do not fall in love with a poet
unless you can accept flickering candles at obscene hours
and ink stains that cover their fingers and clothes
and constant eye bags that they may need you to kiss

do not fall in love with a poet
unless you handle them dropping all and suddenly
composing
and then shutting you out in frustration of imperfection
sometimes words just do not do the things that they want

do not fall in love with a poet
if you do not appreciate paragraphs about your eyes
or if you do not have very beautiful prose
your simplicity will scare; they will simply hide their heart

do not fall in love with a poet
and solely be swept away by their mesmerizing verses
they will take you and transfix you in the dead of the night
leaving you breathless
but they'll be gone by morning

*k.c.

they all ask the same questions
close companions with the triviality that sinks us all like stones
dust into whirlwinds, screams into storms
take a ******* breath for a minute
drinking your lukewarm love like coffee in the cold morning
savor every last drop now
caffeine still on your breath, don’t tell me you know misery when
i’ve still got wounds open under the floorboards.
you’re waving to the world like problems are a prize
hardly under your fingernails and you’re painting blood on your door
pray tell me the state of your bones;
are they ashy with defeat, years of torment you finally drew?
are they brittle
precarious
weaker than your resolve?
that spot right under your heart
where a warm soul ought to be
does it send tremors down your wrists, and into your hands?
AND WHEN THE SHAKING DOESN’T STOP
DO YOU CLAW AT YOUR INSIDES?
WHEN THE PAIN DOESN’T SUBSIDE AND
THE VOICES DON’T CEASE, WHAT THEN?
DO THE DEVILS TREAT FRIENDLY THOSE
THAT ADVERTISE DESPAIR?
IF SO, DO PLAY ON!

but if not.
by all that is good and wondrous and light
count your blessings, dear one.
there are some in this world that feel the pain raw
cold and biting at their insides;
they never say a word.

-*k.c.

how do you stop yourself from becoming a living contradiction? what do you do when no one has taught you the proper way to respond to the pain sprouting through cracks and seams and overgrowing the gardens of your mind, suffocating the beautiful because there is simply not enough room, what do you do when you’re trying to swallow the panic bubbling up in your throat? where does that heat come from, that builds in the backs of your eyes like all the hurt you bundled up for safe-keeping because some fights aren’t worth having, even when you can feel your heart breaking, a little at a time? why is the emptiness and the darkness always so much bigger than anything else? when does it stop feeling like a form of torture to leave the house and when does everything stop representing him in small and insignificant ways, every hour, every minute, every second? how do you stop the deep pit from forming in that area of your chest every time you accidentally stumble on a song that holds echoes of him in it’s crevices? echoes that escape like whispers of smoke and riddle holes in you, relentlessly and eternally? how the hell is someone both everywhere and nowhere all at once? when do you stop waking up in cold sweats because you are so achingly alone? where is the pavilion of shelter? when does it stop feeling like a war that you’re only fighting with yourself?

-*k.c.

sure glad everyone else found someone
i'm sitting in tornadoes of chaos and not making a sound
i’m full of all this undirected yearning which means i’m
full of ******* empty
and what a death-ridden paradox that is
everything seems like a riddle these days
but i’ve lost all energy for solving and its not like
anything could be worth solving when you are not here anyhow
open fields are caging me and i want a release
there are chains around my bare wrists and you need to take them off
where did you go anyway
i’m stumbling along clean swept paths
i’m tripping over nonexistent obstacles
i’m grabbing for a match because i’d rather burn myself
burn it all away so i won’t have to see all the things that aren’t there
namely you
and all the bleeding black that’s left
constant headaches like a companion and i’m begging to be blind
penny for the pained?
someone sit me down and explain the idiosyncratic theory
of why we make people into homes
and why we remember the nightmares but can’t grasp the dreams
where is the warmth to reside within
and why did you leave?

-*k.c.

i am considering the smell the rain leaves in its wake. who is to decide the line between peace and entropy? between serenity and destruction? you’re just mist in the mountains now, but that doesn’t change the fact that you made me realize why they name hurricanes after people. you made me realize i can never draw the line between the calm and the chaos because my hands are shaking and they have not stopped since you left. but humor me this; where does it all come from? my surroundings are caving to tumultuous doom and yet i’m senseless in a dark room because you still haven’t called. the thunder is shaking my tables and chairs but the ringing in my ears has filled all empty space. I AM SCREAMING IN A VOID AND YOU ARE GONE, YOU ARE GONE, YOU’VE SLIPPED RIGHT THROUGH THESE FINGERS THAT LOVED YOU AND HELD YOU AND WANTED TO CHANGE THE WHOLE WOrld just so you’d have a dry spot to sleep. my soft cheeks are damp but that’s all white noise now; subtle and unremarkable, but it helps me fall asleep most nights. they say insomnia is like perpetual motion but the only subject i’m interested in studying anymore is the state of your fingertips and why they haven’t been tracing my skin, in places only the warm wind of clouds touches now, but all they do is leave me tortured. i feel restless at best. and yes; these days the rain seems to know me better than i myself. but don’t find comfort when you pull back your shades tomorrow morning, and all signs of natural disasters have (temporarily) subsided. for first i am in the storm; the **** eye of the hurricane; and when it’s had enough,

then the storm is in me.

-*k.c.

i won’t call because it’s best for both of us
a sickness isn’t sanity until you dress it
you’re a scalding shower
good even though it hurts
and the leftover steam in the bathroom is a
bright enough question mark to bring me back
every **** time.
the best things aren’t planned
but waiting is driving a knife into my skull
i’ve laid pieces of myself at your feet
i never even knew were there.
do you realize you never returned them?
and i’m not even sure i want them back
i’ve grown so accustomed to being riddled with emptiness
i might tremble to the point of destruction at being whole again
although that wouldn’t explain the tremor
that always works it way down my arms
and into the ends of my worn fingertips
fingertips that pound keys and grip ***** pencils,
that trace my face, like an echo of your return
but that’s just a sick joke that lives in the pit of my stomach now
dark and small and smooth like a stone.
how do you open yourself up to someone you hardly know
when the pages of your mind
give even you nightmares now?
there’s this riddle about letting things you love go
and it’s making me wonder if that’s why you never chased after me
but i can’t call you anymore
i won’t
because its best for both of us.

-*k.c.