Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

i suppose there is a lot of unsung symbolism in giving someone a plant, as plants have become an average gift to give in occasions of celebration, such as moving into a new home or graduating from school.

every moment i am with you is a cause for celebration.
you are a celebration.

no matter how many plants i can give you to put on the windowsill in your bedroom will symbolize the celebration i feel in knowing you to it's true color.

because i feel fireworks in my chest brighter and louder than the ones we kissed under and i feel happier and bubblier with you than drinking the alcohol i like to drink too much of and you give me more pleasant thoughts than the color i chose to paint the walls of my bedroom

and no matter how many poems i write
and no matter how many words i say
none of them quite amount to the sheer immensity of what i feel for you

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

I told you a
while ago that I listen to sad music
when I'm happy
and happy music when I'm sad,
but my friend,
that simply is not true.

at the time I believed it,
because, to put it simply,
I was in a numbing state of sadness,
emptiness and drug use.
But oh God how happy you make me
and how happy I've been.

Now, with a sober mind
and I happy heart I realize
that I wasn't happy,
but I listened to sad music so I could be sad.
Let me explain;
I went to school (high)
and needed to appear happy
so nobody would question my heart.
It's something I learned when I was alone
and had nobody to question my heart.
and then when people started coming back into my life
I wasn't able to stop.
I put on a mask,
smiling,
constantly smiling,
joking, smoking,
loving.
and i only took it off when I was alone,
listening to my music
about love's lost
and hope's crushed.

The truth is that you make me happy,
I'm not wearing a mask,
and I haven't listened to Bright Eyes in weeks.

pink hearts and red flowers are easily handled
movie tickets and sun exposure
in the name of seeing one another
for a little bit longer

dinner dates and meeting my mother
holding each other for hour upon hour
under the impression that things
might be okay

and my ribcage is disappearing
underneath layers and layers of good intention
and i can feel the masks withering and cracking
and i am scared

as i stand, naked, before a full length mirror
i look at myself in confusion
and i desperately search for why
in every crease and line
throughout every dimple and bone
in between the spider veins and stretch marks
pale skin and scars
this isn't beauty

as i lay, naked, in the warmth of your arms
i look at you with sincerity
and i calmly understand why
in every crease and line
throughout every dimple and bone
in between your blonde hair and blue eyes
pale skin and scars
this is beauty

Caroline loves the ocean.  
Her soul sails on a Carolina breeze.
But her music's in the mountains,
and her heart's back home
where it needs to be.

I'm stuck here
in a Carolina wind,
wading in the ocean
with my heart in Tennessee,
and my mind on Caroline.

Carolina's got everything
a man could want.
Everything he needs.
It's got the mountains and the ocean.
It has a Carolina breeze.

He has everything but Caroline;
everything but Tennessee.

r ~ 6/22/14

The rose captain knows my name
This perfume breath I breathed
For you my dear, my love will never leave*

dear love of old,
they say absence makes the heart grow fonder
but as i've separated myself from you
my feelings have only become colder
i used to adore every part of you
but now as we get older
i see that my rose tinted vision
wouldn't let me listen
to what i should have realized sooner:
you're only out to hurt me
even if it's unintentionally
the kind of you and the kind of me
are, truly, never meant to be
and it's not a flaw on us, you see
it's just something that is
like the tides of the ocean
dictated by the moon
and the cycles of life
we all must endure.

dear love of new,
we haven't faced much hardship or strife
since we have crossed paths in this life
our lives are young, and we are fun
and we've been hurt too much
we confide our sorrows
and look toward tomorrows
with optimistic views
and watch the news
in hopes that things will get better.
but for us, things are on the ups
because we have found one another
and things are simple,
things are fun,
and my feelings for you make me want to run
through green meadows and pick flowers
and you make me think
that things could be okay
and i will be okay

I'm getting better,
slowly, a day at a time.

I still think of you but not as often.
I remember the good times,
but they're always marked with
an aftertaste of longing.
Longing for what?

Friendship.


I can't listen to No Doubt
anymore without thinking of you.

I cried last night,
for the first time
since the day before.
I was thinking about the best thing to do
and i decided (as I have a hundred times before) that it's to give you space
and let you come back,
if that's what you want to do.
I cried because I don't want to lose you
but I don't want to push you away.

you've got me sitting
alone
in my room
listening to the music you like
trying to figure you out
trying to decide if you like me
if you want me

my mother says
"he probably doesn't know either"

and i'm frustrated
because someone has to
someone has to understand
and i don't
and i have to
i have to understand
you're a puzzle i can't solve
is this something i'm doing to myself?
nothing is as analytical as i need it to be
your tones of gray are confusing me
and i can't find a way to organize
the things you say to me

but to say i don't enjoy the task
would be a lie
because it does, in fact,
make me feel alive
i want you to want me,
that's very true
but it won't be easy
to convince me
that it's okay to want you