Monsters are real, ghost are real too.
      They live inside us,
                And sometimes
They win.

Sometimes I get so tired of feeling like a series of chemical reactions
Like once these electric pulses flow from my brain stem
through my wires of vessels and veins to the tips of my fingers
I am a puppet to the robotics of biology
Strung by my nerves and pulled by my emotions,
I cannot control these tears
Stupidity is merely short circuiting,
and maybe I just need to recharge
I think this taste in my mouth is acid;
my teeth are batteries leaking this energy
Onto my tongue and my lips
These are the loudest parts of this machine,
But each word, each kiss is not nearly as loud
As the programming in my mind
Maybe that's why I'm just a bunch of ****** gears and twisted cables
Because all this code of love and lust
Is a combination waiting to combust
And I feel unable to contain it

I am sick of writing sad poems.
I want to write a happy poem.
My only problem is,
I don’t know how to.

I mean,
if I were funny it would be one thing,
but my humor consists of bad puns knock knock jokes.
Knock knocking on the inside of my brain wanting to push a smile onto your faces but the only look I get back is confusion because I can never seem to get my tongue to work in times of...
In times when a belly laugh would come from their abdomen and satisfy my hunger for becoming a comical genius.

Heres a joke for you.

Knock Knock.

“Who’s there?”

Orange

“Orange who?”

Knock knock.

“Who’s there?”

Orange

“Orange who?”



Orange you glad I didn’t finish my joke?
I keep my tongue dormant so the punchline doesn’t come out wrong,
to save myself from the embarrassment of being an idiot.
I’ll laugh it off,
but n my head I hear myself say.
“Max, what the hell was that?”
Listen, brain, I know I’m not funny,

I get my humor from either my dad or the internet,
and even then,
Tuna fish and pianos,
Oranges, apples, any kind of fruit really,
couldn’t even save me.

Three men walk into a bar.
I don’t know how they didn’t see it but that isn’t my problem,
my problem is that I am not funny, or a cool pal to hang out with.
In all honesty,
I’m pretty much a stick in the mud that wears hoodie sweatshirts every day.

So the next time I come knock knocking,
I advise you to shut the door.

Lights all around.
Swirls of color
Under the sun.
An iridescent luxury
For joyous parade.
Ripples of emotions
Translating into
A chromatic tale.
Pass me some sunshine.
Under the rainbow,
This life is wonderful

My senses reeling
I do not know What to do
Still in love with you

Once you told me “I’m going to write you a poem”
I took your jawline in my fingers and held your eyes in mine and said
“Don’t ever”

only it came out a little strangled and raspy
like the voice cracking on a freckle faced pubescent boy

You didn’t heed my warning
and a week and a half later I got three pages of
star signs and
rose petals and
wishing wells and
my eyes compared to 24 other things

And three months later you started to look like
a wilting ivy
a dehydrated leaf
a floating corpse

and I still blame it on poetry
and the way it eats at your soul
and rips its way through the lines in your palms

it nails words into the gaps in your spine
and wraps itself so tightly inside you it contracts your muscles
until it controls you

until the letters desperately written are more like *****
just something forced out of you to let go of a little sickness

I could say
“I told you so”
if I was still 9 years old
and didn’t know how it felt to let a pen and 26 letters control you

I could say I told you so

but instead I am just buying my third cup of black coffee
and trying to find another pen