my eyes beg to be shut but my mind
has stapled them open. Poison oak
from two months ago now, burns
as my nails rip into it, soothe it.
The fan rumbles ever on, my feet down
from the mountain, my bruises
remarking subtly of my struggle.
I'd **** for a sleep spell, but I'm just
a ***** muggle. Huddled up with pillows as my cuddle buddy. For ****'s
sake, let me sleep, let me sleep, let me
sleep.........love me?

I used to give you cigarettes as if they were flowers
I used to tell you that loving you was like plucking a flower
And you wanted to plant yourself as one in me  
Not knowing that you were doing it as if
you were putting out a cigarette on my chest
Because, to tell the truth,
Loving you was like lighting up and not smoking .

I still pine for us.

at their best, there is gentleness in Humanity.
some understanding and, at times, acts of
courage
but all in all it is a mass, a glob that doesn't
have too much.
it is like a large animal deep in sleep and
almost nothing can awaken it.
when activated it's best at brutality,
selfishness, unjust judgments, ******.
what can we do with it, this Humanity?
nothing.
avoid the thing as much as possible.
treat it as you would anything poisonous, vicious
and mindless.
but be careful. it has enacted laws to protect
itself from you.
it can **** you without cause.
and to escape it you must be subtle.
few escape.
it's up to you to figure a plan.
I have met nobody who has escaped.
I have met some of the great and
famous but they have not escaped
for they are only great and famous within
Humanity.
I have not escaped
but I have not failed in trying again and
again.
before my death I hope to obtain my
life.
from blank gun silencer - 1994

my mind is filled with shadows and weakness and
he is sleeping in his bed 6 miles away.

walking distance; running distance.

every pore of my scarred skin is filled with missing him and alcohol.
every dent in my flesh was raised by werewolves;
they only turned red at night.
my eyes only flow oceans at the hours I feel emotionless.

my mother puts crayons and coloring books in the backpacks of her children.
says that when they are angry, they should write down what they feel in the color that fits best.
now when I go to school it is all Ticonderoga #2

happy  gray
sad  gray
angry  gray
scared  gray

I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.

I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.

We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.

I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.

I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.

every spec of salt in the sea
is equivalent to every spec of you in me
I hallucinate from the amount of you in my bloodstream

every spec in the night sky
is every memory I have of you and I
and the amount of visuals will forever distort my eyes
I'll see good in people
when I should see evil
and the movement of my heart
will be controlled by their fingers

....but I am not afraid, love is a two way street
there is more of me in you, than there is of you in me
you are just a random leaf on a tree in a forest of many
a lonely molecule in the air that I breathe
even a bird with a broken wing can still sing
a song as sweet as a bushel of strawberries
I wrap up my arm and put my heart in a sling
then remind myself of what means most to me
my ability to speak love fluently