it's not often my thoughts stop
     whispering like hummingbird wings
     flitting in and around and out to you

only for a moment and I am once again reminded
             why you continue to impress me
              
         (it's the way you know so much
         and use that to learn more)

driving 90 mph on the freeway with the windows down and the storm makes the sky look like the bruise your teeth left on my neck when we made love on my white sheets with the fan on full blast

2. waking up in a cold sweat from some type of horrific nightmare and staring at the moon in the black night wishing you were right there next to me telling me it is all going to be okay even when I fear it won't be

3. jumping off of rocks into the river with a slight intention of never resurfacing only to realize how cold and dark it is at the bottom and I find myself reaching for the light and gasping for air

every good boy leaves because in the end, i
am not what they wanted at all.

they wanted white-picket-fence springtime girls, who wear dresses and smile like innocence and blush when you hold their hand in public, shy.

not me. not rose-thorn walls and ****** teeth. not a girl who cusses and fights and claws at anything that lashes out at her. not a girl who won't let them fight her battles and stands on her own, lacing her fingers with yours because you are hers and she will fight tooth-and-nail for you, and she wants everyone to see that.

they want someone they can settle down with and have a nice, cute house and a pretty cherry tree and pretty little kids and have homemade breakfasts and listen to the birds sing in the morning.

they do not want a girl who sleeps till noon and drags them off on wild adventures and wants to go everywhere. who hates the shrill chirping of birds and uses black curtains to hide from the sunlight daring to slide through her windows. Who can't cook to save her life and holds on far too tight.

no, i am not what you wanted. but i can't be anyone else.

I'm a ******
I don't do drugs or drink
my only flaw is how much I think
I don't believe in God but I believe in me
And I don't know where I belong on my family tree

I don't propose that **** is based on a girl's clothes
I suppose I'm dumb or brilliant but who really knows
You could say that I'm narcissistic or have low self-esteem
with a girlfriend with a pocketless pocket and a head full of dreams

Whoa that didn't flow, that last line
Imperfect effort seems to be an attribute of mine
Look at this rhyme scheme, it's so diverse
I guess I can get away with this; I couldn't get any worse
One favorite, three favorite, fifty-four
Give me validation, I could always use some more
Hello, Hellopoetry! You've been so forgiving
of my beautiful poetry that reflects an ugly way of living
Tell me, tell me: Should I write more?
What if my sadness is gone, and my melancholy no more?
Will you still love me if I write about crinkle-cut fries?

"****. No more suicide poems, does this kid still try?"

Is there still a Josh Haines if he no longer cries?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he doesn't wanna die?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he starts to fall?
Is there still a Josh Haines if he gets it all?
Is there still a Josh Haines after every kiss?
Is there still a Josh Haines after he writes all of this?

Eh. Maybe, baby. Maybe.

perhaps it’s the fear of being loved
or the fear of being left
that has been gnawing on my heart lately,
a cruel reminder of what it means
to be truly alone.
you’re here
and then you’re not.
i am afraid of being the thing of lesser importance.
i am afraid of the past repeating itself
but that in itself may be
a red flag.
for it is only I and I alone
that can prevent that from happening.
by choosing not to crumble at the slightest scent
of abandonment.
by savouring the sweetness of sleeping beside you,
until morning comes to kiss us with lips
scarred with inevitable parting.
perhaps it’s the fear of being loved
or the fear of being left
that has been gnawing on my limbs lately,
making it impossible to take a small step
on the days where the sun decides to resist the day.
i have no reasons to give you,
only a word coupled with a wide-eyed stare.
i feel too much and yet i feel nothing
at all.
sleep walking on a cloudless sky, trying to pin down
a distant bird, the root
of its incessant call.

I looked around for a knife. Remembered that night.
Wanted to forget my promise.  Remembered where the blade was, just out of sight.
resolved to write. fill an empty blank white
with words that might
let me sleep tonight.

my father and i were drinking orange juice at
two thirty in the morning when he turned to me and said,
“i never taught you that you could be anything you
wanted to be because the truth is that you can’t,”
and i decided he was right when i realized i was too
right-brained to work a nine-to-five job and that i’d rather
destroy a computer and call it art than create one and
call it science.

but maybe he was only thinking about the big picture,
and by now i’ve realized that the big picture is never
the most important and that the small scribblings that
mainly go unnoticed matter the most and i thought
back to when a tenth grade teacher had asked me a
simple question and expected a simple response,

and while i had given her a real answer, she claimed it
to be unrealistic and the corner of her lip twitched as she
tried to suppress a laugh, but i wasn’t laughing because
what’s so wrong about saying that, “maybe i want to be
your favorite constellation?” because it’s true —

and, “i want to be the goosebumps on your arms when you
hear your favorite song performed live. i want to be the aching in your
ribs after you’ve laughed too hard, your favorite Sunday dinner,
a constant reminder that you are beautiful and that you are
kind and that you don’t need anybody else to make you happy.
i want to be compassion. i want to be sympathy, treachery,
creativity. i want to be the reason you wake up in the middle
of the night without really understanding why. i want to be
the question, an answer, a hundred possibilities.”

she asked me what i wanted to be, and i told her i wanted
to be everything — and maybe other people don't know how
to feel the same way that i know how to feel,  and maybe that's
because we spend so much time teaching kids how to compute
and to quote instead of how to express and emote and i find that
to be very disappointing.

sometimes, when i lay down in bed at night
i still think back to being 13 years old and
sitting in that lawn chair on your apartment balcony
and smoking a cigarette, listening to the song
"hospital" by lydia
and taking in the words
"i'll never ever leave there, i'll never leave."
i thought i wouldn't, at least.
nothing really mattered when
side walks and street lights at 11pm
and never being alone, always felt heavier
than anything else, in the best way,
and i miss that comfort.
you were the last thing i could honestly call home.
that means a lot when you can't remember
the last time someone meant to
touch you.


we like to think that we are
made of beautiful things until someday,
someone opens our mouth and
bats fly out and we realize
we’ve been empty
the whole time.

the most memorable
first kiss i've ever had
was shared with you.
i leaned in, pressed
my lips against yours
and i put my hands on
your chest. you threw
your head back and
laughed like a God.
i've spent over a year
being confused as to
why you did that and
why you never explained.
i know now that it's because
you knew i was looking
for your heart and you
knew that you didn't have one.

unless she's given it back,
you still don't.

Dead beat loner trapped in a world
Soon to be stoner not moving forward
Friends off to college, mistakes of the past
Keep him stuck at home, life changed so fast
From bright with a future to dumb soon to die
Chain smoking cigarettes, maybe tonight is the night
Sick in the head, broken down mind
Illness killed potential, future died those nights
Flirting with death while my love was asleep
Nobody to help me, nobody to set me free
One man army always doomed to fail
One man army, now a corpse so pale