One day 250 years ago
a man talked to his grandfather.

A blind old man told his sons son a story
about how he saw flying handkerchiefs
and pretty women
a man in his smoking robe.

I've heard before
weather affects your mood
that's why winter makes so
many people so sad.

If it weren't spring right now
I'm not sure if I could handle how
dark I am inside because I just found
our bucket list we made
last time the sun was out.

a magic
is present
in the ever present
number three.

Triangles

It is sad to know
People same in age as I
Cannot work with vinyl

I am only breathing
and thinking thoughts
because I maintain at least one
of my three beautiful vices:

One, keeping my heart full of love
for my pale-skinned sweetheart.

Two, maintaining a full mind
of thoughts for the future.

Three, making sure my glass
stays empty of anything stronger than
green tea, and my lungs clear of anything
darker than a campfire's exhaust.

Dragged onto the path by the railway,
her soft hand led away
from the temptations by creek and

pulled him to find sin elsewhere.
fingers made bold by the summer breeze and
a newfound love prodding his
toward the holy land
to find what they could ascend to.

Something unknown.

and the next summer Samson had cut his hair
while his Summer love stayed,
waiting by the tracks where they had found
what both had longed for.

she never knew what happend,
why her leo left.

Only if she did know,
that the summer breeze was too much
and bold fingers too many
for the young lover.

I wish I had never left the third grade
to go to a new school
because that's when I lost my friends for good.

I wish I hadn't left the eighth grade
to become a freshman
at a ******* school for brainiacs.

I wish I had just gone to the party
to do drugs and feel numb
become an unfeeling pawn in life.

Both of us aged thirteen.
He had his first joint alone in a flat with his brother
and told me all about it.
I asked out a beautiful girl and loved her very much
and told him all about it.
That year it started.
We tried to see each other on the weekends
but he was already out the door with a twenty in his fist
and I was in my room, my beautiful girl with me.
It was like that for two years.
He was high and
I was too.
Not until we were fifteen did he get caught,
"My **** was too dank"
and I opened up,
"Can we see each other tomorrow sweetie"
We played basketball that night,
like nothing ever happened.

Creeping out of my head
they're sprawled across the floor
all hopes are dead
and laying there.

I have no want to go back to school,
although knowledge has always been my passion.
I can't even recall facts that I used to know,
like the creases on the back of my hand,

Music would radiate from my room
Either the guitar
the record player
or my computer would blast ballads
of love and of hate
but I can't even remember a single song
by the Foo Fighters.

And I used to know them all.

There is no love of knowing like there used to be
no drive for novels
short stories or poems,
I don't know how I am going to manage
the creativity that my life
will desire from my brain.

every desire to trip on acid
or philosophize like
Carl Sagan and Sigmund Freud...
or both

Dead as letters on this keyboard.

I used to be bright, long haired and free
I knew just about everything
and would be up to try anything,
but something happened and now
its flowing through the cracks,

I wanted to be cool
I wanted to be new
a smart boy,
with secrets of which
only some knew.

brain dead and sad
all my life draining
and I don't know what to do.
Now I'm a corpse
in a shallow grave,
if two feet above the my dreams
and queen sized
is shallow

No one is ever mad when they're asleep
How can you be upset when you are at peace
But lying in a bed, sweating through your clothes in the summer heat
Thinking what you'd did wrong and who you did to
The guilt consumes you.

Wishing for the sleep to engulf you,
but it never comes.
Not until you bring it to yourself,
the only final reckoning for your regret and sorrow is an eternal peace.

Years ago
I wore anything that came my way.
The oldest hand-me-downs
to the $20 shirts with stupid faces.  
Old cargo shorts fill my drawers a
and stupid hooded jackets
infest every corner of my wardrobe.

Years ago
I talked to anyone that would
give me two seconds.
A new friend
or an emerging acquaintance
every single day.

I feel like a child in those clothes now
those shirts and shorts
make me feel infantile.

I can count my closest companions on my hands
because who would talk
to me?

Bright lights from above
Seem to shine down when you smile and when you cry
Angels faeries and nymphs and elves come out of the warm oak wood floor.
They crawl into your covers, and onto your head, trying to make you love yourself again.
Their kisses heal any scars and their hands can warm the world's most frigid heart.
Free as can be they could be with anyone, even me.
Time and time again however they chose you and brush away your sins, comb out the kinks, and make your body, you.

I'm brain dead
a condition affecting one of those lobes in your head.
One cannot think when their dead in the brain
but the second you try to sleep, you can't stop the thoughts.

It's late
and my thoughts are becoming gelatin.
All the little individual grains of
this and that
are melting and mixing into one humongous beast of an idea.

A monster, seeping into every crevice of thought
and corner of consciousness
a grey goo filling my cranium.

A knot in the back of your throat,
the person you want to hold
to be held by
to sleep beside,
Doesn't want to be held
or touched
or seen
ever again.

You have two choices, a decision to make.

Hold her, comfort him,
say it will be alright
it'll be fine
you will feel better soon.

Or throw him away, forget she happened.
She's no use anymore
he can't make you feel
what you want to feel.

Nearly three months since my fingers have hit keys
in hope of creating something more than just
a message to a friend.

This is my message,
not to a friend
but something greater than just a quick hello.

Good bye

It was raining
the april showers that would not stop
just kept falling into the night.

The motel room's window open,
a portal to the outside world
another dimension where
anything can happen.

Twenty-days into the month
Jacob is already in the bathtub
the window is open and we can hear
the sheets of rain.

The portal shows us more than we know
a parking garage, lit by ancient bulbs,
houses three teens, reaching their
POTential for the first time.

I'm just not ready
to see the world
as it really is
in all of it's ******* disgust.

I was always the child
reading whatever was thrown my me
shielded by a love of
science and a passion for knowledge.

Now, the only thing I know is hate
and all I learn about is how
dark the future of the human race
really is.

I wish I could run like Forrest Gump.
racing towards the unreachable end
numbing my mind to fend
off the thoughts that wrestle for my attention.

The distance would be amazing.
to see every monument
every memorial and testament
to what someone can achieve.

To be greeted and paraded when I finish.
i would finally realize
that i may agonize
over life and over you but I am loved.

Some people want to pass
and achieve with flying colors.
No one has ever told me
that I could succeed with
anything more than Gliding Pastels.

The irony
was unbelievable to me
You're a lover of roller coasters
and I've discovered some personal anxiety.

When we go to the zoo
all I can think about is you.

When her mother says
"there is blood in the hallway"
she doesn't even look.
Too many times she's heard screaming
from outside her paradise of a room,
and has glanced out to them fighting
again.
This time she asks
"why"
the answer surprises her.

I know I shouldn't say that
it's a boys job to hold the girl
and the girl should be held.
I shouldn't even be saying "boy" and "girl"
when there are those that aren't.
But ******* baby I feel so wrong
asking you to hold me.

Hm

A few hours ago
my girlfriend wrote a poem
it was about me

What do I say
How do I say
When should I say
Why shouldn't I say
I love you
I want you to be mine
But to say you're mine
Would indicate ownership
And you're *******
Free as a bird

Seeing the ocean for the first time
Seeing it for the hundredth
Seeing it again and again but

Being numb like this
Being alone for the thousandth night

Feeling vaporous as oxygen
Feeling weary when

Seeing the ocean

After so many fights
All is calm and we are at
Peace after oh so long.

One time a man told me

That for a poem to mean anything

to have any worth at all

I had to slave over it for hours

for days

for weeks

“sometimes months” he said to me.

Poems should be about beauty

and sometimes grace is spontaneous.

After so many fights
All is calm and we are at
Peace after oh so long.

A haiku for you
The one who does not know me
Try knowing me better

Please lemme go

I don’t want to feel any pain

I just want to *leave