1) For every great skyscraper, there are petty fingers that built them.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
They were strong enough to raise a hammer, but not enough to raise a family.
I wonder if we were made the same way.
She is cold, and he is drinking, and this is our backbone.
She is alone and he is driving home too fast because sometimes you don't have to be in the wrong place to be looking for the wrong thing.
She is afraid and he is warm, this is the beginning spark of a forrest fire filled with broken glass shattering in broken homes with broken people inside on a broken piece of land in a city that has too much rain for someone to build an emergency room in. Everyone with a burden holds their confessions in their left palm and their beggings in their right and no one ends up having enough arms to hold each other.
2) One day the whole world will be in your hands too, and you'll see that sometimes darkness can blind you worse than the red glare the sun paints your vision when you stare at it with your eyes closed.
You will be brave, you will stand up straight, you will stop being royal when people stop painting Jesus with a purple robe.
Even the concrete asks the sun to make it a garden so try cracking your knuckles a little louder and maybe you will wake up as a mountain.
3) Autumn. When you wrote secrets on notebook paper and taped them underneath benches in the city park, you gave too many pieces of yourself to things that weren't made for holding that much weight.
But you said it kept you honest and there were never any reasons for me to ask you to stop giving away the parts of you I wanted to myself. It kept me humble.
4) I am alone
5) You are October in a green dress with a black mask around your eyes and you have stolen the breathe of that day. And I hope when you are 80 years old you feel a breeze sliding on the back of your neck reminding yourself of all the times it should have snapped in half during the moments of what should have been your hanging, how it takes you back to living life like you're always in the desert and stealing innocent people's money and smoking cigarettes beside rattlesnakes.
I hope you find a beach in the Caribbean that asks to be died on, I hope you learn to forgive people harder than you can cry on their shoulder. I hope you watch a sunrise that you spend the rest of your life thinking about. I feel like for that to happen you need your feet in the ocean or underneath a rocking chair, but I would settle for your bedroom.
6) But with you it was never settling.

Shower me with your smiles, muse of my heart,
Armored with loyalty perhaps, and still
Your stare does make my lust suggest a part
In a two-piece game. Prohibited thrills,
Your voice plucks and plays with no strings attached
-Can't you see there must be nothing between-
You pay no mind with newly freed sighs hatched
From an innocent enough looking screen,
Hiding dark. Be content, muse of my eye,
Knowing not one dream has ever come true
There's no danger in my thoughts. But I lie:
I will pillage any chance to win you.
     Taken, why did you have to take me too,
     I wish no harm, except I might love you.




Take me, little death, in your sweet embrace,
Tell Hypnos it’s his time to carry me
From the lit plains of sunflower faces
And lay me to rest under moon lilies.
Shower me with your kiss – I’ll drink it all
And parched will start dreaming. Let us be shy,
Your blush will meet mine, caress, we will fall
As others have in life’s greatest lie –
But we, we will lie otherwise, ourselves
As one, in two, evermore intimate.
Under the lightless pillows we must delve,
Hide me, little death, for the sun is late.
     I will sleep, and dream with you, always true,
     Always true, and till the morrow, love you.

Victory is  but
Bittersweet, in the sense that
This high will come down.

The wind howls
outside my bedroom window
shaking me
my heart; my soul

it screams
while you sit there
drinking sweet-smelling coffee
a baby boy in Africa
cries of hunger
and aching ribs.

while you are curled up
under warm and soft blankets
an old and lonely man
wanders the darkest streets
looking for warmth;
a home

while you hide there
surrounded by light and family
with an aura of ungratefulness
you are lost in the rays of your technologies
with a frown on your angelic face
when a weeping woman
shakes and prays
for her gone children to reach Heaven happily
but you dare forget God to a screen?

my house shakes
from Wind's agonizing words
and a streak of cold
trickles into my haven
along with the words
"what am I doing?"

somehow
my stiff legs reach
a window
and the arms in front of me
pull it open
to reveal no sound at all

where is the wind?
did he leave just as
he touched
my heart; my soul
making me waver?
or does a gust not howl ,
speak,
and isn't heard?

no
the wind was here
for how else did the once-twinkling snowflakes
suddenly freeze
and lose all of their beauty?

no one but Wind
would take the innocence
of such young and beautiful white specks
just as they landed
in this cold,
dark world

no one but Wind
would flare you with reality
enough to make you cry with obliviousness
for this wind; my Wind
he is the voice off all those
who have faced
life's stinging brutality;
him
instead of
hiding under covers
and whispering morbid lies
that
everything is okay

I can't draw worth ****
even my stick figures suffer
my paintings look like
pathetic Jackson ******* wanna-be's
spilled milk is more ascetically pleasing
than my attempts at water color
but there is one art I have mastered
(I'm not really okay)
-

I promised my mother that I would never smoke cigarettes but here I am with you. It seems to be that I am addicted and you are the nicotine, how cliché. I remember in middle school when someone showed me how battery acid melts styrofoam instantly, and that was just one of the many deadly chemicals in those little white sticks. I imagine your touch to be something like that, my skin melting to the bone as you pour yourself over me. It's funny, because I watched my mother smoke for years, when she were upset or anxious she would smoke more to feed her addiction and calm down; I think I may have found my newest addiction. There is something so flammable about you and I will light you over and over again and inhale you because I need a rush. Soon it will turn into a dependency but I don't mind. "I can quit anytime." know I promised I would never touch those cancer sticks but if that was the only form I could find you in, I would smoke a pack a day for the rest of my life.

9/18/09

The Boy With the Birthmark on His Right Lower Calf

1/7/10 8:36 pm
The first boy that left me was my first love, he was the first boy who ever called me beautiful and he made me feel that way for about 3 and a half months until the distance became to much to bare, but we kept in touch for about 5 years so I guess you can say it never really ended because the pull of our hearts still happen to burn for each other every now and again, he is one for the books because he's never walked away from me he's stood by me through countless arguments, but I think we will always be connected. He taught me what it's like to fall in love unfortunately he didn't teach me how to stop falling face first onto cold hard gravel because now that he has someone new, I'm completely off the rails. I hope he comes back and saves me soon. He is the only boy I can't ever seem to get enough of, he is like a drug, the minute he touches me my veins fill with a substance of desire and my heart speeds up to about ten beats a minute and all this proceeds to happen within mire seconds of reconnecting I can't even begin to describe how it's been these past 5 years still being able to get that same rush around that boy--and only that boy. He is a drug I would gladly overdose on.

6/20/13

The Boy With the Cold Heart & the Four Glass Eyes

9/3/13 10:45 pm
The second boy that left me was no where near as beautiful as the first but he was one for deep talks and insecure walks. He told me what he hated about himself and how self-conscious he really was, that before he became "Mr. Player" he was a loser who always felt alone. His body was not beautiful he was destruction at its finest, his skin stretched and felt like scratching cold silver, in all respects he was quite a disgusting filth though at the time I found him to be made out of gold but I was dead wrong for he was the worse kind of killer-- a true sociopath if you ask me but I mean what do I know I'm a ****** right? Although the only thing he wanted was to toy with me and trick me into trusting the devil, granted I should have never gotten involved with him in the first place, because he truly tore me to shreds and he was still a baby so maybe that's why things ended badly between us, because even though I was naive then, he's still quite immature, I wish I could say he's changed but he hasn't.

12/6/13

The Boy Who Made Me Feel Alive Again

12/27/13 1:08 pm
The third boy that left me, well unlike the second boy he didn't do damage he actually did magic by gently outlining the curvature of my spine and liking the thoughts inside my head before we ever even came face to face, he knew me through words and kissed me like he held a secret between his lips. He didn't like books but he liked my thoughts on paper and he listened quite intently, so I guess that was enough. I noted little details when we walked home in the dark, like the fact that he lit up whenever I spoke and he always looked me dead in the eye, however neither of us had been murdered. Or the way he sounded when he told me about his life, or even the fact that he'd risk injury from oncoming traffic because of his fearless physique, maybe he was just trying to impress me but these are a few things that were beautiful  about this boy. But yet again, happiness in the form of Father Time only stands at my doorstep for a month or so because on the 27th on the coldest month of the year he walked out without even a proper goodbye.

*(vm)

the worst feeling is when you can't feel a thing. you desperately search for names that they call for the emptiness in your being, but you can't find any. then somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice reminds you that your lungs were void of emptiness; your lung's emptier than empty. there's not even air, and you can't breathe, but you're not furious, you're not upset, you're not even afraid, but you know you're won't be okay. and you can hear your heart, as if it's singing a tune. but it's nothing like those soft melodies your mother hummed while trying to lull you to sleep. it's not the high pitch whimpers you hear in never-ending tunnels either. in fact, it's worse than that. it's just a flat tune, as if the notes were awfully written on a horizontal line. the line that looked like the green display that attaches itself to a critically ill patient, the one that steadily beeps and jumps up and down as if rejoicing for the demise of someone. and it goes all happy and screams at the top of it's mechanical lungs: one long beep. and then the patient's gone. no really, actually you are gone, and no one seemed to be able to save you. you can't feel a thing no matter what you do. defibrillators might bring a pulse back for the patient. no don't get too hopeful, it won't for you, nothing will work on you. overdosing on feelings have already got your body immune. i bet on the red unfeeling machine in my chest, that no course of electricity could ever get the nerves in your brain to connect to the channel that teaches you how to feel. even if you crack your skull open, you probably wouldn't find it. and it's a terrible terrible thing, to not be able to feel. you don't really feel alive at all. so tell me, do you really long for the feeling to not feel a thing? because i did. and i wonder why i did.