I would
never
consider myself
by any means
one fit for
the military
though
now and again
I still may
find myself
taking orders from
Major Depression.

I've come to know the
hospital well
the stale smells
the nurses names and stories
the hand sanitizer
the countless quiet
nervous
elevator rides
stuff like that
I could even write a full review
of the cafeteria food
should this hospital
have it's own newspaper.
There's been too many sad days
but I find myself laughing
as she shows off her blonde
extravagant wig
The doctors and nurses
Fall in love with her
her energy
her aura
As most people do
They laugh with her
And cry with her
And hope with her
People come in
They say
things will be fine
things will get better
My mom grows weary
She's heard this since stage two
They say
keep up the fight
But seen as a fight
Her getting sicker only implies
she is not fighting hard enough
that she is losing
nothing can **** hope quicker
but she shrugs it off
She doesn't need some
greeting card or nylon balloons
or some
half-assed healer
or some gurus blowing
smoke from burning sage
She needs authenticity
connection
meaning
She needs to be told things are awful
And probably won't get better
She needs complete vulnerability
on both ends
She needs real
Which is hard to find
in a lot of places
and faces
and words
an hour with her though
she would get it out of you
the 'you' that you didn't even know
she touched lives beyond
whatever I ever imagined capable
There are many ways
I wish to be like her
but most
is to be able to smile
as real
and transparent
as she did
when I am about to die.

If writing was a drug
I'd have a frequent-flyer card
at the rehab clinic.

The nurses would all know my street address
my middle name
and the way I take my tea.

I would have scribbles on the inside of my elbows
ink stains in my lungs,
and little letters hanging from my nose hairs

I would bribe the nurses
to sneak me pens and paper in the middle of the night,
My thoughts would be sewn in ink across my body,
and I'd have pre-ordered my tombstone to read:
"Here lies an addict"

But thank god writing isn't a drug.
Because if it was
I'd have died a long time ago.

one day
can we live in an old cottage
in the middle of an imaginary lake
a land made of clouds
where forests shade me
and the moon illuminates my way
where the sun shines almost as bright as your eyes
let me braid your hair
and hold your hand
allow me to show you around the skies
allow me to show you inside of my mind

please, may I hold your hand
and steal a kiss from your chapped lips?

your scent lingers, in the way that the moon never rushes to go down in the winter
in the way that it is a beautiful blend of moonlight, lavender, and whiskey
the moon is always beautiful and nobody complains of her presence
the same is said for you

your legs tangle with mine, and it's hard to write this without feeling drowsy
nostalgic for your touch, and your head in the crook of my neck
your hair is always so soft, and so are your lips and I don't know how
but I like the way they tickle my chin

I can feel your fingers, skimming through my hair, hard to the touch
but with softer intentions they do bear, I could say the same for your heart
cold on the outside, a mix of steel and ice, but on the inside is a battle
of brimstone and fire

I think I'm beginning to understand, your smile when you are asleep,
and the reason behind your favourite books and works of art
I think I'm beginning to understand, why love is a term not to be used lightly
and especially not around you

what is so special about this night?
is it the ending year? or
the memories you take
as the year passed
have you changed?
have you achieved your goals?
or are you just like me
disappointed at myself
but so far and at least
we made it through another
and saying hello to the other

the question really is,
are we going to do better?
are we going to make it better?
are you going to make it better?

I sit slumped in a flimsy chair as a
blizzard rages on outside my window.
A woman’s cough comes through
the side of the wall, making me feel
anxious.  

Did she hear me clipping my toenails?

On this desk where I write sit three,
neatly-folded towels with an outnumbered
wash cloth on top.  It looks content.  
Actually it looks happy.  

Peaceful…  

I’m a liar.  All I do is lie, lie, lie.  I lie to everyone
including myself.  But I won’t lie to you.

I wouldn't dare lie to you.  

You know why?  You're me.  You're a little
mad inside. Otherwise you wouldn't be
sitting here spending time with me.  

You and I don't care about trivial things. No we don't. 
As a matter of fact that's what brought us here in the first place.  

When I was eight years old
I... I put on the best
rock ‘n’ roll concert ever.  I did it all behind
my parents' house.  My guitar was a
yellow Wiffle bat.  

All I need is that guitar.  
If... If I were to get up and leave and
go get my guitar, would...

Would you come
and watch me perform?

My heart skipped a beat
I didn't notice
My heart skipped a beat
I questioned what it was
My heart skipped a beat
I only thought about it
My heart skipped a beat
I got worried about it
My heart skipped a beat
I ignored it
My heart skipped a beat
I pushed it away
My heart skipped a beat
I was scared for it
My heart skipped a beat
Then I looked around
My heart skipped a beat
And I decited to listen

words are tools
some are blind
off guard and unready
caught in unwavering
beautiful green eyes
sunshine smiles
willing they, the fools
visually taken by you
as lovely as you are
barter away my protection
believe the words
spoken from full and practiced lips
as my lust consumes
ability to recognise truth from fiction
what's mine is foreign
apparition of such belied intentions
as lovely as you are
take as few or leave none
interested in pleasing
forgetting my own
cause for you i care too greatly
to doubt the sincerity
care not when you lie
the world is a gift to those
amazing green eyes