i do not write in pencil
  it's all written in real
no pattern, no stencil,
  hand drawn hard feel

inhale exhale
  whatever air is available
words need breaths to exist
  yet breathless i persist

never been in a band
  my words never heard
left to hold my own hand
  trying to unthink my words

no eraser available
(though noe is erased & dull)
so i babble feeble
  (though no words escape my skull)

eyes blink
  to rid themselves of the red
but don't disguise a think
  cuz the lids are hiding brain-dead

can you breathe underwater
  believing she's oxygen for you
can you breathe when you want her
  but she's allergic to you

soft socks should soothe a soul
  on a cold night in a Shannon cuddle
and be the only thing worn on the morning
  where we have each other waking for moaning

i thought She Loved me deeply
  NEEDED me
    (**** found there were cracks in our foundation)
i believed we were US forever
  walked the waking dream of our Love Affair
    (**** learned she could lose the fascination)

i was in LOVE
  She was dating
i found The One
  She was just dating

February 3rd came & went
  harbringer of the death of clint
March 8th was the final ****
   of the last of my living will

been in a haze of agony
  where my own jester hates me
i wake daily in a daze of disbelief
  to a nightmare real with no relief

my tears don't fall
  they flow
strong & steady
acidic yet empty
and their side-show-bob
  is the echo of my sobs

i keep writing poem after poem
  of pain
    PAIN

when the only poem i've ever wanted to write
  is the one She wants to re-read every night

I stood as still as I could.
Trying to hold in my breath, trying to turn invisible, trying to melt into the wall I steadied myself upon. My heartbeat thumped in my ears drowning out all other sounds.

Were my feet nailed to the floor by fascination? or was it disgust? The knot in my stomach laid no reliable argument to these rushing emotions.

My eyes followed his hands; the way he gripped her hips, the way his fingers traced her jaw. My eyes also followed his lips; how he pressed them almost reverently against the base of her clenched neck.
I watched as he inhaled her scent like he was being squeezed out of breath.

She struggled against his grip. Her eyebrows knit together in an unsightly frown. She halfheartedly pushed him off her weak body. It almost looked like she didn't want to resist, but her pride pulled her away from yielding. She was shaking, her form disheveled, yet it wouldn't sway him.

I felt a stinging in my eyes, that all familiar burning I experienced when I felt that twinge of paranoia. That burning paranoia that plagues me now, as my worst fears are embodied.

How could she easily dismiss him like that?
When I lay nights awake craving his skin, his breath, his words.

I have spiraled out of view, just a faceless backdrop in his hopeless love story.

How could a person hate and love so much at the same time?
It just goes to show that the world doesn't work that way, it works to crush you. All these emotions spurt out at once, as a lesson for all the lucky fools watching you.

I've never been a sentimental person
but too soon did the
smell of salty air,
the sound of waves gaining
and receding
endlessly, reliably
become dear to me.
My memory betrays me
long enough to drag up the
sound of your laugh
(the unintentionally honest kind
that still raises goosebumps
on my skin)
along with the feeling of
Normandy sand beneath my toes.
No matter how much I want to let go,
I'll keep the jar of sand
on my dresser
and the image of you
with your arm around me,
our hair and our hearts wild,
in my mind forever.

and i knew from the moment your side was rested against mine, i would have a hard time letting go.
yet nothing prepared me for the unsettling feeling that greets me as i'm enveloped by materials i've yet to call my own and the lack of warmth and pulse admittedly feels stranger than usual and it's only been five days. it's literally only been five days
days which label themselves as weeks flutter past like pages  caught in the wind, like eyelashes blinking to the pace of your heart and the feeling remains, it remains better than an iodine stain on your neatly pressed blouse. it's probably stirring your contents page up too
the unsettling feeling of red umbrellas unsheathed in which they make it an ambition to contrast with the inconsistent hues of the sky
contrasting flashes of lightning against the pale sheet i'm told to call my skin. flesh i clothe my hollow bones in to prevent them from trembling with your thoughts that bring chills like the wind
rays of light dance at the edges of each outline my eyes are drawn to as they are drawn downwards like gravity grasping a waterfall
there are tan-lines of words in paragraphs you wish you knew how to forget, baby, we all have them.
can't place a name let alone a colour for you to fit amongst the colour wheel you dangle on your fingertips to create the things that you do, on the thoughts that jazz around to tunes i'm sure we've heard together at some point of time with varying surroundings
skys that stretch into the horizon with your name etched in the clouds









maybe i could have loved you more.

I drop four ice cubes into my coke out of habit.
I kiss my sweet love four times for good luck so our team can win the game.
I catch myself counting to four when Im ready to speak up, I don't count to three or even ten I count to four.

It was on my back in big white letters when dad looked through the chain linked fence and said with every ounce of his pride "Take it for a ride lex."
That's the day I got my first homerun.
That's my old man's favorite number and mine too.
Ill never know why I look at him like hes god.

He spelt my name wrong two years back.
The letters said L-e-x-i,
I whispered that's not how you spell my name it's spelled L-e-x-i-e.
I whispered because I didn't want to embarrass him, I thought if I talked quiet enough no one could see my lips break around the words in shock.
I was 5 when me and mom left him.
The number 5 is my most unlucky number it always takes something from me, like my dog, she was in my arms on the fifth of may when heaven called for her to go home.

Dad came the next day to burry her, the hole he dug was to shallow.
Days after her funeral foxes came and
scattered her bones across the field.  

It was a treasure hunt to find all of them, I tried to save her one last time.

I should really give that man a call.
I'll do it tomorrow , or I'll wait for him to call.
I'll count to four before I answer.