You carry me down the hill with the moon
nestled deep within your pockets.
Your warmth resounds deep into my hollow
aura, smoldering in a sweet smoke.
You inject your daily embalming love deep
under my skin, the rivers running white.
You tuck my chin under the railroad tracks
with the careful delicacy of a skilled taxidermist.
There was nothing romantic in the way I faded
to amber, nor in the way your hands
folded into crescents and pulled down a
tiered curtain of blackness, speckled with
the eyes of your descendants.

so I might be ashamed to admit that
I've been reading up on you,
and I know how sad you are
because you talk about it a lot.
and I know how you try to play it off,
but really you just feel bad about things
that may or may not be your fault.

I wish I could be the person to tell you the things
that you believed in when she said them to you.
but I would actually mean it.
I get that you want to be hurt because
it's the only thing that you know,
but I could never be that for you.
at least not on purpose.

and maybe with every interaction to come
good or bad,
you would figure out some things about me
that probably wouldn't interest you enough
to look into what kind of person I am.
that's why I can't be any of the things that you want.
I'm not someone else that you know.
you don't even know me at all.

I guess someday I might have the courage
to say things to your face,
even if you were going to judge me.
but you seem pretty open minded.
I wonder if I could fit inside your thoughts
like the cigarette between your lips,
and I could be your nicotine for a little while.

but maybe I'm just saying these things because
I want you to want me,
even though you don't know me.
and I know you don't like heavy words
said without real meaning,
but I mean it when I say that
I may not be what you want
but I will try to be whatever you need,
even though you don't even know
my name.

a.d.

you make everything so ******* complicated.
you make me want to stab myself
in good ways and bad ways;
if there's even a difference.
I don't know what you want from me.
I think you don't want anything,
but then I think you want things
that I can't give you.

I've done enough of thinking
that I mean something to people,
because that's never the case.
I was mad at you,
but then I was mad at myself
for even caring what you thought of me.
I've done enough of caring about
things that I don't understand
so I've been trying to understand you,
but you make everything so
******* complicated.

a.d.

I'm standing on a cliff by the ocean,
except this is a field next to the graveyard
where I'm realizing now that not all waves
are made by the sea.

I sink myself beneath the wind
in this tall grass that's ebbing and flowing
to see if it might help me think of everything
that made me love you.
but I can't drown in these kinds of waves,
just like I can't remember a love
made out of pieces of something.

high ocean cliffs and fields next to cemeteries
are not the same,
and I'm starting to see that maybe I didn't
love you based on different parts
of what I thought you were.
because as slowly as I understood that
waves don't exist in just one place,
I'm thinking it's possible that I just loved you
in more than a single way.

a.d.

good, so good
that's what they say about it-
but when I peer down at the scrawl
led-dragged, so heavily
I know it can never be enough.

bokeh lights and smoke streams
an insignificant metaphor-
just as Love is an understatement.
bullet wounds don't match
how hard You hurt.

discontent gets old
and eight months of displeasure
of dead static psychosis
have rendered me useless;
defined me as dead
to whatever connection I held
with beauty, glory,
understanding.

so good, they say
as the pictures piece together
in the minds hungry eye,
starving to relate,
unknown to the fact
it can never catch the passion;
the poetry is powerless.

With every dawn that rises
I find myself
suspended in normality,
scrambling to scavenge some sort
of beauty in the bleakness.

My own past, passes me by.
those who were once called lovers
all love another,
(someone who had always been
desperate to reach the foreground)

So many times have I wished
that I could split myself-
send each piece sailing into the sky
and see which road leads me to destiny.

But- I am whole.
with this, I must decide upon a single path-
accept normalitys cold, clammy palms
gripping my thighs, holding my waist.

The only reason we feel
a way towards something
is because we've been trained to.
it is valid for flowers to be putrid,
and hell to be heavenly,
if we so wish it to be.
the most twisted of things in your mind,
lie in my own morning routine.

You've never met a wanderer like me.

Countless pathways and I remain
barefoot and bleeding along the same trail,
knowing **** well it will **** me;
glass hidden between pebbles,
ghosts kissing my heels,
my own self, blind to the foreground.

I often find myself sitting vacantly waiting for something to happen.
The sun explodes,
We die,
The world ends.
It happens even more on days like today;
The sky is grey
The snow is melting only to almost instantaneously freeze into ice
And I'm inside,
Laying on the couch in the billiards room,
Attempting to take in some form of natural light.
I'm lost in the sea of my thoughts
And much like scooping water with my hands
I'm unable to hold on to the thoughts of my stressors long enough to work through them.
I've been listening to less and less music
Yet
I still wear my headphones so people won't bother me.
I'm giving up on "living" for now
And
Focusing on feeling alive.
I haven't skated, comfortably, in months
Run for even longer.
I've been drinking more and more trying to escape from my stress filled days.
I'm turning on the vacancy sign in my body.
So that a demon can posses it and run my life into the ground for me,
Because I no longer want to exist any longer.

I dread the day,
The moment when
I take his hand.
And wish it was yours.
I have nightmares about
His kiss on my forehead,
My fake, plastered smile
Because of what's wrong.
Something forgotten, and lost, and replaced.  
And my guilt that I feel as
I remember.
How I let time slip
Through my fingers.
And I'll look up at his face,
Into his dear, kind eyes,
And my heart will scream.
Because my life will have become a song with a missing a verse.