I don't feel like a happy person.

I don't feel like a happy person.

I feel like years of yearning would feel, grasping at dreams in the daylight.

I feel like guitars strumming, ghostlike.

I feel like wasted space and blurred lines, the weight of a song deftly moving in my head.

I never want to allow anything to hurt me again, I could promise. I want so much to walk the large, well-lit autumn-rimmed clear haven streets and not look back, always with destination. I am an artist not creating, I stagnate. I run.

The crying thunder breaks my fears into bugs and mud, it seeps through and out the pores and cracks of my skin. Somehow when the world decides to off you, a good night of sleep doesn't quite feel like the solution. How can I sleep with death swift under my eyes?

Confirm the beauty in my lack of rendition, and the galaxies deep in the creek of my dying summer heart.

Why are the night and day so different?; and do they have to be?

There's nothing tangible anymore in the seatbeltless buses of the south province (that's where I'm stuck). I crave one thing, but I know it's only a gap, a void I'm trying to fill. I can't stay here anymore is the only refrain that made sense to me when I sobbed it out loud.

So good riddance to my selfish fears and my hypocrisy. Hello new world, I am yours and you are mine.

Life is like this greyish purple sky, - or is it smoke? - a strange and foreign concept, Life here in the most vivid and true sense of the word. The everlast of screen-bright polaroid collections and radio station lovesongs play up the impossibilities of any kind of breathe and let go, of give yourself kindly, irremediably and unbridled.

But no white plastic frame can tame a nose's redness, from the sun's kiss or a frosty, tender January bite. Love-in-the-making is an art, so I'll try not to lose it.

what if i keep my nails long to curve them into my skin
and what if i strangle myself at night?

does it matter if i dream that i'm a smoker
if it made my mother sad
if i bruise my legs, if i pinch and tear myself apart

i pick scabs to watch the skin grow back
right before my eyes

she walks the street in the crying, baby breath morning
where the shoreline is the sky,
the greyness and the damp east coast afternoons
what's left in her heart anyway?
her hair parts
she strides into the full and the lighted
the open bars and the gentlemen
soft evening glow that catches the photograph

for all the memories and the bitterness,
is it true people fall in love?

lately i've needed the color blue
the thought of crawling into bed
the songs about denver and seattle and the late-night flights across the continent, my love
i need a haven for my dreams, and a place to rest my head

it took me years to realize
it's always harder at night
and that i would **** for the moon

i am flawed
but alex this is all we are; our mothers' melatonin

the reflection of the sun in your teeth leads me to believe our time is up
& the softness of my thighs against your hand stops the world from spinning blue