The thought of holding your hand nearly drove me to tears this morning
It was not the taste of your lips, nor the way your eyes pierced right through me,
A chain reaction of thoughts led me to the hopeless memory of simply clutching your hand as you drove along

You, you beautiful cancer, still pollute everything

This life has taught me that we are promised nothing,
Least of all that love will listen when you simply ask for it to *stay

None of this matters.
My words are stale.
An extended vocabulary is
as pointless as the pencil
this was written with.
My gift of gab may have
made women wet, just as
the ink smeared on my palm,
but dilated pupils do not
read between lines, they only
see yourself in yourself in
yourself. Then you blink.
You blink because an illusion
isn't a fabricated reality as
much as it is a cue from
your damaged brain that has
always reacted faster than
a mouth expelling empty words.
This goes for *** as well.
No matter how many times
you pull out, a disappearing act
doesn't wish away a pregnancy.
Only a pill the morning after can.
And only a ****** is as expendable
as the money left on a bed side table.
Or a mattress without sheets.
Not a man that walks away in
running shoes, not living up
to his full potential.

I can't
I can’t always be there for everyone
in the perfect little way they've invented
every single time they have a problem
believe me, i want to be.
but sometimes even though its irrational
i just need to be there for myself to keep my head above water
and im sorry for that.
but ****

Criss-cross of arteries unclaimed in Lost and Found.
Accidental knots bound together by frayed ends.
Applesauce and pork chops may be ******* up logic,
but I'm so glad we are friends.

A cactus ***** can be the catalyst of an unspoken understanding.
We bleed our bloods into each other until the gaps are just the abstract outlines of us.
Failed to falter on this landing -
Let's hold hands and jump these last few steps.

Where every other shallow swimmer surfaced half-bloated by their purpose,
we've maintained our depth.
Half-swimming, half-drowning;
all while halving the latest trends.
Just in case I haven't mentioned it already;
I'm so glad that we're friends.

Exhausted by the constant exasperation of our own attempts to exaggerate self-condemnation.
It's so nice to find a place to rest.
BFF, BFFLE, BIEH.
Hey,
how're you doing there bestie?

I get it.
You get it.
We get it.
It's gotten.
All our fondest memories are the ones all but forgotten.

Hearts on ice.
Hearts in grass.
Hearts as apple-shaped shards of glass.

We stand here together on the sharpest edge.
I ******* love you guys.
I'm so glad we're friends.

Empty Girl.
Dead-eyed queen.
Cut her personality out of a magazine.
("How to Play Coy to Get the Boy"
- turn to page 3.)

Garish girl, way overdone.
Blank face heavily caked in makeup.
Paint on another fake expression.
Please,
don't make me laugh.

Thickheaded girl devoid of thought.
Owning nothing that can't be bought.
More like everyone else,
than anyone else.

I want a refund.

November shakes the wet from
Her wings and stretches them to
Their full reach; tips touching
The death and birth of October
And December,
Feathers the colour of leafless
Trees and ploughed fields.

A thirty day lifespan of deathbed
Lullabies and hardened faces,
Bodies crouching to lay themselves
Upon their own warmth in
Desperation, clouds of breath
Escaping layers of
Cotton and wool.

Winter is as inevetable as dying.
I wander between birches and
Pinetrees like crooked teeth
Protruding from the mist; the
Bones of something decomposed
Between moss and
***** forest water.

Black as old blood.
Brown as mud, air like millions
Of tiny arrows against any bare
Skin.
This landscape could be someone's
Nightmare, some horror movie
Set or a Ted Hughes poem backdrop.

But I stand, still and alone, one
Palm against a rotten tree trunk,
The other upon my Norwegian
Heart. It is a time for looking within
For strength. To be silent and not think,
But feel; a time for building fires.
To gather what's dry, and prepare.

Rain makes me wax poetic, I'm not sure if this state of being is good but if I could help it I wouldn't be here.
I have someone in particular to thank for this, for good or ill. I wouldn't be here if not for them regardless of the rain, perhaps the rain really.makes me think.of them from witch kits to "4 a.m. knows all my secrets" many long years, many gods and angels, the real demons are in our thoughts, whispering things we already know, the worst thing they can do is tell us the truth, and the devil is in the details.

Take all of my belongings; pictures of
Beloved ones and grandmother's bible.
Just leave me a piece of paper and my
Will to describe the memory of my losses.

I take the pen for granted, as one does when
Leaving a bank in deeper debt.
One man's advertisement is another poet's
Tool.

I, Poet, would arise in the morning and praise
My tiny square of window, even with its
Iron bars.
I'd find poetry in prison wall profanity.

I love losing. Crying over love, over
Tragedies the size of full history book pages,
Timeless art lost in gallery fires, bad poetry
Gone viral and unpublished classics discarded.

I, Poet, laugh out loud in disbelief at sunsets
And other banalities.
Take spring rain showers and act at times
Like a hipster on ether; a hippie kissing his  

Last tab of acid with the heart of his tongue.
I care less than the unfree.
Drink water; wash my feet with wine    
And walk miles and miles of fire.

I, Poet.
Ink in my veins, fountains of blood on my
Pages. I write no diary, keep myself between
The lines.

The areas of white between the words.
The opposite of
Nothing. It is where gods,
Truths, and the poet's way of loving

A dual life lie. As
Unseen as
Unhidden, in
Broad daynight.