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

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.

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

What do you mean?

Well, maybe.

Are you home?

Say what?

No.

Turning sour.

I miss you.

Cute.

With who?

Sounds fun.

What did you do?

You're not talking to me.

What if I don't want to?

I don't expect that of you.

I guess we're playing the same game aren't we?

I love you too.

I wasn't trying to turn my back on you.

I was irritated.

Wasn't trying.

Let's try to be pleasant with each other.

Exsanguination.

I don't know the answer.

Who are you?

It was rhetorical.

I know that.

Doesn't help anything.

What are we doing?

Alright.

Good morning.

Just, what.
Not what am I doing,
For I know very well that I'm
Contracting and relaxing my diaphragm
And doing what I call
Breathing.

Not where am I going,
Because I know that I'm trying
To get through school to do well
In a high paying and enjoyable job,
To live happily with a man by my side.

Not how should I live,
As I'm not quite sure you can call this living
And when people tell me I'm doing it
All wrong,
I say it right back and just keep on
Keeping on.

Not why am I here,
Because I've asked a thousand times
But nobody seems all that willing to answer.  
Regardless whether there's someone there or not,
There's certainly no answers being spoken so
Either I'm doing it right or it
Just doesn't matter.

So, what else is there?
What else is there to ask,
Because I've come and gone,
And this is all I've seen.
What else isn't there
When this is all I've got?

You look for meaning where there is none
in the crook of my collarbone or curve of my spine
or ribs you love to trace with your fingers
as if you could tuck your delicacy between the spaces intertwined by
nerve and muscle
As I breathe
you think your touch is all powerful
a healer
You look for beauty where there is none
in the curve of a smile
that rarely dances across my lips
as  if you could catch a fleeting glance and frame it somewhere behind your eyes
all you see is gold
fool's gold
brutally unaware that every-time you kiss the place below my neck
its as though you cut my throat open listening for the sound of a song I wouldn't sing
looking for words I wouldn't say
and they pour out of me
like the sweat from your pores,
in your need
You forget to be disappointed, when all you hear
is the sound of my gurgling
choking
on all the things that threaten to rush back to the surface
Now your eyes have a tint of orange coloured bitterness to them
The promise of something sweet
that only sounds sour
Your voice holds a note of deception
your touch doesn't dance as delicately across my skin
I no longer make my tongue move to the rhythm of your lies
As if I could taste the words at the back of your throat
Worst of all
I think I like you better this way.

One day,
We'll buy a nice house in the south of France
And dance on the graves of those who doubt imagination.
But not today for we endure urban slums
And cold concrete villages.

Someday,
I'll be rich and you'll be sated.
Together we'll grow old and discuss memories
Of when we first dated.
But just how weighted is the thought?
For today, everyone's the one and I can't see some days,
That one day we'll be together.

Today,
I can't breathe when the bonds of rules and fools
Push down upon the clouds of my dreams,
And I freeze.
No logs for the fire,
My motivation makes a proper icy prison.

One day, some other day.
In a life that doesn't exist today.
I'll be at peace.
Not today, for I brave no days,
And dream of that one day,
When I walk towards another day.
Another time and place. Where I,
Lay in peace.