falling asleep in the morning
i woke up at night
with the moon hovering
over my coffee
but it was just the light
the shining down
on me like a voice saying,
you cannot bury yourself
in the gloom
of the night
and the moon
it does not shine
just half its light
and the moon
will never be as bright
as when lovers and dreamers
first found the night.

I fell into the arms
of a foreign name
and she spoke
a peculiar language
that i’d never heard.

though, it was beautiful.

her words danced
upon her lips
and performed to a crowd
of the bed sheets
and i.

I want to learn this peculiar language,
this language she called
“love.”

We all want to be liked
To have people see
The version of ourselves
We choose to be
And say, yeah
That's someone I admire
I aspire to be like
We all want someone
To look back on
The snapshots we've accrued
Over years of holidays,
***** nights,
And picture perfect food
And say, look
Here's someone who's got things sussed
We all want someone
To validate our lives
To comment that we're doing just fine
You're great
You're pretty
Your smart
Well, I guess that's a good start

We all want someone
To click that **** thumb
And validate the effort
Of keeping the mask on

My teardrops don't flow from bloodshot eyes
down angry red cheeks
staining yellowed pillowcases
black with sorrow.

Collected in a leaky pen
with rusty metal cap,
they form words on
crumpled notebook paper.

Silent cries
build T’s that don't cross
and from the womb of weeping winds
come forth Y’s that curve at their tail.

bleeding heart, whose
tears dissipate with that of a child's day time fury.
But bleeding scripture,
is quick to injure
as it weeps its words
forever and eternity.

Sad is a penny word.
A “too vague and distantly grey” word.
It’s edges don't shine.
They are cracked and dusted over
in silk space dust.
Depressed is a dollar word.
“Milk and honey on our throats” word.
It sizzles people's lips
everytime it dances in their mouths.
Everyone is depressed.
While they sit beside their open glass
windows and write tasteless poetry about
Depressed and how they feel it.
How it courses through and through their
juvenile veins.
Everyone is depressed.
But I think maybe I am just sad.
Sad like pain and tears that don’t fall.
Maybe I am Depressed.

.

page one
it starts with the wave of a hand
a simple introduction
'hi, what's your name?'
it starts with looking and seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes and human
it starts with feeling no cliche butterflies in your stomach
and no additional voice in your head
amongst the others
and no rapid pulse in your still-beating heart

page two
somewhere along the way the waves turn into inside jokes and small smiles
crinkles by the corners of eyes
and light chuckles
and glancing just a millisecond too long

page three
and, well, glancing just a million times too often

page four
and you write poems in attempts to make yourself believe
to drown yourself in denial
to avoid confronting the - nonexistent - blooming bud growing
sprouting from all angled corners
and cracking curves
and jagged edges of you

page five
spoiler: it doesn't work

page six
and it's strange because apart from seeing what is there you see more
or really you don't see what is there
you see what you want to be there

page seven
you see skin and bones and beauty and freckles and stars and constellations in eyes and ethereal -

page eight
perfection

page nine
except perfection doesn't exist
and what you see doesn't exist
it's just your unrealistic expectations piled up from miles and smiles of movies and books and manga and everything

page nine
and you know this

page nine
but it goes into one ear and out the other

page nine
and it doesn't stop you from claiming

page nine
you're in love

page ten
if love is just infatuation with a physical manifestation of your ideals without their consent
then i guess you're right

page eleven
there are butterflies bending, banging on you, begging to be released

you wonder when your definition of beauty became a name and a face
and you wonder when love became synonymous to pain

page twelve
the butterflies turn into birds and then bears and then freaking buildings
except these building are moving and apparently earthquake proof because you can't seem to break them down
instead the buildings are breaking you down

but the truth is no, no they aren't
don't you see?
you're breaking yourself down

how do you heal if you are both the poison and the antidote?

page thirteen
if only you could rewrite the story
but how could you?
how do you rip the pages
how do you erase the sickeningly sweet
slow stabs slicing through your spine every time a smile is sent your way
how do you mute the thudding in your brain telling you that this could never be
how do you ignore the extra echoes in your head yelling at you to get yourself together

how do you get yourself together?

page fourteen
you've been asking so many questions lately
but you know the answer to all of them

page fifteen
there's a small voice
a minuscule, malevolent voice whispering maybe
whispering maybe and perhaps and potentially
maybe you're not the only one who wants to hold on just a little longer

page sixteen
but see
it's funny how the story starts with two people and now it's just one person with an overactive imagination
illustrating a person as something more
something better

page seventeen
but you're not creative enough to keep your illusion for too long
and soon you start to see less of what you want to be there and more of what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human

human

page eighteen
human is ugly and human is cruel and human is wretched
but human is somewhat
beautiful
in its ugliness
and human is raw in all its dishonestly
and human is real
even if you made it out not to be

page nineteen
you will never truly now human
you will never truly know anyone or anything that isn't a figment of your imagination
but it's enough

page twenty
it starts with seeing nothing but what is there
skin and bones and blemishes
and human
and then it ends
the story ends somewhere
anywhere really
but it ends

Some boys
are more
than just their title.
Some boys
can make up a thunderstorm
out of a simple glance,
not aware
of the calamity inside of them.
Some boys
are pure and simple art,
their lips a poem
i'll never be tired
of reading and writing.
Some boys
can tell you so much
all while being silent.
Some boys
are best selling books
with not a chance
of happy endings.
Some boys
are a never ending tune
that rings constantly
in my ears.
A powerless and monotonous
soundtrack of sadness
and lonely broken fears.