small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

maybe love is to watch a thousand winters pass, and still stand by his side because you know he's made of spring

when a boys dies he lives a few scattered moments longer per person who knew him. he dies, and yet he is still alive, as the words leave another’s mouth “he’s gone.” he’s still alive with blood and bones and spirit there. every piece is still where it belongs.

the words travel from mouth to brain and it’s there, in the language, that he dies. and it’s no one’s fault - he is gone, he is dead. but from then on his life is limited to the sculpture the people he knew are capable of creating. so people remember him on and on, he was tall, he was kind and smart. they frame the same photograph over and over.

people are afraid of the bad, the spear he ran past as a kid and screamed as it tore his thigh open, that shrill of his voice, the day he dented the wall with a mere elbow's tap, the pieces that made him more than a thoughtful still life. his life is more accurately described as a vignette of horror and beauty.

yet those who survive him meet someone new in his passing - they meet the flawless portrait of a boy, who was only a boy, a beautiful boy.

It's some sort of yearning-
***** of yarn,
stars that burn.

There is a path that never connects me to the center, nor does
the center define
an end goal;
it's something south of overlapping my dreams
of yearning and
knitting and
lighting fire to everything inside my head that tells me every single ******* day that I'm not good enough.

I ignite fires on days where
it is too cold to be
mindful
or be positive
because
I must.

waking up
now reminds me more of
digging up bones,
rather than skipping stones.

water isn't all that I hyped it up to be.

I drove miles and miles just
to discover
that the heat was broken,
and that your affection
is more of an illusion
than an authentic token,
wrapped in ***
and compassion.

Through metal weights
and steel plates,
I make a living.

Through some sort of
endless storm,
I will live

the darkness will ultimately illuminate all of the light and altruism that we have to bring to this world.

--

It has come to a point where it is nothing
But a cycle


Day 26

Smoke cigarettes
   Try [so hard] not to feel a thing
   Try not to dwell on those regrets
   Try not to remember anything
   Our inside jokes, even the green ones, and silly bets
   I thought, maybe it meant something
   But I guess this is as good as it gets
   I ended up with nothing
Nothing but cigarettes

(repeat the next day and the day after that)

The rain runs,
spreading the stone polished
and clean.
Like this, you must
let the water slip
on the back of your unkissed neck,
the curved dips between
your fingertips,
nestle
in the soft folds around your waist
that you hate,
and stumble on your collarbones,
your genetic mistakes.

Let it slide on the stretch marks
skimming your thighs
like fog diffusing across the hills,
and inside the grooves of your too-large ears,
form little streams.
Let it wash away
and unearth these parts of you
where you don't want to look,
where your lotion never reaches.

These are the little patches of soil
you must water with care.
Flowers, flaws -
how much is the difference?
One day a lover will give them a kiss
and you will understand
why we are so tender
with broken things.

Let them bloom, and see yourself
wilder, as you grow,
for gardens are most beautiful
with some ferociousness.