I open the door-
three in the afternoon
my short hair windblown
and rain soaked
by the seven minute walk home
i've taken to taking
to avoid
the one who used to love me

i opened the door-
he was sitting there
too still to be in that purple chair
four feet from the door
that he only sits in
when the veins in his forehead
are popping out
themselves turning purple.
but, he was smiling;
that melancholy smile that makes me wonder,
even though i quit giving a ****
about him
when i was seven,
living with him in a bus
in a field, someplace.
with a sun lamp
and a *** plant
in the storage compartment

and she's lying there,
dressed, but barely awake
with that thin blue and white blanket
that she's had since he was young
draped over her
on that floral loveseat she's always had
a smile on her face
but tears in her eyes

he swivels the chair
to give me room to pass
but i ease instead
around the separating wall
through the kitchen
and down the hall.
a smile on my face
as i look back and he stands
that old chair complaining
as much as his back

he looks back at me
and i realize
why that look in his eyes
brought the same smile he wears
to my lips;
because he's realized
that i've won here,
that in six months
i'm gone
moving on
disconnecting myself
and becoming my own **** person

he's realized that he doesn't know me
never has

he's seen the way i shake
everytime he's less than twenty feet from me
heard
the waver in my voice

he's noticed the way
that even on good days
i open the door to the garage
five times at the most.

noticed the worry lines on my forehead
the gray hairs on my chin and head
my bitten fingernails
or the spot where I scratched
half of my mustache
right off my face

or, at least
i *** he has
hope he's realized that
there's no hope
for me and him

but
he hasn't
and that conversation
was just something else,
didn't even involve me

i can hope all i want
but until i take it all away
he's never gonna realize
that it isn't
Him
winning here

never has been



©Brandon Webb
2012

Daisy
There was a flower named Daisy,
I think she is a little bit crazy,
Spits pollen everywhere,
Shows her underwear,
And all the time she is lazy.

Camping**
Camping is on a deserted tropical island. Camping is singing on the moon.
Camping is the wildlife around me. Camping is dancing on the sun.
Camping is on top of an icy mountain. Camping is in the middle of nowhere.
Camping is flying through the jungle. Camping is getting lost in an adventure.
Camping is a tent shivering in the cold.

Cats
Cats are black and sly. They creep down the halls without a sound.
Everything it looks at is still. Their eyes glimmer in the dark.
They prance on their prey and in seconds they are gone.
They taste like a big glomp of hair with a hint of catnip.
They fell like a sharp claws climbing in your skin.
They smell like danger. When a cat feels sad it cuddles up with me.

My personal favorite..
There once was a girl who said
"These limericks are hurting my head,"
"Your teacher says you need only to write two,
Then you can go up to bed."

I can see tears in her eyes
as she looks down at her desk.
She's always smiling,
this is different-
a raw side of a random girl I barely know.
I write on a sticky note
"you ok? you seem sad,
what's wrong?"
I peel it off the pad
almost put it sideways on my textbook,
but instead, put it on my notebook
facing me.
she leaves for a second
i put it on my textbook
facing her.
she comes back-
i take it off,
put it back on my notebook
facing me.
a little later,
i pick it up
to put it back,
but instead
curl it up,
put it in my pocket



©Brandon Webb
2012

we circle the mall endlessly
meeting any female eye
hoping she looks back
we're desperate,
we're trying.
but everytime
someone meets our eyes
we look down
unsure of what the hell to say;
so we walk away.
back to the same stores,
same areas
we've already been.
and then,
we stop for a second
somewhere around JC Penny
and ask each other
"what the hell would we say anyway?"
and both our answers are
"i wouldn't be able to talk".
but we keep walking,
keep gesturing everytime we see a girl
but never walk up to her,
never say anything.
for two hours we do this,
reminding us both of how shy we are,
but we still have a good day.
I just hope next time i'll say something,
because i want to hold a passing face,
not a girl i already know.
there's no chance of ruining a friendship
with someone you barely know.
i need love without taking a chance
but i'm too shy to take the chance
of talking to an unknown girl
and hoping for love
just to avoid loving
a girl i can't take the chance of losing.
i need someone,
i just can't jump




©Brandon Webb
2012

it's always at night
that the epiphany comes,
that the constant downpour of thoughts
forms a constant shape.
how can i tell you that lately,
that shape has been your name?

my late night dream shaping sessions
have to stop-
epiphanies leave a footprint,
and i don't want this one to be filled by tears,
like all the rest.

I'll put the rain to better use
than thinking there's a spot next to you
for me

time to roll over,
fall asleep without dreaming

i think like this too often
for me to believe i've succeeded tonight

i'll wake up tomorrow still thinking of you
and thank myself for you not being her,
but i'll still be stuck-
dreams are hard to break,
false realities are worse
(wish i thought this could work)



©Brandon Webb
2012

she had mornings
(still does)
where she'd not talk to anybody
so i'd get on tumblr and check,
finding the familiar phrase
she used on these days
"i'm such a *****"

and between classes
i would find her and wrap her in my arms
and tell her she wasn't
she never believed me,
always disagreed with me

so isn't it ironic
that those words-
"you aren't a *****"
are the ones i hold on to now
everytime i start thinking she is
i tell myself i was right,
that she's only had a hard life
and thinks differently than me

but then she cuts me off walking in the hall,
she gives me emotionless stares on the bus
(where i sit 8 seats farther from her than ever before)
and i almost call her a *****
but i hold off, knowing i was right

i walk an extra three blocks
to and from the convenience store
to avoid her house.
i spend lunch in the library
to avoid hearing her voice.
i walk home from the elementary school
to avoid her presence.
and i don't go swimming
with my brothers boyscout troop
to avoid the memory
of the first time she said she loved me.
but when i'm about to call her a *****
because avoiding her
only makes me remember what she did to me-
i stop
because i know i was right

those words were probably the reason
she left for the last time
the reason she says nothing to me now
becasue she always believed she was right.
i only hope i'm right,
but i try so hard to convince myself
because i don't want to, someday
get so ******* that i scream at her
that she's a *****.
because that will break her
and she'll think she's right
that all her insecurities and anxieties
are true
are righteous,
and she'll be hurt forever
thinking that she's horrible.
she isn't

she isn't a *****
just misunderstood by herself.

when i look at her,
i feel no anger
and i supress the sadness
which may create anger.
anger only fuels my thinking that word
and i can't bring myself to hurt her

no matter how much she hurt me.

not a *****...
not
a
*****




©Brandon Webb
2012

Insincere December sun promised warmth
never given, the look of warmth cruel beauty,
the icy stare of soft hazel eyes, the cold touch
of clean hands. Light holding long nails of ice
dripped promised release too little to drink more
to move me out from under eaves by pokes and stings.
There I caught you in my arms a brief until when.
Your hand slid to my stretched finger tips and waved.
I looked you to your car off the lot up the street
you contacting even then the busy phone not meeting
eyes seeing me in bright light with no warmth.
Hands shoved in coat pockets denim hugged cold enough
to leave I stayed past your depart and why?
Something as if said the logic of December
is the folly of Spring. The art of glass imprisons
ghosts haunts possessed what is and is not real
desired both. The art of ice, the realization of thirst
cool captured drinks raised past reach.
Even then I knew, and sought you nonetheless.

I write this for you.

For every single one of you.

For everything that has a heart

For everything that has the ability to see.

For anything that can feel the wind.

For anything that can notice life.

For everything that feels the suns warmth,

and the winter cold.

You are more and less than you first have believed.

Know this to be true and keep it close to you.

You are not a king and you are not a beggar.

You are everything and every living thing you see is

the same as you.

Treat them as such.