If you were to call
and say
"Let's get out of here"
Baby, I'd be gone.

If we
were to hop on a train
the tracks could never
be too long.

If we
were to sit atop a hill
and kiss, my only wish
would be to never see the setting sun.

Whisper softly,
I'm all ears.
Kiss my neck
and baby, I'm yours.

Stay inside,
a little longer.
We have yet
to satisfy our hunger.

I can't stop
and take time to think.
No, it ain't my nature,
would you like a drink?

Just sit back
and rewind
to all the nights
when you were mine.

Whether it's scientifically proven or not,
I know it to be true;
the best cure for a hangover
is more *****.

A noise woke me up.
Stumbling through the empty house I
struggled to find it.
It was odd,
seemingly everywhere I went it got louder and louder;
this thumping, pulsing, rapturous noise.
Giving up,
I reached for the half full bottle (the deciding factor to a bottle being half full or half empty is not the attitude of the drinker but the contents contained in said bottle) of *****,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
and so I began this day as I had ended the last one.

In a glorious and raging state of mind I stumbled...
(no, I've already used that)
... I fell down the stairs and watched the sun as it climbed and climbed
and I'm not sure how long I lay sprawled on the wet November grass
but I know how long I thought of you,
and I know how long I've been thinking of you
and I've been thinking of you for days.

Cast your eyes down from the shooting stars;
I am everything you have been wishing for.

I am everything your father does not want you to bring home
and everything your mother wishes your father was.

I **** like you wish your boyfriend could
and my tongue will sing you a song until your abdomen explodes.

My writing causes girls to cry like all the boys wish theirs could
and the pain in your chest will recede with every kiss I give you.

I fight better than my father and his father, all the way to Cain.
only, God won't see what I've been doing and He will not forgive me for it.

my{ perpetually you shall remain }heart.

Happy Birthday to me.
So light me up a cigarette
and get the water boiling.

Kiss me on the cheek
and I'll kiss yours,
now how about pizza, I'm buying.

Take me to a movie,
but smoke me out first,
buy me a soda, it doesn't have to be a large.

I'm a week older than I was last week,
and seventeen years older than when I was born.
But don't worry about numbers, just give me a hug.

You bought me a wooden pipe
on my last birthday.
I had it for a few months until I lost it.
Now, you're not here to spend the day with me
and neither is the pipe I named after you,
my lovely Lady L.

On a whim, however, I purchased a new pipe.
Inside a gold box,
long and brown,
like something Gandalf would smoke,
my mysterious Wizard.
Just like the girl I share tonight with.

We found it funny
that our shoes and shirts matched.

We heard people ask if we had planned it
and we told them we had not.

You also matched me shot for shot, until we lost the ability to count
and we decided it would be best to stop drinking.

In your bedroom I matched you kiss for kiss,
until our lips could not satisfy us anymore.

Breathe for breathe,
****** for ******,
moan for moan,
we matched and we matched and we matched
and nobody asked us if we had planned that.
If they did, we would have told them that we did not.

And now,
when people look at our lips
and necks
they will not need to know if we planned it,
because the matching of our hearts was planned
and perfected, and practiced.
Not by us,
yet we enjoy the rewards.

I have been in love since the moment I was born.

My mother was first and for a long time she held my heart.
At five she still had my love but so did Clint Eastwood.
That poncho wearing, cigarette smoking cowboy was the dad I never had.

In the sixth grade it was Stacy Smith.
She was my Wendy Peppercorn,
my Messiah,
my World Series Ring.
my love.

I made it to high school after
a few brief people put stars in my eyes.
In high school I met a girl
who took all the stars that had ever been in my eyes
multiplied them by all the stars in the sky
and put them back in my eyes, only for her.

Now, three years later,
a ******
excommunicated addict
I am in love again.

He is an author and he writes novels.
He is a novelist.
He is a genius.
He told me:
There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to answering the fundamental question of philosophy.

And I have figured that one out.
Until I have devoured him,
until I understand every single one of his literary pieces
I may not die.
I may not.
Until then,
I may love no other.
I may not die.

there is a poet with
the same name as my
ex-lover
's mistress
and every time i read her poetry
i weep
because it is so beautiful
but i cannot love it
because i imagine it was strung
by Her
just like Him.