I've been standing outside
this ****** house


for a few weeks now.
Snow is killing the flowers
that you planted for me


The weather is cold

like needles on my fingers

The frostbite will soon arrive


and maybe
when my fingers turn black

maybe when the pain
breaks me
maybe then

I will appreciate being warm.

we are a rhythm,
your presence and mine.
the notes tap our skin
when our bodies entwine.
they dance up our legs,
and pulse through our hands,
and follow our kisses
wherever they land.

Everyone said I had such great potential:
A bright eyed lad, adept with word and song,
an angelic voice, a wordsmith like a lawyer.
They look at me now and wonder-what went wrong?


If I could put my finger on the problem,
Procrastination did beget my fall.
I had, at times, an ambitious plan and project.
I just never got around to it, that’s all.


I dallied in my summer’s afternoon,
Listening to other siren’s songs
Now winter comes upon me with a vengeance
I realize now I never sang my song.

But on my cluttered desk, a wooden talisman!
A round wood carving- a Tuit tis
And now, in possession of a round Tuit,
I’ve no excuse for wasting time like this.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Have you heard of the Slender Man?
He loves the fog covered streets
Fog so heavy and thick
He loves the dark woods
So easy to watch the Children

When little boys and girls
Tell mommy and daddy about the man
In his suit
Long arms and legs
That grow and wrap around
And squeeze and pull into darkness
They laugh and say "go to sleep"
But he is waiting in the dark
A dark shadow faceless
Watching us sleep
I know so soon it will come inside
and take us

Marble Hornet


He is there
Watching the little boys and litte girls
Just out of sight
Faceless
You never notice him before
But it goes without saying that
Now you will see him
and
Believe Me

Hope that you never see him

Only through
death
will your silenced words speak as
loud as you wished they would.
That's the only time people will
listen.
The message you’ve been
aching to get out
all your life
will only be recognized after you’re
gone.
It’s the
only way.
So maybe
that’s why people die young.
Although their voices are
already silenced, but in a
different way,
they realize that the
only way others will listen is through
permanence.

But isn’t it funny;
You won’t be there to witness your
recognition, your
fame.
Just like
Sylvia Plath,
Edgar Allen Poe,
Emily Dickinson,
Vincent van Gogh, and
Pachelbel’s Canon.
Look at all of this
recognition, this
fame they got.
All AFTER the tragedy of their
deaths.
Nobody cared to
pay attention at first.
But now that they’re
gone,
it’s all
so much more valuable.
Oh, the irony.

But I think it would be
worth it, at least for
me.
It would be
bittersweet, and it would be
tragic.
All of those people that
hated me, they would
finally feel remorse.
HE would realize what he
could’ve had.
Finally, people would
appreciate me.
Finally, I would be
loved.
Missed.
Noticed.
It’s all so
selfish, but
I’m allowed my
guilty pleasures...
right?

All I want is to be
loved.
No matter the cost.