Even though I've been writing for years
(not that it's any better than when I started)
the title still holds true.

Words don't spill out,
thoughts don't process
like they used to.

Pieces need second checks for meaning,
thirds for grammar,
and a fourth for meaning.

Maybe it's the absence of physical affection;
certain chemicals aren't being triggered to release in my brain
but I decided if I couldn't keep my unspoken promises,
if I can't touch with a deep understanding of love
I will not touch at all.

It was shocking,
the impact one night could have
and so I have not had a second try
(or a six or seventh if we're counting).

I let the words of Thom Yorke
and Ezra Koenig say all that I cannot.

"Slowly we unfurl as lotus flowers
'Cause all I want is the moon upon a stick
Just to see what if, just to see what is
I can't kick your habit
Just to feed your fast ballooning head
Listen to your heart"

Even though I knocked them over
I walked in to find empty beer cans
stacked to form a tower on the table.

The air smelt of cigarettes and secret connotations.

A small house filled with many beautiful people
and many different kinds of alcohol
on a cold Saturday night.

**** and bad intentions littered the floor.

I can't help but shake the feeling
that something went wrong and that
she isn't smiling the way she used to.

You pushed me down and I couldn't help the words of gratitude spilling from my lips as you picked me back up.

how can i still love someone
who treated me like chewing
gum- wadded me up in his
mouth and blew the world's
biggest bubble, sent himself
up into space with my offset
reciprocation, soared past
the stars he was so obsessed
with, used saturn's rings to
burst all that i was. and when
he fell back into earth's orbit
he was safe, but i was scattered
somewhere around neptune.
i cannot find my way back.

A beautiful face in a crowd,
with the somewhat in my direction looks.

The most beautiful face in a crowd,
with definite glances in my direction,
and just as many returned.

Hemingway wasn't cutting it
soI cut three lines
and blew them in rapid succession.

I put on Vampire Weekend and jacked off
to a picture of you until my **** hurt.
It's night like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me wonder why I started using.
Not even high enough
to sleep,
I stumble around my room
as my ****** nose leaves stains on my carpet.

I try to keep my room clean
and I try to stay clean
and I try to use clean words
but it's nights like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me a ******* loser.

It's night like these
and it's words like yours'
and it's **** like Tommy's
and it's music like Ezra's
and it's loneliness like mine
when I want to not wake up in the morning.
If I ever fall asleep.

I want to rip apart my flesh,
burn myself until no pieces are left.

I want to pull all my hair at
and shove it down my throat
so I can finally get some sleep.

I want to die
and I want to sleep forever
and I want to not hurt
or be hurt
or hurt
or be hurt.

I want to bury my face in the ground
so I can never say evil things again.
I want to **** everybody around me
so I will never feel jealous again.

I want to drown the ******* stars
so no one will ever look at them again.

Tis the evening,light has faded,
Night creeps over the land,
The lights of the street, my world have invaded,
In need of the beauty of dreamland.
Need to find my lover,
The one that I call my lovely, lovely  sleep,
My lover  lives under my cover,
Carries me off so deep,
As into solo sleep I drift,
The place I rest my weary head,
Between me , myself and I, never a rift,
Best place in the world my bed,
The morning will soon find me, wake me with a morning kiss,
My last day off, Sunday, the one I can't miss.
(c) LIVVI

629

I watched the Moon around the House
Until upon a Pane—
She stopped—a Traveller’s privilege—for Rest—
And there upon

I gazed—as at a stranger—
The Lady in the Town
Doth think no incivility
To lift her Glass—upon—

But never Stranger justified
The Curiosity
Like Mine—for not a Foot—nor Hand—
Nor Formula—had she—

But like a Head—a Guillotine
Slid carelessly away—
Did independent, Amber—
Sustain her in the sky—

Or like a Stemless Flower—
Upheld in rolling Air
By finer Gravitations—
Than bind Philosopher—

No Hunger—had she—nor an Inn—
Her Toilette—to suffice—
Nor Avocation—nor Concern
For little Mysteries

As harass us—like Life—and Death—
And Afterwards—or Nay—
But seemed engrossed to Absolute—
With shining—and the Sky—

The privilege to scrutinize
Was scarce upon my Eyes
When, with a Silver practise—
She vaulted out of Gaze—

And next—I met her on a Cloud—
Myself too far below
To follow her superior Road—
Or its advantage—Blue—

My hands,
Flightless birds with parchment skin,
marked with scars, glowing white.
They turn blue when the weather is cold.
The old wives say to look for men
with hard-working scars on their palms.
But what of a woman with marked hands?