do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

Morning is a cold metal gun placed to my temple
Time is a trickle of blood I won't remember

There was this feeling
That the people once called love
They described it as
Untouchable
Unavoidable
Spiritual
Sensual


Life


A storm basked along the horizon
On one particular day
Supernova came
And she told the world to be still
And

know

And everything was quiet after that

There was the color red
As heat bled
From open sores in the sky
And mercy
Pulled a knife from it's spine

Those unscathed
Would often shake fists in the air
Heads turned upwards
And open voices to a stranger
For whom they blamed
Armageddon

Not a whisper responded
Nor did despair
Cease to charge

Love no longer had a place
Alas, hatred had eaten her heart
All that is left
Is but a husk
Of an echo
Of a memory
It is nothing





*Dust

Im tired of lighting cigarettes
when I really just want to light my insides on fire.
Im tired of kissing boring boys and girls.
Because love is too much for me to handle
Im tired of drinking 20 cups of black coffee
hoping the caffeine will stop my heart.
Im tired of taking white and blue pills, white lines, shots of ***** and **** rips to hold me over for a couple hours.
Im really tired of shaking between highs, head between my knees, breaking into a cold sweat.
Truth is, Im tired of living
Because life just isn't worth it anymore.

And here we are, a bunch of
  bad poets writing bad poetry
   liking each others thoughts while
    hating our own words, trying to
     keep ourselves open and free in
      a world full of cages and traps, pens
       full of ink, thoughts full of rage, a blank
        white surface being turned into a stage and
          we're yelling and screaming in vain as another
            bad poem dies on the page...

The white-noise sends him off to sleep,
a sedative pill to ensure a peaceful stay.
The nurses look on through the peep-hole
at night, and thud knuckles on the door
come morning. They are watching for signs
that he is still talking to the stars.
He claims multidimensional beings
can manifest as light,
and correct old constellations
into broadcasts for today.
As the students peer into his cell,
they scowl with concentration
and write furiously on clipboards.
'A high-functioning romantic'
he wrote in self-diagnosis,
and the pills helped with that
in the only way that they could.
He has learned to **** under observation,
a Gorilla in the leaves.
They fog the glass in fascination
at the sleeper in the cell.
Once they caught him *******.
He thought that he should put up a show.
That natural function too hard to swallow
or compress into a hand-book.
In the evening he watches
the sports-news revolve,
wishing his soda water
was something a little more severe.
By night the inner-city light pollution
near-destroys any hope of a message
The pill is slipped before
he has begun to lay his head.
He may be losing his sweet imagination,
but he happily chose sleep instead.