I don't even no her
So, why, why, why

Does she purposely
Lick her lips
When she looks at me
Then turns away

Why, why, why
Do I feel this way

When she walks by
She flips her hair
Then blowa in my ear

Why, why why
Do I feel this way

I ask her why
As she walks by
She says I'll tell you later
Then walks off and smiles

Why, why, why
Do  I feel this way

She stands in the corner
Winks and touches her self
Blowing me a kiss
While talking to herself

Why, why, why
Do I feel this way

It's time to leave
And she grabs my hand

Why, why, why
Do I feel this way

She says your coming with me
So be a man

Why, why, why
Do I feel this way

When you scream
I love you
Do you mean
Take out the trash
From the past

When you softly say
I love you
Do you mean
To come hug you
And kiss you

When you say
I love you
with tears in your eyes
Am I suppose to hurt and cry

When you say
I love you
Jumping in the air
Am I to run to you

When you say
I love you
With anger in your eyes
I run away!!!!!!!

Young man, its time to wake up.
Your love affair with death has got to go.

From many long years, you have to rake up.
The Leaves from the past.

Slow suicide is no way to go.

Blue, colored gray days
Dizzy weakend by the haze
Infection is not a phase

The cracks and lines from where you failed.
They make an easy man to read.

For all those times you bleed.
For a little peace from God you plea and beg

Your not a fake now, so wake up.
Now is your time not to go.

For a few minutes he just stares in silence, I stare back.
Wondering what he's thinking
As I think and overthink about the eagerness that swells in my belly when he stares into my heart. Hoping he won't read what I'm writing in my head. Don't stop staring.

i really don't feel like talking to anyone but you.
Just make that stare last forever.

I sit on the hill
seeing Martinez light up
as the sun passes behind the cusp
of Mt. Diablo
this dirt witnessed me turn old,
has stories to tell,
a well of sorrows spent and sorrows kept
it's seen the laughter
along with emptiness
my souls settles like dust
after a gust of unrest, turbulence
while the Great Plains call
my name rustling through the grass
my heritage, past lives pushing
pulling
controlling, unbeknownst to me
sitting silent with the
Bay Area
trees

I've been trying to figure out where to start with you.
It's like trying to put a pinpoint on a city that doesn't exist anymore.
I'm always looking at a faded map when it comes to you.
Maybe that's why I start all my sentences with "and"
and maybe that's why I haven't gotten a good nights sleep in 3 years.
Beginnings have always evaded me.
I've never cared for small talk or formalities.
The "oh that's nice" that seems to line the purse that is every first conversation.
The pin fell out of the wall again,
the map's crumpled on the floor.
It looks the way I imagine your body did.
Your body.
My bed.
And a highways worth of empty space.
Your body.
I didn't need another parking lot.
I needed a **** highway but you had to go and ruin that.
Your body.
I have driver seat phobia.
They say I fear control but what they don't understand is that I fear being out of control.
The same way you don't fear the dark,
you fear not seeing.

Your body. Six feet of dirt. Parking lots.

I'm so sick of having my foot on the brake.
I swear every steering wheel has the word "and" etched into.
The seams of the leather.
The stitches in your head.
I can't start a car or a sentence.

I carry my backpack, and the addition thirty pounds of stress that goes along with it.
I carry an MP3 player, filled with 1500 songs that make more sense to me than any math lesson ever has.
I carry a necklace from the 1800's that no one in my family cares enough about to remember who it originally belonged to. We both carry the feeling of being passed along.
I carry a notebook with letters I'll never have the nerve to send. I carry a pen that's been through more with me than any of my friends.
I carry my scraped knees and a tendency to fall to the waste side.
I carry my father's temper like a hot coal in the pit of my stomach. I carry his high expectations and my mother's victim complex. All three of which are, apparently, hereditary.
I carry Chapstick, Neosporin, and band-aids. Because things crack, and things break, and some things tend to cut.
I carry the same mindset as an Oxford comma and a worry of being replaced. We both carry the feeling of not really mattering.
I carry my uncle's divorce, & the way we buried him only a year after the papers were signed. I carry the way his ex wife's grudge is stronger than her children's love for their family.
I carry the dream catcher my dad keeps in his room, the one I got rid of years ago when I realized nothing would keep my nightmares away.
I carry the time my hero had his heart broken and spent the next year at the bottom of a bottle.
I carry the headstone that marks the beginning of my abandonment issues.
I carry a .037 fl oz tube of eyeliner in the hopes that no one will mess with a girl who always looks like she has two black eyes.
I carry a pre-med major that will never make me as happy as it will make my parents. I carry my family's hopes on my back & the way I feel like an emergency room with no more room left for patients.
I carry my best friend's name like an obituary I never got to read. I carry the way his head hit his windshield faster than it ever hit my lap, and the way I've hated sitting in the driver's seat ever since. I carry the way I never want to be invited to another funeral & the way each body they've buried makes me feel like I'm already 6 feet under.
I carry the mattress I slept on as a child. Pink flowers & blue satin & cold sweats detergent couldn't fade. The one I spent an entire afternoon scrubbing bloodstains out of, hoping my mother wouldn't notice when she changed the sheets. She never did, or at least she never asked, and sometimes I still wish she had.
I carry how my friend thinks her high school boyfriend breaking up with her is the worst that could happen, and the way I hope she always does.

I want to rewind it all.
I'm watching the snow fall out my window and I can't help but daydream about catching it on my tongue all those years ago.
Back when I'd breathe onto windows so I could draw pictures, back when the whole world was my canvas.
It seems the whole world's already been colored in though, like there's no more room left for us dreamers.
I read a poem in junior high asking where dreams go, but now I care more about where the dreamers went.
I want to rewind it all.
Back to when I thought the sky was another world's ocean,
Back before I had ever heard the word stratosphere or had failed a biology test.
I want life to be recorded on a VCR, little green and red buttons putting my mind at ease.
Then again, I haven't owned a VCR in years...

A woman asked me
How it felt to see my lover again
And I found myself
Most inconveniently out of words, darling
My mouth opened
I almost said
Being with him
Is like Summer rain
In the Sahara
Or the first sip of water taken
By a thirsting man
Like the cool feeling of grass beneath bare feet
In the spring
The smell of blooming Wisteria  
Like a bonfire in Autumn
The sound of leaves falling from the trees
It is like the first snow of winter
Blanketing the world in white
Or the the steam from a cup of tea
But instead I smiled
And closed my eyes

"It was everything I needed it to be."


.