I know someone who finds solace in ballet shoes
                A boy who strums his secrets to guitar strings
Someone that spends his waking moments with glazed red eyes
             As if facing this world cold turkey
                       Isn’t even an option.

For boys whose fingertips shake
                Like the burning end of a cigarette
And girls whose smiles resemble
Car crashes waiting to happen
A cacophony of shattered noises
             And those of us who feel guilty for the
                     mere act
                           Inhaling air
                        And exhaling poison
So we spend lifetimes holding our breaths

   Until we burn our lungs out trying
            To warm our hearts
            With something other than the fire
           That burns out in a smoky haze

Until our eyes become rivers,
flowing oceans
That cry out a thousand melted glaciers

Our tongues speak ruined languages
We read everything backwards
Curse in Latin
Make oaths in Russian
So whatever we say sounds beautiful.

So that our hands wont have to learn permanence,
affection
consolation.

They stuff cotton down your mouth
Because it’s the only thing that doesn't choke you
When they try to muffle your sounds out
But you scream with your eyes better than you
Ever did with words

It’s a sharp sound that hurts to look at
And you knew that contradictions were the best arguments
you said  “Arguments are the best way to show someone
How much you love them because
you are giving them your words
And that is the best thing to give.”  disagreement said “Or you could give em’
Some of your M&M;’s.”

They hung mosaics of your destruction on the walls and called it “Art”
So you punched a hole through your bathroom mirror and called it “Creation”
Spent the fourth day naming your shards “Zues” “Cordelia”. Saved the sharpest one
And called it “Helen”, said “Pain only ever hurts when its beautiful.” Disagreement said
“You’re a ****** up sadomasochistic *****”

On the fifth day you dreamt your father held you
Except it wasn't your father it was a ******* who found you
frozen to a street light
On the sixth day you called me and said: “I have a name for creation;
It’s destruction.”
On the seventh day they found you praying to the  images on a TV screen
Holding onto a mathematical calculation in your hand
Calling it the formula to happiness
The numbers spelled out




D   R  U  G  S

bukowski taught me to let go of feelings
except
to also feel as much as you can.
I, however, cannot help but do what I've been taught.

only to my demise.
I'm going to keep ******* up, but I'm too afraid to be alone.
I feel alone, but know certain decisions will leave me completely alone
..in the heart.
I know I don't make sense but I'm trying really hard to explain.

..earlier today, after crying, I went into the kitchen with intentions
of conversation about what's been eating me, there were tools of pain
which I placed upon my flesh,
I didn't break through it.
I wanted to bleed
but it wasn't worth it.

what does that say?

perhaps I'm growing
perhaps it's not enough

I'm not sure why, but my heart is a wrench
and although it's a tool, I can't seem to find how to use it.

Red
       tulips

I'm gasping as he held me
tightly

I love Red tulips,
they're my favorite

I can't remember the question
but that was the answer

I'm riding a prized stallion
trying to slow him into a walk
he's kicking up a fuss, bucking me

Then there's the slap
Crack

and an apology
a kiss
       *a caress

the question is asked again

the answer is the same
(now I remember)

Red tulips

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored surface

****! I'm pretty!

surgical steel slips through the gaps
of the imperfect protection
designed to guard a heart
with room to twist

Even in a haze of red
I'm still ****** pretty

Laying on a mound of freshly dug earth
are
     a hundred
                     Red tulips

*He didn't forget

And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
That appeared once, still wet
As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
And, touched, coddled, began to live
In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“We are, ” they said, even as their pages
Were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
Licked away their letters. So much more durable
Than we are, whose frail warmth
Cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
I imagine the earth when I am no more:
Nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
Women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.

What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty,
Blind force with accomplished shape.

Here is the valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city,
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.

What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.

They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.

If i lay spread eagle upside down will you want me?
Ok fine, take me on my back.

Cheap thrills are still thrills
Are better then lonely nights.

The heater is always on
The airconditioner is always on.

I find a way to make you laugh
so you stay longer.

I find a way to write empty poems
about the ways I will never attempt to ****** you.