back home
we talk past each other
and always about other people
in our circles.
we only care
about ourselves.

back home
we have a small garden
eight feet of space
nice and well-kept
shielding out the concrete reality.

back home
we smoke so much
we've forgotten the taste of fresh air.
we smoke until our rooms get blue
and our lungs black.

we smoke to **** time
and ourselves.

back home
not only smoke fills the air
shouts
shrieks
screams
and happy pop tunes
endlessly on the radio.

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

I want to destroy.
I want to burn,
to break,
to bleed;
I want to feel the sting
of shattered glass
tearing through the tough skin
of my heels.
To see red.
To ache.
I want to breathe smoke.

there are burn holes in my skin where you touched me
i wish i could rid your smell
from my clothes
but it clings on like
cigarette smoke to my hands
i want to drink 6 cups of bleach
and brush my teeth with powdered lye
but even that wont scrub you
from the walls of my heart
i dont even love you anymore
but yet here you are
still haunting me
everywhere i go
you follow
and everywhere i hide
you find me
leave me alone
leave me alone
leave me
alone

Boy's hand works last hook.
Bra flies. Girl grins. Ain't no shame
in coming undone.

they say opposites attract,
but then,
how are we in contact?
we met in the same hiding place, with walls up to our embrace.
same empty wells on our faces
same invisible threads on our lips
slouched posture
boney hips.
i was a blank canvas of a girl and you were a boy who liked to spill your ink on ****** white pages.
i was painfully boring and you were the ruins after a hurricane.
you had stars for eyes and flames that licked your lips like you were the only wildfire out there and i was nothing but a crack on a sidewalk.
you had every natural disaster dancing on your fingertips and i was dying for you  to touch me.
but your palms only sweat when you daydreamed about kissing me and i was infatuated with your dreamy eyes
you  kept galaxies in your palms just to give me a sense of home every time we held hands.
silly boy hasnt anybody told you death doesnt have a home.
hand in hand we are filthy image to them they try to **** us
but you spill anything about us to anyone that would read
according to you there wasn't any us, ink all over paper yet never any love
they asked you if you ever loved someone you said you never really cared
seems like i was the air you breathed in but coughed out as dust instead.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f