pack up your clothes
remove your scent
this bed can be remade
this heart will be unbent

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

captain's log, #6

3/7/16, 9:17 a.m.

i woke up to the sound of rain and birds, it's almost spring and i'm nostalgic for something that i'm not sure has happened yet. 

captain's log, #7

3/11/16, 2:35 a.m.

at this point i don't even know why i still grieve over you. i've taken back what was once mine, to the best of my ability, but i think that you still have a tight grip on the parts of me that i'm not able to grow back. or maybe it's because i can't remember a time before i was either madly in love with you, or mourning the loss of your interest. me being "over it" means nothing when those words are still etched with traces of you. i can tell myself to get over it, that you have, that you're in the past, that none of this was ever real, but it was. it still is, somewhere. and in that somewhere, it grows. you will never be just, gone. 

captain's log, #8

3/11/16, 4:00 a.m.

let's go somewhere. somewhere far away, just for a while, where everyone else looks like ants. i wanna hold your hand there. i wanna go somewhere with you. 

captain's log, #9

3/16/16, 6:00 a.m.

it's only the beginning of a creation, but i already have that feeling in my gut, the one that can only accurately be described as nostalgia for the future. i feel things that don't make any sense, but here are some things i know; the weather's getting warmer, the days are getting longer, the flowers are tearing themselves open, and when i close my eyes i see your hand in mine. often times i'm not sure that i remember how to not be afraid, but i still find myself diving in head first. i can't stop thinking about two days ago when my therapist told me that it seems as though i like torturing myself. 

(EDIT ON 3/30/16: stop forcing yourself to like girls, stop falling in love with love.)

captain's log, #10

3/28/16, 7:04 p.m.

keep forgetting to write when i remember how to be happy. when she left, she didn't close the door, and he walked right in and turned on the lights that have been off for too long. his teeth are a little crooked, and he's only got one dimple, he hates these things but they make my chest flutter like it'll burst into a thousand flowers any second. i've waited months for this. i wish on every 11:11 that he won't be as fleeting.

it's been one year,
and the bruises you
left on my skin have
sunk to my heart.

-k.p

it's always the same thing every night
we meet.
we embrace.
our lips touch.
our tongues play.
until night is upon us
and we go our separate ways.

my body longs for more.
my lips call out yours
until my mind does its wonders
and makes doubt enter my core.

and the anxiety flows
from my trembling heart
thru every single artery, vein, and nerve
that makes my eyes water;
my back tense;
my body shiver;
and my mind lose sense.

it closes in on my arms
and slowly creeps its way
to yesterday's cuts on my wrists
and reaches its way to my fingers.
then forces itself to rhyme
on a crimson-splattered piece of paper.

on and on, I will continue to write
until I hear your most beautiful good night.
even if I feel I'm not your only one
the illusion kicks back in. a poem is done.

I'd like to walk and let the sky fall
Bountiful be the universes miracles
That crack open my skull
And paint the shattered white glass
Mercilessly the fragments of the past
The sacred secrets of the stars tremble and then echo
Until ringing to a roar at long last
I'd like to walk and let the sky fall
Then gifted with courage
to crack open my soul

I'm penning a poem and letting it
Shoot towards the night sky,
And hang on to those little celestial
hooks that adorn the universe,
to fit itself amongst the million other shiny ones,
that gracefully illuminate our world.

Sending a glittery part of your heart
so far away, I won't lie, is hard,
yet the Gift to create as I write,
comes with its own fair price,
So I rub my palms together and
open them to find,
Magic with a shimmer so dazzling,
it needs a place in the Divine.

And off it goes! Launching from my fingertips,
Propelled by a charm I utter from my lips,
To snuggle into the welcoming realm
Of the mighty Heavens, my poem smiles
down on the Earth, twinkling with rhyme,

It sends across love to the broken hearts,
Radiates warmth to the shivering soul,
Wraps a comforting arm around the loner,
Soothes the ones wrought in sorrow,

For whoever looks above with despair in the eyes,
Finds that there's hope glimmering there up high,
and the stars of the verses created by You and I,
unhook themselves dutifully from their perch and fly
Down to the reader and calm their sighs,
Which is why,
Which is why,
The poet gladly diminishes his own light,
So his words keep alive, the benevolent night sky.

The knowledge of growing and feeling the flowing
of the ins to the outside showing, what you are.
It's enough to drive you mad hoping to make glad the hopes of your mom and dad while being your own man with a plan who along with everyone is pretending he can.
True change is subtle and I'll pose a rebuttal to any of those quick fix ****** that think life is anything but a struggle.
I constantly tell myself to take the toys of life off the shelf and be not a man but a very mature boy who enjoys life for what it is.
Insignificant in the grand scheme but significant and supreme to each individual, it can be full if you feed on the right stuff and not this materialistic fluff but relationships and love.
The taste can't be replaced it's easy to get tossed and lost in the cost of brand names and hearsay claims; you hear the heresy names shouted at you for being different.
Take time to rewind and look back at the facts that make you true. Apply the sutures to the wounds so the futures got more room to grow and you know you will.
The past never returns and the future never arrives so your only choice is to be present and alive.
**** fear, you don't need it. Make a goal and succeed it.
Everyone is different and this life is on rent so make sure all your money is spent by the end my friend because only dead plants don't grow.