grave robbers placed
undead fingertips
into their pockets
and the daisy's never hesitate to bloom
glass eyes arise from expectation
and we rarely discover
the braille found everywhere
the sky cries for it's simple routine
and the echoes of marching shoes continue

tonight i'll place my heart in a mug
and miss you from across the Atlantic

we could board the time machine
in your split screen mind
or we could stay here
to watch as everyone's hair keeps growing longer

I want to write the same poem in every possible way
but velvet and pine and freckled laughter are fleeting

I want to watch snowflakes fall from your eyes
and see your reckless guitar strings vibrate

I want you to read me your poems all night
I want to move to California
I want to build us a future solely from our past

I want our teenage years to last

Poison under plywood
Vanilla steam kisses
Fake photo's of the stars
A mother's sleeping eyes
Some sad man's guitar
Church hymn sunrise

and the rest has been our demise

close your eyes and think
every part of you is slightly moving
that white light
that infects us all
that white light
that is the side effect of consciousness
that electric current
reaches every horizon of your spine
and down through the thighs
it laces your rib cage with ribbons
and insulates your brain

our matter is priceless foam
full of reality
leaving space for fantasy

our matter is a strategic trick
to make us think there is nothing more than this

our soul is our blood

I can’t help but think that the essence of my being is stuck in some landlocked memory on the roof of your house begging you to stay, because jumping holds winds of change and we are doing alright here. We rally to taste the cotton fuzz of our pink memories and we hear the thunder of what could have been. You will stop holding knives and the lake water will taste just like cinnamon. The trees hum yellow in the silent buzz of stars. The backseat of cars haul bodies full of frostbite and sharpie ink blood. Sure we could yell into the abyss but it’s just as good as throwing our secrets towards airplanes. Sometimes I think art is like a dream book. Visualize and find the thread of what’s screaming inside our heads. Either we weave it into something new or let it fray.

the ghosts are there but only if you think about them
it's funny how much the non believers don't see
nothing is worse than dying
except for wandering these streets alone
i found a cold fox
hidden in some paradox
most people called it the 'April Snow'
it's funny how suicide in theory
sounds like walking off of
the edge of a burning map
but it's really all of the friends you have lost
shutting down your organs
slowly
one at a time
so when you lose everyone
there seems to be no other choice

but there is you and we are us
and this the only reason
i choose to stay a while

the sun and moon are slightly out of tune
and i lost sight of my hands in the dark
we sparked last summer but we wont reignite
our flames had burned paisley blue once