everyday, I rise up from my bed so I can sleep
a little longer, and it grows a little taller,
and everyday I rise up so I can sleep
walk a little longer, a little stronger
everyday I break waves to
sleep a little stronger,
and everyday I wish to rise up
to sleep as I grow tired, and taller,
everyday I walk like waves of
sleep and footfalls
and everyday I sleep to rise up
and fall. like feet into bed
everyday, I rise up to sleep
from sleeping in and out of sleeping beds
and everyday I dream of walking,
sleeping into flying beds,
everyday, I sleep from waves
of footfalls rising up to slumber,
and everyday longer and stronger,
falling from up and into sleeping walks of slumber

it's just that ******* tap tap tapping
but away it goes
up and down, up and down the rows
of violets and tulips.
and she had two lips and violence
violent love and hate
crimes against humanity,
if there was ever any left
up and down, up and down the rows
of streets and cars
the lines and scars etched in his skin
but there's nothing like
a bottle of gin
numb around the edges, the seams
because everything is ever as it seems
and they just let it keep running
up and down, up and down the strands
leaving marks like brands to sell
the weave, the inches, the criss-crossed and sashayed
and she has one because it never looked to be
as long as she would like it as long as they would ask for,
and the years go on
so the tears flow on
growing longer, and taller
up and down, up and down the walls
of granite and moss
just one quick toss over the edge
because maybe humpty dumpty had it right.
nobody can piece that one together
like it's some big puzzle just twigs and grass,
make up the *** that he wanted to be
getting nothing that he wanted because he never asked
called or scrawled, just pushing, screaming
up and down, up and down the floor
of hardwood and paces
like jacks and aces handed out to those
who had them, no reward or achievement
it's own gift of life, and sometimes it's longer than you wanted
while crawling hands and knees to pick up
your ****** fingertips along the edges of cards,
because it's going to be okay.
because it will always be.

I want to write a poem.
No, like I really really really wanna write a poem.
Problem, stick it to me.
Pause
Poems have to be good.
Okay, so a poem doesn't have to be good
However, the point of the art is to have someone read
Those flippy little words that you pulled out
Of some intangible existence and pasted on
The Internet.

The Internet,
So you don't always put it online but,
Other people are "supposed" to read it.
To enjoy it, give you a pat on the back,
Maybe an "I see what you did there".
So poems are supposed to be presentable.
You've got to pay in sweat and ink but,
At least the words themselves are free.

What if I don't wanna have to make a "good" poem?
Okay so I really do want a pat on the back but
Sometimes I really like pasting things from
Intangible existences.
Fancy words right? Let me pat my own back.
Sometimes I just like putting my emotions on paper
While sounding like I read
More dictionaries than Webster.
Ha, ha, sigh.

There's a problem with having to be inspired to write **** down.
Do you think someone pays Taylor Swift's boyfriends
To break up with her
So she can write the
Next big hit?
I wouldn't doubt it.
My guardian angel should make the people around me
Say weird stuff such that I can write about
Walking on waves of shattered glass
Or
Singing of birds in circled flight.
Maybe I'd be better off being hit by a car.
That'd be some pretty touching poetry.

Some people write happy poetry too,
I don't know how they do it.
Sorry but, my world isn't flowers and  butterflies
Enough to warrant discussion of
Staying in the fairy meadow of light.
Sorry, I'm just jealous.

Maybe I just like writing stuff down?
What if I just don't want to be forgotten?
Leaving a legacy in my words more indellible
Than a pat on the back.
Doubt it.

I just don't want to forget.
Brain, why don't you get it?
I'm sitting here getting all intimate with an idea and
The next morning Brain's got no clue what their name is.
Like really, even if we invite a friend over and get creative with
Our tongues and mouths,
Brain doesn't remember the moments shared between us.
Paper doesn't think very well but it's got a decent memory bank.
So I save up for a brand new poem.
I thought words were free.

I see through waves of
Shattered glass these days.
Through tunnels I hear you like
Sonic booms and the bang on the
Bathroom door the morning after.

With a gentle knock it splinters in my eyes
And I can't see you anymore.
Left with the shadows in the corners of my mind,
Guessing the silhouettes and finding words unsaid.

Fighting hard to find you,
Hands tracing walls in dark corridors,
Try to find the light switch,
But I always end up just pushing your buttons.

Who are they that they get moments with you,
And I get weeks apart.
What prior commitment do you have with them?
And what about our commitment,
Don't respond, I know the answer.

A fortress of silence combats all conflict

I know you don't want to be with me.
Or rather, I know you want to be without me.
Maybe you want to be with me like one wants to be with a chair,
But if you want me gone then leave.
Don't leave me waiting for you.
I'm sorry, as you say
I'm not meeting you halfway
But I'm just doing everything I've ever been taught.
Everything I've ever learned from you.

Just hide it away,
Because maybe tomorrow it'll be gone

And I keep hoping, waiting.
Thinking that next year
You'll be right here,
And I won't be so angry that every moment is wasted
That every moment is precious.
Because moments will be plural,
And so what if it falls apart then
Because maybe we can't stand each other.
But right now I'm investing.
Surviving while all my love is banked,
Locked in a vault a few chairs away,
That won't even look at me
To see what I've learned.

Distance makes the heart grow weak