My lover asks me:
"What is the difference between me and the sky?"
The difference, my love,
Is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.

So funny how words spill between us
A poetic conversation flooding
Understandings and questioning
Everything
One moment lights up like hope upon butterflies wings
The next unveiling a garish harsh truth of reality, perched alongside loneness
Words coloring inside lines
Fuzzy gray trying to hide
Nothing is really quite
Balck and white
Every relationship really knows no bounds
Only defined by the individuals its wrapped around
Unique as life, its complexity
Just like your eyes seeing into me
You couldn’t say we are average here
Your words are what bring color to my life
And beauty to a blade of grass and autumn leaf
To a blue jay, to the passion I seek
An icon image into what life is supposed to mean.

I write on that binder
where you crushed
those two blue constellations
into stardust,
and I watched you pull heaven
into your skull.
I hope for a moment,
you were full
but you seem so empty now.

I guess your
blue supernova
turned to ash.
I guess your past
is orbiting you
as you burn out
against black.

I feel like I'm watching from Earth,
your implosion,
which has already been
and I can only
bathe in the
light
of those two blue constellations
hidden by your eyelashes.

whatever you are
is whatever you see.
whatever is your pleasure
your ecstasy
in this whatever generation.

it's equal parts beauty and degradation
driving this sulking generation
to the consummation of image, of physical perfection.
our bodies are up for approval and thorough inspection.

whatever chemicals work the best
whatever gets you drunkest.
whatever gets you hot, hard,
don't forget
to live life to the fullest
but only if you're worthy,
only if you've passed the test.

if only you could rise up from your room
or start a revolution through the phone
plug in, go quiet and
surrounded
you are alone.

this is our whatever generation,
**** your thought and your soul
and your hope:
that is the initiation.
blame society
and forget,
that it is our creation.
so join the fold and strive to reach
that spiritual elevation
of a perfect smile, body, hair
because variation
is god's greatest failure.

this is my whatever generation,
the caste system of beauty
where screens light the path to liberation.
all sins are forgiven,
save ugliness,
that is our only stipulation.
so do whatever, feel whatever,
and whatever can be yours.
aren't you lucky to live
in a generations like ours?

i always thought poetry
happened as life
chaffed you over
and over
until it rubbed holes in
the fiber of you
and almost without even knowing it
you leaked your soul in lines.
i thought experience was beautiful
but its only disenchanting.

i think a cynic is such an ugly thing
and i think myself the ugliest of all.
i'm always wanting
always falling into a trope of misery;
i thought i was better than that,
i thought i was wise.
i can't hide my sensitivity or shiny pinpricks of hurt
catching the light.
i thought poetry dripped like faucet water
like a garden hose.
i suppose i've learned that poetry
is like pulling your worst fears
from your stomach where they thrive in acid dark,
and pushing them out through your mouth.

it's word-poisoning.
it's the ugliest parts,
it's vestigial tenderness
and i'm bruised
yellow black blue
purple red.
i've been living in the
tortured safety of my own head
and poetry is my writing on the wall
scratched into the sides of my skull.
it doesn't matter what i say
because i'll probably
live there till i die
but at least i'll have this graffiti,
this watery poetry sloshing like
brine in a jar.
what an ugly cynic i've become.

I thought I tasted
something unique in your mouth.
It was clean and simple and
you smiled as our mouths
went in and out
like the tide.

I had a night that turned to day,
light touching the bedspread through the narrow window
and crawling up to where our heads lay.

And after months
of eclipse
you struck suddenly like a match
flickering into being.

I held you for a night,
but a match smolders
till it touches your fingers,
and mine are singed.

Those tiny green circles remind us that we're not alone
That we'er not the only ones staying in on a Saturday night
We sit in silent rebellion against their demands
We refuse to leave our homes
We refuse to fall in love
We refuse to have two perfect children like in the movies
We refuse to let the race continue
We refuse to be remembered
We refuse to forget
We refuse to let your street lights dim the beauty of the starlit night sky
We refuse to let Futurama die  
We refuse your lack of imagination
We refuse to accept without question

So there I saw-
and then I curled
into my fetal ball of envy

my happiness had coagulated
and chilled
like a refrozen popsicle
at the back of the freezer.

even if you melted
my
stale
cracked
enclosure
you would still smell
the jealous-
like
hangover
on my breath

I swear it even
exploits my muscles
my tendons grimace
like massive internal
pulley systems.

when my mind
frowns condescendingly
at my juvenile grievances,
the follies laugh their
disassembled modulations
and ignore my pleas

no-it takes more than that.
my every yellow Laureling
becomes a necessity
to coax, soften my
serpentine
charity
from whence I have locked it.

My relations are my downfall. I fell for an angel that fell from the constellations. Defamation through conversation, she chose over contemplation. She's dream chasing, while it's her I'm chasing, displacing my thoughts to her until the day she'll erase me. I long for her to embrace me, I feel so cold like a bullet shell casing, tasting the metal and copper. bracing myself for the devastation, she's so devastating. I'm impatiently patiently waiting. Wasting away day by day. I feel like I'm living with nothing more to say. Life is hard, you gonna learn today. What would happen if my life force walked away? I could have sinned or been saved. But I've already paved my way. I may or may not make it the next day. But until the day that I see you, I'll continue to play. Death is the greatest opponent, but a necessary component. I'm sick for the moment. My mind is decaying, all these pep talk aren't gonna delay the, inevitable truth that's at hand. At this rate, I'll never be a 25 year old man. I'm tired of waiting, I have no plan. I made you my future, that's stuck in quick sand.