i don't think i could ever be interested in the things that you do with your other friends

willingly taking things into your body to cause you to see things that aren't there

do you know what i would give so that i couldn't see the things that aren't there?

i can't be alone at night without the lights on and the doors locked

because i keep seeing them out of the corners of my eyes

help me please help me

i haven't slept

i don't know who i am anymore

why won't you let me focus on you? they disappear as soon as i look their way

why are they here

what do they want

please help me

I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.

I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.

We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.

I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.

I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

He stands,
cigarette in hand,
golden hair blowing in the wind.

Except it's not blowing because he cut it all off.
If you ask him why he'll tell you he doesn't know;
he just wanted a change.

He'll pick you up when you're
feeling blue and he'll calm you down
when you're feeling red.

With his hands he creates music
and with his mouth he creates laughter.
He is the essence of humanity.

He'll take notice when you do good
and he'll call you out when
you're acting like a ****.

He stands,
Bertran the Man,
atop his white van,
cigarette in hand,
short hair reflecting the sunlight.

He'll tell you he loves you,
only if he means it,
and by God he will make
you feel it.

Hemingway wasn't cutting it
soI cut three lines
and blew them in rapid succession.

I put on Vampire Weekend and jacked off
to a picture of you until my **** hurt.
It's night like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me wonder why I started using.
Not even high enough
to sleep,
I stumble around my room
as my ****** nose leaves stains on my carpet.

I try to keep my room clean
and I try to stay clean
and I try to use clean words
but it's nights like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me a ******* loser.

It's night like these
and it's words like yours'
and it's **** like Tommy's
and it's music like Ezra's
and it's loneliness like mine
when I want to not wake up in the morning.
If I ever fall asleep.

Blue light overlapping
a soft face.

She told me,
you are worthless.
When are you going to grow up
and stop using and stop stealing
and learn how to treat a girl right?

All with silence,
she said this.
All with silence,
she wouldn't look at me.
All with silence,
she drank,
and she wouldn't look at me.

snakes get a new skin
every one
two
three months

we get one every
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven years

in five year's time
i'll have a skin
you never
touched

and i'll still probably
be conflicted
on how i feel
about that.

i  don't want  to live in  the
                            s p a c e s
between   your   words,   i
want to be  found in every
syl-
                    la-
                                     ble

what was real at the start
doesn't matter any more;
in the end, we're all
imaginary