someone took the narrative
that i was an idiot
and ran with it.

they're stuffing foam in my garden hose
they're burning all my algebra notes
they're stepping on my sand castles
like my effort is one big hassle

maybe it's your problem
that nothing i do makes you happy
maybe it's your problem
that you break beautiful things
maybe, just maybe
re-evaluate the narrative you wrote
some writers can be untrustworthy folks

Beneath murky, bloodied water, it beats.
The lonesome heart of a saint.
With every beat, the still water ripples.
Agonising.

Lips like cherry wine.
Porcelain, icy, skin.

Will you remember the taste of my lips?
Will you remember my hands when he touches you?

Will he caress you the way that I did?
Will he care for you more than I did?

I breathe beneath the ***** water.
Heartbeats slowing down, almost inaudible.
When suddenly, the beating stops.
The water stops.

My fingers prune and my chest throbs.
It's cold.

1/
I called your number and
your voice answered –
“Sorry I’m not available.
Please leave a message.”
I put down the phone
without speaking,
and hoped you might pick up
my thoughts.

2/
I called your number and
your voice answered,
sounding tired and lost.
I wished I could hug you better,
but the voice said,
“Who did you want to speak to?”
– It wasn’t you,
but I still wanted to hug you.

3/
I called your number and
your voice answered,
and this time it was you.
I said hello,
and you said hello,
but what could I say
(that I wanted to say)
that you didn’t already know?
So we talked about trivialities
until we said goodbye.

I gave you violets;
you gave me your smile.

I gave you elderflower wine;
you gave me wild strawberries.

I gave you a small brown bird
that hid in the white shadows;
you gave me the nightingale
singing to the summer midnight.

you gave me almost-tears
and rainbows;
I gave you my poems.

The function of a violet is to grow
out of dead leaves,
turning decay
into itself.
A poem too builds a little sense
from the rubble of life (what branches grow
out of this stony *******?). One and the other
flower according to their nature,
seen by those
who know what they are looking for.

A violet is not a poem,
but the message is the same.

I cannot look into her eyes
the soul of a mother long gone

I hate my face in the mirror
I dread the stranger within

My sunken brown eyes are faded
Like the falling sand,
the statue of my self is erased

Life is a joke,
and I'm the clown
I perform to an empty theater,
and laugh at my own shadow

The voices are in my head,
the puppets and the songs
the whisperers and the screams

When I lay in the dark,
alone,

sometimes,
I close my eyes,
to the howls of the demons inside

Mother,
I'm married to the night

Someday I had hoped,
that when I'm done with my acts,

Maybe,
In the heavens,
where you live
We would laugh forever,
Like we always did

My memories are pounding
On the walls of my brain
Telling me they want to live once again
I'm sad to inform them
They're stuck in the past
will die
With my last breath of life

I could never pick a moment
To live in forever

It depends on the weather