A cigarette to calm the mind,

a bowl to ease the fight between spirit and society,

a lover’s touch to hold my pieces together.

For these,

I am an addict. 

I am cravings and desires.

I want,

I need,

I yearn.

There are some things man cannot find the words to describe.
When he tries to make sense of this feeling of perpetual solidarity he realizes he cannot convey it properly. He then becomes more lonely, disconnected from the souls of others.
Holding tight to the notion that one day this will suddenly change and he will have found purpose in life.
Maybe time will stop where love begins.
Maybe finding another soul akin to his will halt impending death and he will begin to live his life.
Because, if he feels this aloneness and finds no meaning in it, he thinks he cannot truly be living.
The act of living implies loneliness. When he is alone without distractions he must feel the reality of his emotions, and without them could we call his life a life at all?
The one of an already dead man, there must be a reason he continues on.
Maybe time will stop where love begins.

i know i drunkenly kissed you on the porch
at 3 in the morning, i let you put your hands on me like
i knew what i was getting myself into.
what i meant to do was ask you about your family
and what the word love means to you, instead of
connecting with people i choose to ****** them
because they can’t hurt me when i refuse to feel
anything but a nameless body pressed to mine.
these things do not make me happy.
alone now, 3 in the morning, craving my whiskey so i can forget that there’s no one to hug me,
the most comfort i’ve felt in too long was at the bottom of the bottle,
and that’s left me with nothing but a migraine.

One arm wrapped delicately around her waist,
you can feel her wasting away even though
she says she ate not two hours ago,
she only consumed one more part of herself,
so recklessly trying to vanish
from this world she does not understand.
Drink after endless drink calms the monster
scratching at her bones looking for an escape
because he is eating her alive,
tearing every docile limb from its foundation
trying to make her feel something
hoping hope and passion can break
the haze of whiskey on an empty stomach.
-
When somebody is dedicated to a lifelong
suicide you cannot save them, only love them
through each poor decision ; one arm around her waist
trying so hard to protect her from this world,
the evil upon us.

One arm wrapped delicately around her waist,
you can feel her wasting away even though
she says she ate not two hours ago,
she only consumed one more part of herself,
so recklessly trying to vanish
from this world she does not understand.
Drink after endless drink calms the monster
scratching at her bones looking for an escape
because he is eating her alive,
tearing every docile limb from its foundation
trying to make her feel something
hoping hope and passion can break
the haze of whiskey on an empty stomach.

When somebody is dedicated to a lifelong
suicide you cannot save them, only love them
through each poor decision ; one arm around her waist
trying so hard to protect her from this world,
the evil upon us.

Blizzards hidden under sunshine images,

tales of love, a cloud of smoke

in the afternoon sun, lovers hiding from something

they can’t see. Beautiful life, whiskey in the parlor

and cigarettes in the living room

waiting for a heat wave, addiction growing,

trying to battle the frost

because I’ve decided I don’t

want to die here, I’m sure you feel the same-

Mountains’ majesty

a cave of amethyst brews

confidence in its own perfection

near the peak peeking into the

crayon colored clouds.


Desire for a moment free from earth

where right above our heads

the world is colorfully candid

through a foggy wine-stained film.


Glossy sun through glossy eyes

entices the mind enough

to lift legs one thousand and two

steps up the mountain

coiling through indigo trees

on turquoise trails until

we pass the purple threshold

where it’s best to pass the time.


Pomegranate lips smile

stretching pomegranate skin

yours tastes like otter pops and ***,

mine I imagine is similar

with a hint of bad decisions.


This reality is unrealistically appetizing

contorting trails contort minds

peaking at the sunset so close

I swear we’re almost there.