Life has gone too far.
For her it is rough.
She tied the rope.
She has had enough.

Her family gone.
Subject of alienation.
Life is a radio
done with this station.

She hangs the rope,
sets up the stool.
Misfortune is the entity
which made her a fool.

"It gets better!" they say,
but she remembered with dread.
Standing on the stool,
a tear was shed.

Maybe if he came back...
It's a frivolous hope.
Dismissing the thought,
her neck embraces the rope.

She saw the light,
as she kicked out the chair.
"You're safe now," said Death
"Life never learned to be fair."

Our Love is above
what is commonly said
you call me dishonest
for other men have fled.

You're amazing and cute,
and the truth I say,
You are a beautiful diamond
That the arrogant threw away.

Their choices will haunt
yet their lies aren't true.
Not a single soul
though men were few.

You've a broken heart
and the past won't last.
Remember my love,
I can be your cast.

I remember this awful book I read once
about a year ago.
I can't remember the title but it was one of those terrible tragedies
revolving around young love.
But of course, it's a tragedy so everybody dies unhappy
and without love.
The reason I am thinking of it is because it is snowing and the entire setting of the book is covered in snow.

I had a day dream about you earlier today, in class.

We walked down the streets of some nondescript town covered in snow.
We looked behind us every so often at the zigzagged tracks we left behind us, as if they were following us, not ready to part.
After a while of walking we wandered into a cafe and sat in the window seat.
On the window we drew flowers out of the condensation.
We laughed as we sipped our hot chocolate and from a bag you produced a very nice woolen scarf, which you gave to me, and from my coat pocket I produced a very nice woolen beanie, which I gave to you.

I hope this isn't brash
and I hope this isn't obtrusive,
it's just that I've been wanting to tell you for some time
how very pretty you are.
Every time I think I have worked up the courage to do so, I cannot.
I think my daydream is a spawn of my yearn to tell you what I think
and thus this was born.
Call it poetry, prose, or whatever you like
but the truth is that this is communication
in it's most simple
and most complicated form.

I remember now, the book was called Ethan Frome, and it wasn't all that bad.

She walks with confidence.
She's the most beautiful girl here
and she knows it.

But she is lonely.
She has nobody to touch
and she yearns for it.

She is a writer.
Her pen graces paper
and she owns it.

There are so many things to say about her.
Her confidence, her beauty, her talent, her voice,
and I welcome it.

A purple liquid drips
and with each drop the sound of discontent grows louder.
     Forming a puddle on the the carpet that grows and grows and grows
and soon I will drown in it, soon I will drown in her.
     Soon, her green eyes will be all I see and not just all I yearn to see.

The purple liquid
creates an audible thump as it splashes down on the carpet which is now covered with an inch and a half of the stuff.
     The thump makes it easier to sleep at night; it slows my heartbeat.
Her lips whisper to me as I sleep and I long for them to be upon my neck.
      My fingers grasp the sheet but in my mind they are running through her hair and down her back.

Now, my bedroom is filled with the purple liquid, only two feet of air separating the ceiling and the top of the purple swimming pool.
     As I sleep, she sleeps with me and as our fingers touch
she exhales a blast of the cool purple liquid.
     Without cease it fills my lungs and her whispers grow fainter
and her touch sweeter.

The thought comes almost everyday.
In English.
She sits beside me or near me or far.
And I begin to daze upon how it should be.

If only I had my dress.
If I had my dress you would see not my sarcasm,
But the lean meat that I am privileged to call my flesh.

If I had my dress you would not be intimidated by my skin
But left in awe by it's glow

If I had my dress you would not be able to fear my height
But embrace the perfect and soft curves as you look upon me.

If I had my dress you would no longer hear her shrill siren call over my deafening beauty.

Pretty speaks volumes,
But what does untouchable say?

Absolutely nothing right now.

This has happened before.
And it will happen again.

This stage.
My most and least favorite stage
where I sit and think of you all day.

It's exciting.
And ever so self-destructive.
It's where I'm the most vulnerable,
and the most motivated.

The thought of seeing you
propels me through the day.
But I'm left disappointed
when you won't look my way.

It's like a self-proclaimed waiting room
inside my fantasizing head.
It's where I wait to see if you'll fix me.
I've been diagnosed with loneliness.

Is this fair? No.
But I do this to myself.
At least I don't focus
on possessions or wealth.

It's the cycle that I spoke of.
In that other poem.
Where I daydream of a boy
yet I barely know him.

When things don't work out
I am destroyed and relieved
I will never have him
And the cycle repeats.



This has happened before.
And it will happen again.
Where I sit in the waiting room
inside my head.

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"

Broken conversations,
empty lungs,
doors half open,
hearts almost out of love.

We used to talk of how
we used to be infinite.
But now every second now feels
like a stroke against an unforgiving current.

Our conversations broke
as the flaws of our souls
fell through the cracks of this glass foundation.

These upset words that escaped you
left the air around me a little sad,
a little awake,
and with a lot of echoes.

My lungs went empty
talking you down.

I left the door open for you.
So you can walk in
and slip in quietly-
I won't say a word.

And this heart could never go empty,
not mine.
Yours,
at this point,
I know not.

Flowers never lost their color
as long as you walked this earth.

stay calm
breathe in
breathe out.

do the dishes after dinner
and breakfast
but eat out for lunch.

a polish hot dog
and two lines of coke
will fill your stomach.

I never thought I was doing all that great,
I just knew I wasn't as bad as I had been
and I didn't fall to my knees and thank god
every day that I could sleep without taking a knife to my skin
and that I could wake up without my mother shouting from the next room.

I took it for granted and now it's hard to fall asleep without
licking blood off cold steal
and it's hard to get out of bed without
incessant harsh words.

I took it for granted and now I am not being held and now
I am not being held
and now I am not being held
and it's hard to breathe without being held.

So I use
people
and substances
and routines
and aimless walks .

It's hard to get on my knees and thank god for the sun when I don't want to ever see it.