all these sad girls
with naked eyes
and mine, red.
hands full of
a messy mind
and more of
the same shade of
red.

laying down on the ground
in that diner
off the one street
i’m always walking around on,
putting poison in my own
coffee,
tying knots in my hair
and crying about the tomorrows.
and all of those yesterdays
yeah.
i don’t know.

athens is a dizzying place
and here i am
trying to increase the distance
between me
and here, and now.
starting with that boy
who told me
that i was too frightening
to understand— cause
i guess i’m more
and less
than i wanted to be.

or the place i live
falling in on me
while i sleep,
the sad girls with
their naked eyes
and drug addictions.
all of these things
sickening me
through the pasty
walls
i’m between
trying to hide some place
that feels safe
while my father
dies in a state
that is not this state
my mothers
paper hands
on his forehead.
her favorite color;
red.

Neil young speaks over the radio,
helpless, helpless, helpless.
something in me is ignoring the intoxication,
and rejecting relief from an untamed mind.
but the floor looks like a ceiling in here,
so i know theres enough danger
in my blood to flood the red sea.

all these many deceptions
just running gleefully through my veins.
         and i am
                 finally back
         in Lucerne.
The early morning gray that hovers
over the ambient light
settles in my stomach,
with all of the other toxins,
but that light--
that light is not strong enough to travel
the static air above the clouds where
Pilatus sits, littered with broken windmills
and snow caps in july
its peaks white with my tomorrow.
there is nothing like this wind
that will soon ******* away soon,
into a new love.
To a city that enjoys my drunken presence less,
where i might get the urge to run again,
but inevitably disappear into a collective disaster,
and into men who have fewer things to love with their eyes.

all these symphonic shifts in my pulse
as the universe chuckles
at my attempt
to be a part
of
anything
at
all.

lucerne, your hot smoke hues will
soon be missed once again
as my blood spikes with every word.

he goes back in time
to think of things
he should have said.
he's got strong arms from
carrying heavy thoughts for so long
and it seems someone else lives in his
mind sometimes

but i want to live there too.

Why do people sometimes
Talk down to others

Yes they may be
Intellectually profound
Literally spoken

But yet don't have a lick of common sense

I'll take common sense any day

sorry for always mentioning you in stupid poems i write
sorry that you read them.
I promised myself you'd never see me cry, but we were drunk and you kept saying things that made me miss you while you were still here
and sometimes all I do is miss things that I haven't lost yet.
I tried to hide my eyes, but I don't think I can lie to you
so whenever the world catches up to me and you're around,
I am sorry that I might get overwhelmed. I am sorry that I've cried.
I can't sleep either and no lights are flickering but I keep telling myself that they are
and I'm not sure why I say "and" so much to connect every thought like a run-on, but sometimes when you smile it carries me through the day and i'd run to see that. But I over-analyze and over-think and will over-run my mind 'til I die and sometimes dying sounds better.
I know you know what I mean, and I'M SORRY
we all fake things so well,
it's human nature to fake every day
and god,
I am sorry I'm so scared that you are faking every time you whisper in my ear
AND I WILL NEVER UNDERSTAND WHY NONE OF US SIMPLY
DO WHAT WE WANT
(we'd be so much happier, I bet)
BUT I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I WANT MOST OF THE TIME
and sometimes when you say sweet words
I know you'll forget you said them
and I'll think of them when you're gone
so sometimes I wish you'd never give me compliments
and
I am sorry
for it all.

They still exist;
Both literally and metaphorically.
Little girls *** trafficked,
Boys slave in sweat shops,
Buissnessman works a 60 hour week.
Everyone's got their own chains.
Some we put on freely,
Some are ****** upon us,
like maturity on an orphaned child
--Some are cut into our wrists.
With every lie,
With every curse,
With every slander,
Pain built up creates inside
these fine little links;
Alone they are weak, but together
UNBREAKABLE
27 million slaves in the world
But that's just an estimate.
When we look inwards
We see so. many. more.