You
Apologized
So
Sweetly

It
Made
Me
Forget

Just
For
A
While

How
Painful
Your
Bite
Is

I am an atheist.
A spiritualist.
A confused child.  

I was raised on
“God does not exist.”

Still, I find peace in
Comets and cosmos and creation.

I am unsure
And
Unsteady in my faith.

Yet every time
A child asks me
What thunder is,
I repeat the saying
I always heard.

“God is bowling.”

Today
The blur in my vision
Was from joy

And that
Is all I can ask for

I have been bathing in stories
But have yet to wash my own off my lips

Stop
Trying so ******* hard.

For respect.
For love.
For resolution.

We’re all ****** anyways.

I’m scared to kiss you
I don’t think I could survive
You turning away

I'm trying to learn that it's alright for people to find me
strange.

So often I am met with remarks of:

"I wish I could be as confident as you."
"I can't believe you're not scared to wear that."
"You didn't really say that to him...right?"

I don't feel confident.
I am scared.
I did say it.

I've regretted it since.

Oddities are a novelty until they surpass an acceptable monthly quota.

However,

I've found that habitual marijuana usage and
pretty white lines
can be a valid excuse for
strange behavior.

Each joint shared
Each liquor bottle opened
Increases the monthly quota by one.

You're allowed to be:

"Off."
"Eccentric."
"Weird."

If you're a substance abuser.

It's actually
expected
at times.

If I act too normal, I'll get
comments,
such as:

"Wow, I forgot you do drugs."
"Do you not need your meds anymore?"
"Have you thought your mania is just from all the ***?"

I didn't forget.
I do need them. I often don't take them.
And, sometimes.

But then I'll soberly proclaim to be the next Van Gogh and that my **** are nicer than
Mia Khalifa's.

(They're not.)

Regardless,
you can write off absurd behavior
if it occurs while
intoxicated.

I learned that younger
than I
should've.

It's harder to refute the confused glances
whispered jokes
when your head is
clear
but your
heart
is foggy.

"Let us know if [  ] scares you in the group chat;
you'll get used to her eventually."

"I hope we don't have to have this conversation again."

"She's hot, but she's kind of
crazy."

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

Who had the audacity
to turn the sky above our heads into a permanent installation of art
and expect us
to not sit and wonder in awe
every night
like
the dumb animals
that we are?

I missed my class today
I was in attendance
But my mind was far far
Elsewhere

I focused my eyes on this girl
And my pen on this paper
And before I realized
Twenty minutes had gone by
And I had drawn her likeness

And then it occurred to me
How wonderful it must be
To be so beautiful
That you inspire art

And how horrible it must be
Each and every day
To be so beautiful
That such intimacy is stolen from you

This morning
I cried.

I wish I could
tell you
why.

I wish I could
tell you
why
the girl
crying on my
phone screen
stabbed my heart
so violently
so blindly.

I cried.

Whether I cried
because
I believed her
her pleas
that the world
is beautiful
that
life
will always
always
be worth
it.

Whether I cried
because
I envied her
her faith
that the beauty
of the universe
makes this
*******
worth it.

Whether I cried
because
her tearful voice
reminded me
so much
of my own
that I couldn't stop
the doubt
that I've so long
hidden.

Whether I cried
because
I
wish
I could hold onto
those moments
of
faith.

I cried
because her words
her assurances
of
those sunsets
those smiles
those hazy moments
were something
that
I
wish
I could
   touch.

I cried
because
none of that
has
ever

  felt worth it.

This
Horrible
Mean
Nasty
Rotten
Poem
Goes
Out
To
You.

My
Beautiful
Warm
Chaotic
Mess
Of
A
Friend.

——-

The next time you drink,
I’m putting you in the trunk of my car.

The passenger seat is reserved for folks
Who know how to handle their liquor.

Not people like you,
Who just get sicker.

(See, I can rhyme too.)

The next time you stoop over a piano
Or sing over the chords of a guitar,

I’ll try to stop my awestruck stare.
It’s more embarrassing for me than you.

(Although, I’m sure you’re already aware.)

The next time we sit in a bed of grass,
Instead of you, I’ll try to focus my eyes on stars.

I have a rule against denying myself beauty,
But I’m attempting self-control.

(Even in regards to you, truly)

Anyways, I’m done with this **** poem.
I’m pretty sure it’s a sonnet, or something like that.

So you’re welcome my dear Matan;
To you, I’m tipping my
hat.

there’s this
burning haze
that smolders inside me
crying
begging
pleading
for me to let her out

but i’m too scared
of the forest fire
she could cause

to ever trust her enough
to believe in her

and so
hidden

Alone

she will stay