
A real war too, not this
falsified and opaque war
on terror or whatever the ****
we've been doing for the past
twenty years in the desert.
Give us something bigger
to ******* ***** about.
Give us good verses evil.
Something more meaningful
than this curse called the internet.
Give us something to die for,
in a violent and ****** rage.
Give us some meaning,
give us a new age.

I love you silly
with your jaw jutted out
and your lips smushed up
and your eyes crossed.
I love you silly,
when you make me laugh
you also make my heart sing.

My, how the trees keep secrets.
My, oh my, how they grow.
Oh, how the trees all whisper
as the fierce winter winds blow.

Tread atop discarded leaves,
between branches; carefully weave.
My, how the forest impedes.
Trees never tell what they know.

They aren't silent, these trees
emit creaks and gutteral groans,
like giants waking from slumber
and stretching their turgid bones.

The canopy then blocks out the sun,
compelling me to break into a run.
One hand clasping tight on my gun,
should've never wandered off alone.

Over thought,
Under done.

Undecided Decisiveness,
Choosing placidity
In place of catastrophe.

It's all in your head.

I started on a high enough rung
To be able to see everything
Caught in the momentum
Focused solely on climbing

One day a loved one fell
Above, her rungs ran dry
And I finally looked down
To meet a million other's eyes

That's when I realized
It wasn't just a climb
It is infinite skies
Of other people lives

So instead of reaching
For the next step above my head
Maybe I should be lending
Those below me a hand instead

Because at the end of the day
None of us make it to the top

The voice of logic screams in pain
at the sight of my toothy, idiotic grin.
Heart beats drill into my brain
with a percussive pounding maintained
onward deep into the night and
following my thoughts throughout the day.

So sometimes reasoning goes away
when love is dripping from my face.

Let's leave
Lovely little stains
All over the place.

Let's ruin
Some clothing,
With remnants
Of love.

Let's lie
On the verge
Of muddy sleep,
Let's dance
On the razor's edge
Of consciousness.

Let's,
Let's...

Just let's.

Let's do it
Again,
And again,
And again.

What was that old guys name?
I think it was something like...
Uh....
****, I can't remember.
I remember it was odd though,
the kind of name that really
sticks with you throughout the years.

Right...

Anyway this dude turned
to face Lukus and I,
and called us a pair of
"controlled knuckleheads."

We were drinking at some bar
in Phoenixville, it was the night
that Lauren ditched us
and we had to walk like ten miles
back to his dad's place.

It was my fault she ditched,
but it was my fault that
she was there in the first place.

I miss Luke.
Hope he's doing well for himself.

Better wait.
I tend not to
Hesitate.

It's big in my mind,
Meeting your daughter.
I'm sure it's fine.

Walls crumble
At your touch,
Regardless of how subtle.

Dawn is here again,
But this time
make it a little different.

A simple, subtle change.

I could paint the sky
With the color of my sighs.

Blue,
Purple,
Black.

A bruise of a day,
Preceded by a shameful evening
Of bearing my yellowed teeth.

Inhale the dye,
And stain my insides.
Because sometimes even the hidden truths
End up being lies,
And I'll tell myself
It's the hand we've been dealt.

These new jeans are too tight,
And just for self-spite
I'll go and cut them up into
Beautiful butterflies.

In a gross misconduct,
And verbal conflagration,
I regurgitate these words
That wouldn't be digested.
Now I'm covered in my mess,
Bits of vowels stuck to my chest
And my new jeans reek of
Conjecture and ignorance.

I may drive truck for a living
but don't let that fool you,
my full-time job is really
fighting off the voice in my head
constantly telling me to
not give a **** about anything.

Ma'am now don't you see?
This conversation,
As fulfilling as it may be,
Try to keep it short and sweet,
Because I got business at the bottom.

Close your eyes, come with me.
Flying south on vacation,
Landing strip lined up beneath,
My tongue, my mouth, my teeth,
I got business at the bottom.

Every time
The trees sigh,
I feel
A slight wind blow.

The sky sings
With whistling birds,
Swooping
In the falling snow.

A taste of lime,
A sprig of mint
Floats
Atop a cold mojito.

Twinkling rings,
Headlights glint
Briefly,
In an ebb and flow.

Luminous lies
Shine light on
My mind,
My eyes are windows.

Simple things
Convolute, in the
Face of
My writhing ego.

The day flies
On the wings of
A black bird,
A single cawing crow.

Wallowing, no,
Relishing in
This feeling,
Like watching a plant grow.

Above the circling hawks,
Above the flattened cubes
Of corporate brick and mortar.
From here the people
All look like locust,
Swarming the asphalt
And coursing the concrete.
From here the sunlight
Glints off of a thousand
Cars, glass and paint.
It twinkles a bit,
And I'm reminded
Of the ocean.
Waves beneath us,
Silently crashing
Their way through life.
Stand with me
On this vista,
This precipice,
And let's just watch
For a little while.
Dressed in
The colors
Of the rising sun,
You're the perfect
Contrast up here
On the coal bank.

Time, clocks
Circles make us up
Wheels, cogs
Back where I started from

I fret and twist my hair into little knots
I twist and I twist until it all falls off
I like to hit my teeth with a hammer
I pick my skin until it bleeds
I pick the scabs I pick the moles
I peel off my skin in layers
And leave them on the desk to dry
I scratch my scalp and shed my dandruff
Onto the kitchen counter
And line it up with a dunkin donuts gift card
And snort up the lines of dead skin
I pick my nose and eat my boogers
The wet and bloodier the better tasting
They stick to the roof of my mouth
And I hawk a loogie on the ground
I *** right onto the ******* carpet
And never ever clean it up
The crusty hard spot that forms
Is dark and yellow with time and accumulation
I clean my ears with my pinky
Then lick it out from under my nails
I slam my head against the wall
Until all the photos fall
I play with knives and fire and drugs
I love to give myself a hug.
The look on my face inside the mirror
Is pure bliss from popping all my zits
My eyes shining the same color
As the flecks of **** inside the toilet
I never ever clean the shower
I **** in the sink sometimes too
I hung all my posters with glue
I stack my laundry in a tower
And wear my clothes until they reek
Drank every night for 20 weeks
I hide my toenails under the carpet
I dry myself off with the drapes
I like to live all alone
I'm finally free inside my home
I saved those photos on the shelf
Someone save me from myself

Hitting backspace too much lately.

Poetry is a ******* ******* and half-assed
way to express yourself.
People that write thousand of poems
on some throwaway website
might as well be screaming into a pillow.
They're useless people,
washed up, lazy,
and generally possess zero actual talent.

It's a medium designed
for pseudo-intellectuals to eternally
pat themselves on the back
for doing the bare minimum
of creativity.

Oh we're all so in touch with meaning,
oh we're all so ******* wasted on our
own sick sense of self-aggrandizing glory.

Poetry is for ******* ******* *******,
ineptitude on display
for other clapping, barking seals
to parrot and repeat
for eternity.

A snag
A home for a rat
Or a squirrel
A nest of wasps
A termite colony
Snakeskin litters the ground
Mushrooms bloom
The soil itself swells
In gratitude

Life begets life
Death is inviting
And leaves more room
For the living
Life begets life
Rot is food
Hollow with skittering,
Echoes of chewing
Death begets life
Circles and circles
And circles again

The leaves that blowing in the wind
All whisper out a name
And as I peek up at the sky
I see clouds spelling out the same
**** thing I been thinking bout all night
Tryna keep it outta mind
Tryna keep it outta sight
Cause I'm drowning in my head
Can't keep afloat atop this dread
From thinking bout the past
Back when I used to fantasize
About commiting suicide
To help me fall sleep at night
Because it didn't feel like death
It felt like an escape
From the various mistakes
And potential bad decisions I've yet made
But since I seen it first hand
My uncle swinging in the wind
I realized it's just cheap
So I value the position that I'm in
And I've come to respect it
And come to respect my kin
And wouldn't want the weight
Of that decision to be on them

But sometimes late at night
When I'm tryna fall asleep
And I listen to my mind
It says that she should be alive
And that it should be me
That's buried underneath

A new house
In a new state,
She wants people
To come and stay.

It's tough
To justify a visit
When you moved
Four hours away.

I wanted to see
How it would be,
But maybe not during
A pandemic holiday.

Dreams still come true,
A place down by the beach
Is still a place down by the beach,
And I look forward to it every day.

Got done work
early today,
only an eight hour shift.

Was eager for bed,
didn't clean at all.
I just got drunk instead.

Girl's coming up tomorrow,
gotta make the bed.

Gotta pick my place up
and not get drunk instead.

I lie to myself
and say that
I keep it clean for me,
but only I know
that without someone else to please
I'd let this place
slowly accumulate
my garbage and debris.
Until the detritus
overwhelmed me,
in my comfy old jeans.
I'd be in over my head,
because I wouldn't be able
to delegate,
and I'd just
get drunk instead.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Maybe there's a tangible thread
that dangles and wavers,
ever so slightly,
as my eyes turn steadily red.

Porcelain
Sharper than swords
Whiter than ghosts
Shattered in a pile
Porcelain
Like a shallow pool
Of tepid tap water
And I'm dying of thirst
Porcelain
Don't go chipping on me
Now that we've been set free
Dear, you're a skeleton key
Porcelain

I can feel it
in my bones.
Is this my home?

Twist the pops
out of my spine.
God, that feels divine.

Do your best,
take it slow.
Make a call on your phone.

Do not stop,
keep it aligned.
A beer helps me unwind.

A smell, a vibe,
the fear of being alone.
Do you want to be my home?

Weaver of tales,
fiddler of twine.
Author of all my time.

Fluttering lights
Like night sky butterflies
Waver between death
And endless life

Even this, feels familiar too.
Unpleasant though.

Strange and weird but,
maybe I'm just
missing a piece
of the puzzle.

Ugh, I feel so sick
to my stomach,
though that is unrelated.

Somehow, although much has changed,
some of these feelings
are still the same.

Like waking up
from a bad dream,
and then falling back to sleep.

Blessed fragility.
My grandfather lost his religion,
somewhere along the way.

Not long after Mom passed
he gave up Sunday mass
for long and unrequited naps.

I wonder what dreams are seeded
by the ever present soundtrack
of Hogan's heroes.

Some day maybe
you'll sing to me.
Not necessarily
to me specifically,
but I'll be
listening
and you'll be
singing.

Maybe in the shower,
maybe pulling in
the driveway
on your way home
from work.
My ear pressed to the door.

I want to see you
in the shower,
singing along.
I want to reach out
to the clear lining
and press it against
your naked, wet body.
I want to wrap you up
in that protective plastic,
and you won't miss a single note.
You'll keep singing and I'll caress
your every curve and mole.
My hands gliding up against
the smooth refined finish,
so gingerly sweeping
across all your bits.
Soapy and slippery.
So close but not.
Not quite touching.
Not quite real.
My skin isn't
something
that you'll
ever feel,
or feel
feeling
you.


Beauty encapsulated,
preserved in time and space.
The sound of falling water.
The blurry look on your face


is telling me to
Stop.


Your voice in my ears,
my make-believe dream.
You'll sing that you love me
and I'll wake with a scream.

When I'm swollen and pulsing,
the roundish spot on your hip,
your skin under my fingers,
my tongue between your lips,
light from the setting sun
spread across our tangled limbs,
bits of lavender I keep finding,
your perky peaks beneath the sheets,
my tender remnants in your hands,
the congruent mixture we make
on those certain kind of days.

Paint me in your purples and pink,
and I'll soak it in.

Giving up ****
Feels pretty good to me.

Think I'll stay awhile.

It's worth
The wait.

I'm hungry,
In a primal
Kind of way.

Come
and
Satiate.

We measure our success
By what we build
SoOoo

Sand castles and recycling bins
Which can I stack higher
Built too close to the tide
Maybe self sabotage is what I desire

When the glass topples and shatters
And I sweep up the shards
The fine dust is what actually matters
When it tears my lungs apart

But who knows when I'll decide
That perhaps what I'm building is wrong
And life could be better spent beside
The people that I've loved all along