I don’t know what to write about.
As I sit in class my mind is blank.
No thoughts.
No songs stuck in my head.
Just the endless silence.

If I think, I’ll think about him, if I think about him I’ll think about us.
If I think about us I think about how we are no longer, we.
Just him.
Just me.
I refuse to accept that I may still have feelings for him.
Which is hurting me just as so.
I want to know the truth, of what really happened.
I don’t want excuses, just the truth.

I don’t know what to write about.
These words in the page in front of me aren’t mine.
Someone else wrote them.
Surely.
I couldn’t have thought like that.

If I think, I think about friends, and if I think about friends, I think about her.
Our friendship is strong, surely to last a lifetime.
Every day is a blessing.




I guess I do have things to write about.
Friends, Enemies, Almost’s
Life has been nice.
Life has been painful.
Life has been healing.
Life has been waiting.

When I think, I think about them, when I think about them, I cry.
I can’t remember everything, only bits and pieces.
Makes me wonder if it actually happened.
When I think about my future,
I think of a young lady who knows nothing about where she came from.
Who she’s met.
Who she is.
It scares me, that maybe one day, I’ll forget all of this.
And I don’t want to forget.

I’m scared of everything.
I don’t want to be scared.
But fear consumes me.
It haunts me through every moment of my being.

Prepared to your liking
Trussed and bound
For you, I wait

Palms up, knees apart
Positioned just for you
Spine posed straight

Your approval means all
Rewarding by far
Pleasing you my pleasure

As instructed
Ready, willing
My master, my treasure

Laugh.
Frown.
****.
Cry.
Die... inside.

Expose your life force.
Destroy your life force.
Please leave your life force in the bin.
You are normal now.
Rejoice, you are happy now.
Bow down, human.

Insert the tubular device into your face.
You will feel a mellow ******* force.
This is normal. It is functional.
Watch a short video to proceed.
Yes... you are amazing.
Press the button to capture your face.
You look fantastic.
See how happy you are...
Human.
You are feeling...
Fantastic.
Human.

“why don’t you write a book?”

they’ll expect
a second

if consistency
and money
was consistant
see, I’d write a book

“you should write a book”

poetry is a dying art,
you’ll find a needle
every now and then
but the hay is bound
together with cellphones
and bongs
and unexpected
suicides

no one wants to hear
how sleep deprived you are
because your satin feels
like moth wings
and how your skin
feels like
a burning painting,
why cigarettes kiss
harder and how love
feels like the bottom
of a dinner plate

you’ll find compassion
and understanding
but finding a diamond in
the rough is
only valuable if
you can escape

he only thinks you're
pretty when you cry
when the aching
vulnerabilities sting
like red welts along
cheeks that are
white as teeth
only then are you pretty,
when the red blood
tears fall like soldiers in
the war of peace and
he kisses the place the
bullet exits
he promises he will
still love you as the lion
that murders the lamb
when the sky bleeds,
crimson echoes down
mountains of death
his viper hands
snake round your
hips and you just
don't mind, you just
don't mind anymore

if you put me in a cage
would I be a rat or a petition?

would you sign it or
watch until the screams you
can’t listen to
my cries for help
me save me and
give me the key
to life is fighting
through the
bars and pubs
are nothing but a vice
grip tied tight to the
bricks that can’t wipe
the cement from it’s eyes
tell the stories that eat
at chipped away skin
covered in spiders
digging to the core
of the earth is wrapped in
expectations and relation
ships sailing with no sail
manless and handless
mannequins reaching out for
help confined by my vein
minds and empty hearts
are suppose to carry love,
at least that’s the perception
that I cant pull to conception
built on deception with exception of  
reception’s inception,
a look inside my mind
your own ******* business.

I want to meet myself,
as if I’ve never tried to
understand my self,
run into him at a party,
drunk, at 3am hearing what
he's ****** up, and how
misses youth
and hates cancer
and himself,
I want to watch him
writing at coffee shops
and contemplate saying
hello because he looks like
he wants to die,
I want to bump into him
on the subway and apologize,
I want to pick apart his mind,
stand awkwardly beside him
at a crosswalk,
listen to his cross-talk
and how he refuses to capitalize
god’s name when he writes about him,
watch as he writes this piece
and tries to understand why
he wants to understand himself so badly that he wants to  
stand at his own funeral, being his own shoulder,
wishing he could slide out of his own shoes

I’d love to find myself a suit,
drive 12 minutes and
sit on a barstool that won’t
stop screaming,
be able to smoke
inside again,
**** in *******
stained toilets,
push on locked
stalls and trip over
high heels that reach
out from under like
ashes ready to be flicked,
have makeshift conversations
with a 62 year old
old bartender who throws
an ashtray and a glass
of jack on the bar
at 9:12pm every day and
spurns at irregulars,
harlequin nods
at pseudos and
tire at denials,
pay a $13 cab-fare
and let him keep a 20
for listening to me *****
about how I should be able to
smoke inside the cab,
find myself questioning
every single piece I’ve ever
written while spinning
beneath my sheets,
wake to work
and work to 5,
I dont yearn for much
just a kiss for when
I leave and one when I come
home, if she's still up.