I'm tired of the past,
the decisions I made,
tenfold I've expressed
displeasure of every action,
but every fraction of pleading
is never enough to rid
minds of tattered bedsheets,
or the hues that make up
the painting I've been
trying to erase,
but these colours dont run,
and there's ink coloured umbrage
in these veins and it flows
at piqued destinations,
sitting behind eyes
that see to well,
today, I know will
eventually become the past,
but I've been trying to
drag the pigment
of yesterday into something
tomorrow won't look back on,
and tow a sodden eraser
over wet ink,
I can promise that
I've changed and
no where in the book
written by regret
does it say
that anyone will believe me,
and I'm beginning
to accept that,
everyday I have to stare
at intangible scars left
by blades tipped
with foretimes
and the ringing of
these wind chimes are becoming
white and I'm getting tired,
it's putting me to sleep
and I've given up on
counting sheep because
the breeze of attempting to
forget my past is soothing enough,
these colours dont run,
and I wonder if tomorrow
I'll wake up in colorant sheets.

every 1:27am
I come to my garage
and I sit with wine
and converse with
an out-of-place nightstand,
june bugs aimlessly run into
stacked boxes and
heartbroken drywall wink
at my knuckles,
only tangibility could express the
scattered personality of this garage
but somehow I feel at home,
unplugged freezers,
shop brooms drenched in sawdust,
broken hockey sticks,
half stained 2x4’s
clout my memories with
wanting to be young again,
shooting pucks with dad,
having laughs roll
off my tongue again,
sweeping grass off
the driveway, and watching
my sister fail at riding a bike,
now she’s going to university
and I’m sweeping up
cigarette butts in this garage,
I still see the skateboard
I broke my wrist on and I
have to work in the morning,
at 1:53 I’m rolling up news papers
and hitting curve balled
june bugs and I have
to cut this short cause
my girlfriend called and she needs
a ride home from the bar //


3:17

If you enjoy having every fibre of your consciousness picked apart by literary ***** at 2 am on a Wednesday,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you enjoy fighting over incorrect grammar usage,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to constantly have your eyes rolled at every time you question a metaphor,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to be swept off your feet and then promptly put back down in the same piece of writing,
Fall in love with a writer.

If you want to feel worried when the phone isn't answered,
Fall in love with a writer.

Mood swings and sleepless nights?
Fall in love with a writer.

If tangible expression conveys unequivocal compassion,
Most of the time, don't fall in love with a writer.

If you want misinterpret pieces of writing because of the uncertainty of the writers sanity,
Fall in love with one.

If you find that yesterday you were dating a completely different person, if you find that your skin is often referred to as porcelain cigarette ash, if your eyes are viewed like the the first time you saw two flies *******, if the lump in your throat lives on ballpoints, you've fell in love with a writer.

There's no turning
back at this point,
falling out of love
with a writer is like
saying goodbye to a
phone with no dial tone.

the worst thing I’ve ever done
was letting the world
know that I write,
it’s not the 2am phone calls
asking if I’m okay,
it’s not the regret of
of relationships or
the running away,
it’s the look in my mothers
eyes when I write about dying,
it’s the regard to kin
when holding certain
emotions in,
forging positivity
and relaying
the antiquities
of struggle,
the minuscule
moments of will
drill into minds
painting all kinds
of doubtful abstracts,
creating spousal transacts
of how to fix their son,
it’s not the questions
about what I mean when I
say my skin spits goose flesh
or my eyes wrap yesterday
in spruce mesh that
eventually frays,
it’s the days where
I get kindred
phone calls
wondering if I’ll pick up
because of writing
the night before
stating that
I’m skating
on thin ice,
I dont want them to worry
I’ll be fine,
but for now it’s the pen
that has to unwind
the noose from
confining words
I refuse to say.

I've tabbed
Hello Poetry
and PornHub,
and I'm here
writing this,
I need a bit
of foreplay

“why don’t you write a book?”

they’ll expect
a second

if consistency
and money
was consistant
see, I’d write a book

“you should write a book”

poetry is a dying art,
you’ll find a needle
every now and then
but the hay is bound
together with cellphones
and bongs
and unexpected
suicides

no one wants to hear
how sleep deprived you are
because your satin feels
like moth wings
and how your skin
feels like
a burning painting,
why cigarettes kiss
harder and how love
feels like the bottom
of a dinner plate

you’ll find compassion
and understanding
but finding a diamond in
the rough is
only valuable if
you can escape

if you put me in a cage
would I be a rat or a petition?

would you sign it or
watch until the screams you
can’t listen to
my cries for help
me save me and
give me the key
to life is fighting
through the
bars and pubs
are nothing but a vice
grip tied tight to the
bricks that can’t wipe
the cement from it’s eyes
tell the stories that eat
at chipped away skin
covered in spiders
digging to the core
of the earth is wrapped in
expectations and relation
ships sailing with no sail
manless and handless
mannequins reaching out for
help confined by my vein
minds and empty hearts
are suppose to carry love,
at least that’s the perception
that I cant pull to conception
built on deception with exception of  
reception’s inception,
a look inside my mind
your own ******* business.