I can’t decide if I was right or wrong for giving up and shutting you out.

We both know you ****** up,
and we both know that I’m terrible at forgiving,
and even though I said, “I’m fine,”
you know better than I do that it was just another defense
I built back for myself so you didn’t have to feel bad
and I didn’t have to feel forced into trying steer us away from the cliff,
even though you kept clawing your way towards the edge–
dragging me along as if I were some sycophantic, conjoined-twin trophy.

A poet walks into a bar and proceeds to discover life in the form of
cheap liquor,
clove cigars,
blues music,
passing glances,
hazy dreams,
and terrible dancing.

He then writes about love and loss,
waking in the morning only to wonder
why there are ink stains and sketches
in his journal.

But in a way,
it didn't even feel like a week.


It felt like
             years
             and
             seconds
             at the same time


                                       …you know?


Everything felt
so right
and it felt
as if we had known each other for ages,
but at the same time it felt
like everything was over in a split second.


I guess…
that's what love
does to you, though.

I'm jealous of the stars.

The entire world
finds beauty in
their radiant
glowing

and
cast its
wishes upon
the very fires from
which creation has come

while I sit here trying to
find myself among the
ashes that so many
stories have left
behind.

Racing; beating; still–
My heart does these strange things when
I’m talking with you.

I could have stuck
a cigarette against my
veins and watched as
the alcohol set fire,
yet I still took to the
wheel in some half
attempt at making it
home.

The night escapes
my memory, tempting
me with broken visions,
half-hearted explanations,
and though I can never
be sure as to what really
did happen, I know
that I’m thankful for
not watching my mother
identify my body from
a stretcher in the morgue.

Dear Future Self,
            I know we haven’t had a round of proper introductions yet,
            but there’s a favor I really need to ask.
            I know it’s rude to request something from someone you won’t
            even meet for five or six years, but this is really important.

            I need a map for this thing called life.

            You seem to be pretty good at navigating it since you’re already
            ahead of me, and since I’m here and I really want to get where you are,
            and you and I both know how bad I am at spoken directions, maybe
            you could share a bit of an inside scoop with me?

            You see, there are these things that are bothering me, and I’m sure they
            bothered you at some point, too, but I’m having a tough time dealing
            with them and I could really use your help in understanding them.

No one knows how
to remind me that I’m
worthless quite like you,
mom.

No one knows how
to open old wounds and
pour them out on the kitchen
table for the world to see,
quite like you, mom.

And no one knows how
to remind me why I didn’t
want to live for the longest
time, quite like you, mom.

We may love each other,
but our immediate relationship
is just as caustic as Triflic acid,

and

you’re burning holes in my head,
you’re burning holes in my heart,
you’re burning holes in my soul,

but

It’s only day one and, already,
I can’t take much more of this.

I really can’t stand women who feel like
they have to bury themselves under
six-feet of makeup and drawn on eyebrows.
To be honest, if I did prefer women to men,
I’d date a woman who didn’t have a face
that reminded me of a painted mannequin.
I mean, the only thing I’d be able to think
when we’re together is, “What the hell
is actually waiting to come up from the
depths of the long-lash lagoon or the foundation
forest?” because I’m pretty sure it’s not
some sort of welcoming party.
And what about the whole traveling to
the bathrooms in groups thing?
Sometimes I have to wonder if there’s
some sort of secret society of warrior
women waiting to come charging out
of the lavatory and straight at me just
because I was born the wrong gender
in their eyes and that I have no idea
what they feel or who they are.
Women just terrify me at times.

This impending fight
lingers at the forefront of
my mind constantly.

You had your words and I had mine.
But where your words were beautifully crafted,
mine were a jumbled mess.

“I don’t know why...”

Wait.

That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever written.
I know exactly–
Why I don’t write.
Why I can’t write.
Why I’m terrified to write.

Every time I open my laptop–
I’m loading that hollow point bullet into
the cylinder, giving it a casual last roll,
and pressing the muzzle to my temple

Every time I push my pen to the paper–
I’m finishing up that thirteenth rung on a
noose and slipping it tightly over my throat,
standing at the edge of the seat, waiting to take a step.

Every time I think–
Every time I write–
I hesitate.

And you make it sound so simple.

You can pull a beautiful phrase from the skyline
and have a masterpiece in minutes,
while I set here scheming for hours;
trying to expel just a word or two from my consciousness.

It really ****** me off that you can do that.

You know?

Your words make my skin
feel like molten gold

                        shifting sheets
                        spilled wine
                        broken bottles
                        shared secrets
                        renewed dreams
                        discovered hope

            and it’s only Thursday night

I know these late nights
            are killing you
            but you never let on



                                    At least they won’t last forever

I’m convinced that someone’s hacked into my head
and deleted the part of my brain that controls my concentration.
Because at times, I have the attention span of the goldfish who just downed a bottle of vicodin.

See, my brain is a livewire lined with high-voltage power lines of dreams and ideas,
and I can’t shut off all the switches and relays flooding messages to my nervous system,
because what I have is a nervous system.

Every caustic, worried thought that I’ve ever thought tends to show up there,
and all I ever do is worry about how one wrong word might end a relationship,
or how one right word could start a new friendship,
or how everything that I keep reading into,
is just bleeding into everything else,
mixing colors,
while I’m sitting here…

forgetting to take the time to paint with my passions and prides.

In the third grade,
I was diagnosed with
Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder.
My teachers thought I was lazy and
my parents thought I was under stimulated.
I just thought I was having more fun doodling
and drawing than paying attention in class.
But the school suggested that I see a children’s psychiatrist,
so my parents took me to one in Wichita.
He prescribed me experimental pills and drugs,
but all they did was make me unstable and depressed.
My parents stopped giving me my medicine
and I went back to normal…
Well, aside from the fifty plus pounds I had
put on as a side effect of the drugs.

*******.

You’re gorgeous.

Look.

Someone’s definition
of beauty is never based
on their own self-image.

If it was,
we’d all be spending our
entire lives staring at ourselves
in mirrors thinking,
“*******, I’m a hot *******.”

But instead,
we find our definition
of beauty written at the
corners of the world and
on the hearts of the people
around us.

And I’ve found my definition
of beauty written
in your smile,
in the way you breathe,
in your eyes,
on your lips,
and in each
and every
“I love you”
that we share.

You’re hijacking
my dreams and
forcing my reason to
walk the plank and
yet you hide your
jolly roger behind
a beautiful curtain
of handcrafted
self doubt and
insecurities.

It’s almost a cruel
joke that I’ve already
cut my wings to
daydream with the
stars, wishing for
sleep, but never finding
an ounce in this endless
sea of silent background
noise spiced with mint
and sage and bergamot.

I just hope that
my words will keep
me company enough
to not be lost among my
ever shifting thoughts and
anxiety driven panic attacks.

Sometimes I
feel like I’ve given
you too much control
over my heart and
head, while I’m
just lying here,
in the dark
waiting for a
response that will
probably never come
and answers that will never
lay my worst fears to rest.

But for
some reason,
I can’t stop saying
I love you, even
when it feels a
bit hollow as
it echoes out
of my lips.

But I can’t
let you hear
that I’m doubting
the things between us
because I know just how
much you’ve given up
for me and just how
much of my heart
I’ve given up to
you.

She writes with the stars
and she speaks in soft phrases,
and she holds close to the door,
for if she ever wants to
escape this world,
she needs but only take a few steps
to find open air
and the freedom in herself.

There are these cynical thoughts dancing around in my head
            waiting for my guard to fall…
            waiting for my guard to disappear…
                        And for some reason, I can’t rid myself of them.

                                                                                                            I wish they would vanish.

But I guess that’s the burden of consciousness for you…

                        Lasting thoughts that never cease to last.

You’re not exactly what I’d call a friend
and I didn’t mean to invite you in again,
but you’ve been around for so long
that I’ve just come to accept your presence.

Now, somehow you forced your way in
and my chest is tearing itself in two
and all of these idiotic memories are
drilling themselves to the front of my thoughts.

And I don’t know why you think
that you can just barge right in unannounced,
but take this as a formal invitation
to kindly get the hell out of my life.

There’s this place on the internet,
where I can see the world from behind a screen.
I can meet people who like the same things I do
and they don’t judge me for liking them, at all.
It’s almost like it’s the ultimate culmination
of every anxiety-ridden
nerd,
artist,
or geek
in a single website.
But this place,
it takes away from the time
I should be using to get work done,
or be hanging out with my “real life” friends.
And people tend to get a bit upset about that.
But I’m perfectly content with wasting hours
upon hours there. Because when you log-in,
you do start to lose track of time in every sense,
but you also become inspired, and I think that
I’ve slowly become addicted to that place because
there are so many great ideas there. Now, the problem
is making time to actually try out some of those ideas.

Lantern-lit nights
The sting and scratch of a thousand pin-point bites
Thick mosquito swarms
Three other siblings stumbling in the dark
Checking the riverbank lines
The thrill of the tell-tale tug of a catfish hooked

But boys aren’t supposed to be scared
of slime and scales or mud and messes

Boys aren’t supposed to be play with Barbies
or spend more time with their mother and sisters

But I prefer them to the savages

What did you see in those birds that
made you want to travel the world?
Was it the way their wings let them
leave for wherever they wanted?
Because you did just that, you left
after school and traveled the world,
capturing the beauty of the wild in
still-framed glory, meeting the love
of your life, studying the kilns of the
artistic gods where silicon, chlorine,
sulfur, and iron ran red like the blood
in your veins and as hot as the passion
in your heart. You lived as a child of
the forges of the earth.

Let the distance between us be some day diminished
for as my feelings grow stronger, my spirit can’t bear this burden forever.
I’ll offer up my heart to your hands and so hope they aren’t weak,
for if my heavy heart should fall, it may shatter as glass.
Let the sky above be our witness and the earth below be our guide,
until the day we meet each other’s embrace, let our souls be intertwined.

I had a fleeting thought that people were like rain...

     We start in the clouds

          Are born into the sky

               We sometimes share ourselves with others

          and then we fall towards the ground
          forgetting to enjoy the ride on the way down...


                         At least we're sure to meet again in the puddles.

There are moments
when I completely lose myself
to the sluice of terrible things
that are happening in this world.

These violent images
and thoughts
infect my mind like a parasite
-blinding me to reality;
but then I remember you
and all of the love and kindness you have shown me
and it makes this world just a little bit easier to weather.

Sitting alone in
my room away from the world;
vicarious life.

I can’t bring myself
to fill these boxes.

They remind me too much
of my independence and how
that part of me is being packed
away right along with my personal
effects.

Why didn’t I exercise one
******* ounce of self
control?

Why did I have to
destroy my chances
to live on my own?

Why is it that I
always tend to
***** up what
I have going?

Why do I always
trap myself back
in the same place
I’ve been seeking
to escape from?

Answer me,
God ******!

PAST
The lonely kid who didn’t have friends because of an overbearing mother
The rebellious teenager who wouldn’t go to church
The high school theater ****** who sloughed his grades for acting
The high school senior who graduated by some miracle
The gas station attendant who hated his job
PRESENT
The half-man mess of emotions trying to grow out of childhood
The last minute student who’s trying to trying to fix his mistakes
The unemployed wreck of a person trying to find his place
The love-stricken jack of all trades that can’t settle for imperfection
FUTURE (hopes)
The successful IT who just moved to the United Kingdom
The artist who can accept that his creations are beautiful
The writer who isn’t tortured by a lack of self worth and anxiety
The adventurous romantic who travels the world by his side
FUTURE (fear)
The bitter man who couldn’t let go of all of his pain and hurt
The old man who couldn’t learn to be a part of his own family
The man lying on the bed, neither dreaming nor thinking, just lost
The shell of a man who never tried and only failed himself in the end

The world is too loud for someone with fragile ears like mine.

I can hear the words you don’t mean to say,
the stories you don’t mean to tell,
the lies you thought you could hide,
and these things that aren’t meant to be heard
drown out the song of the universe with a dark static
that sometimes just makes me wish

that I was deaf to the world.

I’d rather give up hearing the sweet sounds
of the birds chirping in the pre-dawn hours
than have to be assaulted by things that I never wanted to hear,

and I’d rather have to read the words on the lips of people
because I’m no good at listening to what they say
and if I make a mistake while I’m guessing
then I can just blame it on my ignorance
and that’s something that seems to be okay in this world.

And even though ignorance should never be an excuse,
I’d be more than happy to have a healthy dose to myself,
because anything has to be better than making people out for who they really are.

I live for the moments
when I stand up and
feel the blood rush
away from my head
and into my chest

leaving me with
suffocating clarity
and a hint of hope
that I may finish my thought
before I hit the ground
so that I can rest easy
knowing that I didn’t lose my
head in the clouds
under the blankets of
dizzy and nauseous
seconds, split in half by my
obsessive fingertips,

tracing the inside of
eyelids blinking too
fast to catch the world
around their spinning-
thread heads and hearts,

writing songs to the
rhythm of the ringing
in my ears only to hear
that the sound of an
empty ocean raging
against this ribcage
container of broken
promises and worn out,
secondhand dreams
has drowned the last
bit of the kid left inside

screaming to be let out
into the world for
everyone to see and judge
because let’s face it,
they’ll judge every ounce
that I pour out in front
of their half-cast glances

but only for a second,
split in half by

my
obsessive fingertips that tangled
themselves up with self doubt and anxiety

my
dreams that I didn’t chase
because they’d gotten a head start
and I was too afraid that I’d trip
and scrape my pride on the road

my
constant fear of writing myself
into a scene that I won’t be able
to improvise my way out of

but only for a second
split in half by my fingertips

My head and heart have never
been on speaking terms–
one's always ******* to the other.
Or one becomes submissive
and shuts the world out to survive.

It gets old.

It gets old really fast.

Trust between the two wanes,
but never fades completely;
leaving room for apathy
or even worse:

Depression.

Objectivity becomes obsession.
Silence becomes heavy.
My body tears at the seams
trying to accommodate this
****** issue of trust.

But at the end of the day
the threads pull tightly.

Until they finally split.

I’m tracing my
insufficiencies on
the backs of my
eyelids again and
I’m trying to stop,
but for some sick
reason, the only
thoughts that
replace the ones
that I’m bound by
are equally, or so
much more
disturbing.

The bible said that man was made from
the very earth we walk upon,
but I think God threw a few other things in
just to **** up the equation.
I’m pretty sure he threw a dash of inherent
******* into the mix just to make sure
that men weren’t too attainable or attractive,
after that came a splash of aggression.
Well… maybe he threw the whole bottle in,
either way, these weird tangled up monsters
he created are pretty **** annoying.
They treat each other as if they were lower
than the dirt from which they came,
even though they have no right or reason.
And for every masculine, macho, man out there,
“Go **** yourself.”
Because I’m tired of all of these “Holier than thou,” attitudes,
just because you have a bit more muscle,
or that you’re a bit faster than I am,
or because you may be able to lift more weight than I can.

I prefer things this way.

            You- six hours ahead,
                        late night Skype calls,
                        makeshift air mattress bed,
                        videogame ******,
                        dashing looks
                        and a passion to match.

            Me- six hours behind,
                        sleepless nights,
                        early mornings,
                        multivitamin lunches,
                        lovely words
                        and escaping dreams.

            Us- six hours apart,
                        four-thousand plus miles
                        separating our bodies,
                        yet enriching our relationship
                        one new discovery at a time.
                        Fighting for the fleeting
                        moments we can share
                        until the long-term sets in.

Some say we’re bound to fail.
Some say we’re setting ourselves up
for a collectively shattered heart.

I say we’re here to prove them wrong.

The sound of thunder
            is washing against
                        a sleepless horizon, again…


And while days
            and miles and minutes
                        and all of the waters of the North Atlantic
            separate your body from
lying next to mine,
            painting the perfect picture of
                        soulful symmetry that I’ve been
            craving to know for the longest time,

for even half of a fickle moment,
            if I can hear your heartbeat against
                        my ear and feel the warmth of
            your body against my back

and the embrace of your arms
            wrapped tightly around my frame,
                        banishing every insecurity from
            the corners of my mind…

If I can feel grounded in your presence,
            even for just a moment…

And know that I’m not a puppet,
            rigged up as a marionette by my own emotions,
                        strung out on bad dreams and decisions, they’re just
            bad schemes that I’ve never learned to fight off,
or dry off from these ******
            depressive states soaking into my skin
                        like dollar store sanitizers, leaving my
            skin burning, and my soul yearning to
be clean from the agony that others have
            left behind, I just want simple peace of mind,
                        so that maybe, when the sun isn't shining and the sky is overcast
            I don’t start drifting into the past,
and I don’t lose myself again…


If I can feel grounded in your presence,
            even just for a moment…

Then maybe...
            Just maybe...
                        The sound of the thunder
                        washing against the horizon
                        won’t keep me awake at night…

There was a tire on the side of the road
next to a rundown gas station.

The sky was blue and clear in contrast to the
bleak remnants of a lost cause,

             but this led me to think:

                          I’ve been seeing the world through a
                          distorted lens for some time now and
                          I’ve been frightened by the beauty of
                          life and art;

             trapped by my own insecurities.

             I was stuck on how I could never compare
             to these amazing people, when I, myself,
             held no talent.

             But I’m starting to realize, that’s not how
             art, life, or the world for that matter works.

             You’re held accountable for your own
             actions and you’re not always immediately
             praised for your talents, especially if you waste
             them.

             You can sit on the sidelines all your life,
             waiting and watching as friends and family
             pass on by;
             fulfilling their dreams and aspirations,
             while you let your own life fall to shambles
             because of a stupid thought that invaded your
             mind from a very young age:

             “I have no future.”

             But that’s never true for anyone.

             And sometimes is takes someone else
             to help you realize that you’re worth so much more.

I can hear your breathing next to me,
as the rain falls slowly upon the glass.

Every breath, as if you were fighting,
every flash, as if you were lighting
a path to bring me back to you.

I can hear the warmth of the winds
resonating through your body;

A song of innocent agony-
The anxiety of an unyielding soul.

Golden Autumn, sweet sorrows, forgotten;
Come flooding back to me as I'm only yours.

Mold my body viciously and
perfect me for your pleasure.

I am the heaven, the flesh, the earth,
I am yours.

Faded colors

Dancing lights

Bleeding images

The smell of a cigar
and a half full glass
of bourbon whiskey

Who said this
couldn’t be my
heaven?

How she’s holding on
to her last bit of sanity,

I’ll never know.

But somehow,
she’s made an art of survival.

Camouflaging her emotions with words
and bathing in the beauty of written silence,
she’s an ivory goddess drawn on to a dreamer.

And even though she’ll never be the flower or the wine
that suits the taste of my aspirations of love,

I can’t help but feel the need
to be her knight in brass-washed armor
with my makeshift sword in hand
coming to her rescue and her young son.

I want to scream
and throw ****
and cry until my
eyes run so dry that
the Sahara desert is
jealous.

You’re there.










I’m here.

There’s a world
between the two
of us; separating
us.

And it’s driving me
insane.

But…

   But in        the corner
    of my   heart, there
        is a  glimmer
          of hope
           that

won’t ***** out no
matter how hard
the winds blow
or how much rain
the skies throw
down.

I feel…

blah…

Like someone’s drained
the last bit of emotion from
the well in my chest and
I don’t know why,
but for some reason I’m feeling
hurt that you’re kicking me
to the sidelines,

even though…

I told you it was fine…

My chest feels tighter
than a ******* corset,
but I’m not complaining
because I’m worried that
if I do, you’ll just redirect
that anger and frustration
of yours right back at me
and it’ll only get worse
from here on out.

But am I just supposed to
go against my nature and
bottle these feelings up,
concentrating them into
the very poison falling
from my lips, until we
both drink it,

or maybe I just drink it,

and fall apart even more
than I already have…

Blue lips,
pale skin,
and a hand me down noose,
whose lips poisoned whose,
or are we just drowning in the doubts?

Your lips,
your skin,
and a persistent lack of faith,
my lips poisoned yours,
and I think it’s time to escape…

December lungs shatter by the blow of a bitter morning,
and while I’ve never understood mourning,
I’m not happy you’ve gone.

                        Pipe tobacco
                        War stories
                        Stern kindness
                        Fresh scrambled eggs
                        Read-along cassette books
                        Railroad walks at dusk

            I don’t remember much,
            but what I do…

                        I’ll hold close to my heart
                        until you meet your grandson again.

I wish I could find the edge of the world
and revel in its majesty for only a minute
so that I may know the splendor of life
in the reflection of the human soul.

I had my first taste of life last night.

It was an odd combination of
doubt,
desire,
depression,
hope,
and sudden relief.

And it left my lips
chapped and tingling-
craving for more.

Love is a blazing star forced into a tiny, red-hot, searing iron,
and if you press too hard while you're trying to iron out the wrinkles,
you might end up burning your hands and drop the iron
along with the heart of the man you were supposed to be keeping safe.

And if you go ahead and mix up a drink to cut out the tension and pain,
be careful that you don't stir up an emotional cocktail from the bottom of his soul,
because there will be pain there that hasn't quite settled and let's face it,
navigating a sea of love is hard enough even when the waters are crystal clear
but if you cloud up the water with curious intentions, it just makes it that much harder to see
past all of the stains left on your chest and the loose threads in your voice.

And on any give Monday you could see the world in his eyes,
but today all I could see were two confused storms trying to weather
the question of whether these things were dear memories shared with passion….