When the streets are made for nothing but thinking    
It's the weight of the water that's caused our sinking
It's a loss of feeling that's made me lighter
It's everything around                              
That makes me neutrally bound
          
The only writers block is the writer
It's the kind of thing that makes a man with a pencil and paper a fighter
Like the paper's jumping up at you like a, like a alligator
                                          
But it's hard to chalk down all the mistakes, cause when you're trying so hard you're just being fake

You just gotta learn to let it, let it all flow
Show your all and let em all know
Just how you're feeling that blow, even if it means one or two bad lines, that's how you feel though
Cause life ain't a poetry book
It's all the points in between the pages that we missed
It's all the things that make us factories of emotions,
A crook with feelings creeping through the motions
Turning pages, trying to **** it all up like the books eroding

Don't you talk to me about feeling
Naw you ain't know what you be dealing, everyone's got there own ****, you can't tell me mines to be concealing
See, I'm a material void of expressionism
Cause I told everyone what I feel, not for the sake of impressionism
They chose to see inside and learn a lesson without all the criticism

Everything I've learned is turning me into a crustaceans fossil
Hard to the shell but brittle to the touch, and I preach my **** like a ******* apostle
You make me feel from the inside and I'll be your crutch, but you're gonna need more than a ******* rock hammer to open me up

My words I mend to make up for what I conceal        
But as I sit here thinking about how I feel
It's gonna take more than this to make me heal
Now let me dilute as I talk to the god inside my head and make a deal, something to end the pain and suffering I have concealed at the expense of everything real

She -- the girl who I think;
was once upon a time--
in another lifetime;
a part of me

a piece
of my soul
ripped from myself
from a long ago death--

to be found
only to make me understand
that chaos and beauty
could co-exist;

that souls--
no matter how different;
will always find a way
to recognize each other.

Oh and how beautiful and sad
to know that we--
are made out of
broken things that heal us~

Naked day, masked face, no sunlight
Unresponsive love, where are your friends
Preaching vanity, the cancer of insanity
Let's stay, let's stay, let's stay in here forever

Celebrity apocalypse, rapture on, intoxicate
Apocryphal day, cloudy haze, immaculate hypnosis rings
Eyes soar from tiger days when our future was a blaze
Imminent to fade away

Cascade into a passive rage
Unresponsive love enter the page
My words are trailing off
You're turning into sage
Silver skin, bright blue eyes
When will your statue come alive

Tally days, quiet wind, stale stench
Apocryphal, talk to you, old confidant
Your secrets aren't the same
Recite the days inside of fate
What you think you know

Recycled feelings left you dead
Enticing readings kept you silently said
My unresponsive love, please, get out of bed

and the things I've forgotten
will line the seams of my mind,
and every last nail driven
into the coffin of my memory
will echo in my ears
just like they always have

so I'll quietly stare at these
photographs of tomorrow night,
when everything is alright,
and I'll just keep trying
to remember that they are
underdeveloped and overexposed

why, what's wrong?*

sometimes everything, sometimes nothing, sometimes i don't even know.  

depression shows up uninvited and makes a home in my chest.

I can tell you about the girl.

Her freckles were beige constellations,
and her voice was husky and rasped
like birds before the churning of a storm.

She was weird and laughed at everything I said -
which made her even weirder,
because I'm only funny in certain photos
and in certain clothes.

Her left arm was covered in scars and burns.
"As you can tell, I'm right handed," she said.
Arthritis surrounded her wrists and other joints,
and all I could think about were my
grandmother's arthritis crippled hands,
and if the girl would thank the arthritis, one day,
for no longer allowing her to self-harm.

One of her feet were bigger than the other
and, when she walked, she would lose balance.
"I'm not sure if the world is too fast
or if I'm too slow. Then again," she winked,
"it's probably because of my feet."
I liked her because she treated me like a person,
but didn't take me as seriously
as I took myself.

I struggled with self-respect
and she struggled with a drug addiction.
Her arm was needle park
and sometimes she missed ******
more than she missed me.

She wasn't the type of girl to shake
without her drugs -
she'd, instead, talk about them
like they were old friends.
She understood them
more than she understood herself.

After a few months of ***
and, "I'll be sad when you leave,"s,
I called her my girlfriend
and she smiled.
Flecks of speckled angles, bright,
I saw her, first, she accepted
my night.

Five days later,
she overdosed on morphine.
I picked her up.

Her eyes were glazed over.
I said, "I love you,
but this is *******."
She cried and said,
"Forgive me."

I lain in bed, next to her -
next to the avoidance of death.
She asked how I was
and I said, "Everything I write is ****,
but I'm glad I can write ****** poetry
about how we'll be okay."

She asked, "We will be okay, right?"

I hope.