And
I feel like an onion. Layer after layer all
gone with nothing to say,
nothing but skin.

They're kissing and holding hands and
I think I'm going to be sick.

and,
I've come to realize that almost every poem
carries a cigarette, and that I'm burning away.

and,
I've spent years dying to die
aching for you to return my calls.

and,
I've spent $5 a week,
replacing your breathes
and promised pain.

They're whispering and telling each other how much they are in love and
he holds her close.

and,
now all I have is the hope that this rain will wash away our memories.

Watching shadows
when I'm with you I feel fine
my one and many
I swear I saw you raise your hand
and wave goodbye
only after confessions
from the lighter parts
of human hearts
Dead things are everywhere
and all I want is to sleep
at the bottom of a crystal lake
or to wait
for moss and flowers
to grow from my eye sockets
that is infinity
and since all things die
I only find peace
and sense
in the infinite sadness

"i'm only saying this because I care" -
*******
                     He told me I don't pick up on social cues,
                     basically I am a glorified vegetable.

"you're so much better than that"
 * but I can not recall a time when I was...
                    
                     I'm no longer afraid of the dark.
                     I think it's because that's all I see.

plato's ******* cave

"stop being so rude. You make people uncomfortable"
                
                     *how can I stop when my eyes refuse to work
                     I just don't notice it.

                    {Am I not good enough?}
                     I thought things were going to be okay

                    all my friends hate me
                    all my friends are giant *****
                                                           ­             I need better friends

{Maybe it's them not me}

Some of these books
I wouldn't remember reading
If they weren't on my bookshelf

They say you're not supposed
To wake up
A sleepwalker
But more often than not
I want to remember in the morning
The moments I fell in love with
The night before

I want to really remember
All the books on my bookshelf
And some of them
I haven't even read yet

Wake me up.

From body to box,
Sunday brought back the reminder that death,
is the only thing permanent in this world.

Tears burning a hole in my heart, thinking back of days
in which I was dying to die,
and what for?

I have yet to figure out why we
live, or what I'm supposed to
do. The complication of that thought
processing through my anxious mind
drives monsters in my stomach
and brain
to start tearing their ways out.
Leaving each new finger print
a face to forget, and each new sent
one to remember.


I'm confused,
as to why we bury what we love under
dirt, but really
why the box?

Why not let our remains be the sprout
to courageous wildflowers and
sweet nectar.


The past four years have brought change in
everyone, and everything loved. Battling with myself
for rights and wrongs and unknown
crumbling pavement.

Haunted with "Where will I go when I die?"
Who's to say when I'm dead, because by my definition
that was April 18th.


These questions
and jumbling
blurred
thoughts
pour out of my eyes, mouth, nose, and ears
Imitating some sort of overflowing volcano
of insanity.

I wonder if it might have been easier
For you to let go
If you’d just known:
I wasn’t in the process of loosing myself
But in the process of finding myself

Sure, I was on this road for hours
Before I felt like I’d moved
More than just one minute
From where I started
But somehow,
Sitting by a little lake,
And fishing without a fishhook
I finally got a bite
And I began to reel myself in

All of life
(Just a coming and going
From the house
Where I smoked a couple cigarettes
A couple months ago)
Conspired to let a few rocks fall
To the bottom of a river;
To finally let a little bit of water
Flow over this dam
And keep rushing onwards

Consciousness,
mindfulness,
philosophical enlightenment -
Live for the **** of it.
Camus was right to breathe in spite of the tide of crushing emptiness.
The boulder gets heavy,
the bones grow weary,
the mountain is steep and we are steeped in irony.
For life can be deadly and death's rows of gravestones mark homes for freed slaves,
their crossed arms hiding scars
left by the teeth of nihilistic grief beatings and
surgery scalpels set to carve by
frequent false
alarms.

Sisyphus took but one break,
to hear the chains rattled from the gates,
hellish obsidian, vermilion flames licking lumps of silica grains
mixed with ash and a black tar splash.

And Orpheus sighed on the lyre and brought tears to the eyes of the most vile,
while Sisyphus
paused -
not long,
but a lifetime for those still free to subside
to dust, from blood and guts,
when their time arrives.

The trials of life,
the striving rites and lavish gifts of light to defy
the black and empty dusk still fail.
Eurydice grows pale as Orpheus turns to see her cheeks
losing every trace of peach hue,
eyes emptying,
lungs leaking their
last gale.

Struggling again, Sisyphus is sent
tumbling down the face of the great mountain,
grabbing gravel and sand and gashing gaps in his hard leather hands.
Bleeding ash,
not blood,
hot red mud dripping from the thick lacerations,
mixing with the sickening avalanche of wasted effort and waylaid plans.
Repeating the climb up the steep peak,
bones creaking like a clock's gears,
rattling off the seconds,
minutes,
hours,
years
until the watch stops its
panicked hands.

Until then we will toil unswayed
as we wear stones to clay,
carving winding paths in spirals up the mountain's waist.
No calm for those with breath,
no rest for beating hearts.
We must live in spite of life,
and then sink silent
to the earth.