The bed is only half empty,
it is not half full.
as i clutch the wrinkled bed sheets
beneath my tiny balled up fists.
Black mascara staining my tears
that run down cold cheeks,
cold from not having been touched by your lips
cold from waking up
only to find you gone.

I write poetry, drink coffee,
talk art, dig cinema,
wear t-shirts without graphics,
t-shirts without tags,
and screen-print my to-do lists
on everything.
I say all this as I blow-dry
the temporary tattoo on my wrist.

Why are weeds considered ugly plants?
They are but the most beautiful anomaly in this cruel and unfair world.
Despite the lack of water and necessary care,
they still manage to find a way through the tightest and inhospitable of cracks,
chasing the warm kiss of the sun,
and to be showered by the cleansing rain.
But when they do overcome their hardships,
greedy, unrelenting hands reach down,
and strip them from the earth,
pulling out their roots,
and throwing them away.
Then the place that they worked so hard to exist in,
is taken over by some eye-pleasing blossom.
Real beauty is not found in those that are given everything,
but rather in that of striving to simply be,
to overcome obstacles,
and rise above,
no matter the circumstance.
There is something beautiful about that fight and determination,
and nothing profound about a flower that is nourished with constant love and affection,
because they will only grow to be weak and fragile.

My hands smell like smoke,
But I haven't used a ciggerate in three years,
My breathe smells like liquor,
But I haven't drank in ages,
Maybe I'm dreaming,
Maybe I'm dead,
Is this hell? Inside my head,
Maybe the LSD finally kicked in