i'm keeping all of your shirts
i would **** all over them and mail them to you
but i like the way they fit

all of my friends loathe you
they told me you were basically a ******
i said they were full of ****

and on to the next host
to **** dry and feed frantically on false love
a mark pulses where you bit

was it the ***
that bred this bond? was it *******? because
you never found my ****

We’re all just so clever, so tragically unbalanced
But I woke with a new kind of obsessive disturbance
I’m finally shutting up with all the pretentious little dialogues
I’m not special, I’m detached, burn down the inner monologue

This scene’s dead, this scene’s gone
there’s no enlightenment in store
This love’s dead, this love’s gone
Just leave me to rot with futile lore

I don’t belong to meaningful existence
I’m never coming back despite your persistence
Highly stylized poseurs, highly addictive pills
So glamorous, my life’s work will be cheap thrills

You write your ******* witticisms and poems to adorn
Crushed between pointless inner battles, constantly torn
Encircled by the same ******* unsolvable your entire life
Ok, you’re brilliant, but I’m free, but I’m going out tonight

And every night I sleep, my conscious becomes softer
And every morning I wake, I wake with nothing more to offer
So stare up into the stars, direct your profound scenes
I used to waste so many nights planning, wondering what it all means

Micro manage feelings while I succumb to blurry haze
Controlled by a constant pounding beat, sensuality ablaze
You’re too curious, too poetic, and far too intense
I’m living in a world ruled only by impulse, only by decadence  

Your burdened search for originality
You’re brilliant, but I’m free.

I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you I take the long way to class
in  a Chicago January
in the snow
on foot
just to finish dissecting Teenage Dream because you said that song reminds you of me
I will tell you I devote time out of my day solely to thinking about you  heart heavily.
Because I am always thinking about you, fair warning.
And if I let myself indulge a week's worth of thinking of you in one minute,
maybe I can study some for my midterm in the morning.

I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
In those blindsiding instances of stark realization,
when I get a knee **** reaction putting on my scarf that still smells like fruit passion
because I made you wear it on the El platform to fend off a wind that round every corner could bend,
I will take out my blackberry, tear off my gloves, and tempt frost bite on the tips of my fingers
to send you a text that reads “I miss you.”

I won't tell you I love you when I don't.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don't.
Baby, I need not be insincere, I am not in love. Yet.
And it’s not you, and it’s not me. It is everyone else here.
Everyone else beating my brain in with cosmic signs
of Matt and Kim playing on the radio when they never play Matt and Kim on the radio.
Every poet pleading with me personally will flip their pages and I will be deemed defenseless against all odds.
I will tell you I love you, and I will mean it so fiercely
my chest will cave in upon itself thumping like a cartoon and creating a gooey mess of pink hearts.
Because you heart pink hearts.

I won't tell you I love you when I don’t.
I won't tell you I miss you when I don’t.
I will tell you embedded in the endless, elusive scenes of whimsy that make up my insides,
that song by The Darkness will play over every loudspeaker in the Student Center
because you paused,
you looked at me,
and you said “I love you. I really love you.”

I wrote you a letter.
I mailed you that letter.
And blew Marlboro blue pack all over the envelope
In hopes that you would choke

And know that I am still smoking.

I smelled ****.
I smelled **** that boldly resembled zoo smell.
And knew this is what your insides smell like.
Inside you are ****.

And a big *** panda just **** in you.

drm dor open
drm dor closed
the latter suggests
intertwining toes

rapturous song
from bunk to bunk
twisting embers
young and drunk

unless of course
he does not know
how to move
lacking an O

drm dor open
drm dor closed
the former implies
an ending posed

nope, not it
not even near
still no good
was i not clear?

he left abruptly
he had to go
frustrated i am
he never found the O

there's a reason we don't look back
because we most definitely don't need that
there's a reason we haven't relaxed
under the weight of steel tracks atop an overpass

and we've yet to stop running
and we've yet to stop deconstructing
we've concluded we can conclude nothing
a trick so tragically cunning

we've been tending to processes of the heart
pretending and mending images in your yard
posted up against the brick wall behind K-mart
where graffiti fades from concrete canvased art

there's a reason we don't look back
there's a reason we haven't relaxed

tooty fruity on rudy.
          rudy is a prostitoot.
                    tooty fruity is a *** act.
tooty fruity all over rudy.