My death will be liberating.

And I do not say that in the sense
that I am going to find a cliff
and take a good jump off.

No.

I am just trying to find a
clever way to tell you

that I do not know what is going
to happen next.

You see,

there is a
fine line
between
dreaming and
mortality

and

I am finding out for myself
that being in love
does not always
involve

being awake.

And for my sake
I fall in love with daydreams,
nightmares,
hazy realities
and

the hung-over idea

of not being enough.

It is all out of my hands.
                 It is all out of time.

And the only thing I have left to do,
now,


is decide.

i can leave you alone.
i won't text you
or call you.
i'll sit as far away as i can from you.
i will no longer tell others
of how you're mine.
but the distance cannot stop my brain
from recalling memories.
all the distance on the couch.,
cannot stop my eyes from wandering to your messy hair or piercing green eyes.
it won't guard me from remembering your voice
or how in love with you i am.
a love as powerful as mine
cannot be damaged by such a measly tool
as the distance you want.

They have spent their
content of simpering,
holding their lips this
and that way, winding
the lines between
their brows. Old folks
allow their bellies to jiggle like slow
tamborines.
The hollers
rise up and spill
over any way they want.
When old folks laugh, they free the world.
They turn slowly, slyly knowing
the best and the worst
of remembering.
Saliva glistens in
the corners of their mouths,
their heads wobble
on brittle necks, but
their laps
are filled with memories.
When old folks laugh, they consider the promise
of dear painless death, and generously
forgive life for happening
to them.

Someone once asked me why I like poetry so much
If its sometimes hard to understand
And its sometimes confusing to read

In return I asked them why they like to feel
If the feelings are sometimes hard to understand
And sometimes confusing to read

They cocked their to the side and asked what my words meant
They simply didn't understand
That the words from a poet are are tangled by the beat of their heart

Sometimes we can't help but to speak figuratively
Because we like to hide our thoughts and feelings in plain sight
Finding out what weight the words carry is half of the excitement

Just like wearing our feelings for our crush on our sleeve
Or ignoring someone when we're angry
You don't make it obvious, but you leave all the clues in the open
Because just like a poet, you want to be found

sad boy;
what a pathetic
ploy
this is for my attention.
all you contrive
tastelessly
always lacks concession.

every word,
and image you fake
I reject, from my
possession,
for all you are
's worth less than this
effortless expression.

you see, my natural
creativity
surmounts your ****
impression
of the beauty of my work
and my powerful
transgression.

Broken crayons still color the same.
I mean- isn't that really the aim?
Finish coloring the big picture-
our life picture.
We're all crayons,
or markers, paint perhaps.
Everyone's a little bent,
cracked. Snapped,
in some way shape form.
It's really kinda the norm
nowadays.
But in a box full of crayons-
when they are used, when they live-
they snap. They crack.
They break.
But they still work, just the same.
It may be a bit tougher for them-  
but they're tougher from it.
We're tougher from it.
We're all broken crayons
filling in our own life line.
But broken crayons still color fine.