Socrates died in the ******* gutter,
his head smashed on the marble
pillars of the Parthenon,
blood soaked the streets of Athens--
          the **** of the city was dry,
          the **** of the city made wet
          with weeping.

The river ran red down the legs
of Athena, the rose of mysterious union
made her genius shudder & contort--
          ****** was the sunrise,
          ****** the terrible roofs of
          marbled Athens.

The jeweled night was loud and furtive,
the philosopher's blood made stains
on the nation, rusty were the gates of
the aqueducts, the asylums.

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.

Loneliness freezing fractures
In old bones, rotted leftovers
Tossed aside among dead leaves,
Candy wrappers and cigarette butts.
Cracking, dragged by streams of
Gutter water in heavy rain to
Turbulent streams
Journeying on to
Distant seas.

You don’t know this
But I sat at the top of the stairs
Listening to you and your brother

Chatter on about school
And play
Making noises
Just to make each other giggle

Two boys in a room
Not a spectacular sight
But listen
Listen and you’ll see

Simplistic moments like these
Are what we live for
To make our brothers laugh

To have slumber parties
Even on a weeknight
Because, well, he is your brother

And as I sit down the stairs
I miss my sister
And the way she makes me laugh

And how I am never embarrassed
Never worried about her reaction
Because this nightly talking thing
These falling asleep ambiguous babbles

Is love.