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elijah Oct 2016
I asked your roots to grow into my flesh,
to use my veins as maps.
You let them dig into my skin,
but your hatred drew them back.
So still I stand between the their bodies, and I look east for winter's end,
I urge the dirt to drink my blood, and let the Tall Trees grow again.

Young, wicked boys, we danced through dust,
Drunk on death and mad with song.
My fading laughter showed the truth;
One pair of footsteps all along.
So still I sit with dying giants,
Their leaves will fall by end of June.
My hero's eyes burned holes in me,
I dug holes here for me and you.

The tall trees died when we were ten,
They seemed to shrink as we grew up.
We walked the forest one last time,
Just before the clear cut.
elijah Apr 2016
A friend whispered past his drink, I heard the words,
"We all grew up here" and I felt it in my chest like thunder,
Understand that he did not mean 'growing up' as 'growing older'
The days are numbered small and it makes the rain seem so much colder,
Makes it so hard to remember that he was not speaking of the passing of time, because some of us only learned how to wait,
while others learned how not to hate
that if we use each other's hands to ease each other's pain,
then a living hell can be a hell of a place.
We started a fire but if we can stare into the glow of the embers, we'll remember that fire fades,
new things grow, and more often than not that means escape.

Move on and forget the stench of youth,
the stain of feigned innocence we wore like a badge of honor and truth, the times we beat our brothers half to death because we thought we were supposed to,
only to laugh about it later and ignore all the growing up we had to do.
But I'm not ready.
Not ready to face it all on unfamiliar ground,
the flames we built from nothing are fading faster,
More like a funeral pyre for the quiet kids who learned how to speak loud
Now I'm racing against the last few weeks just to write it all down,
To tell anyone and  everyone that somehow,
we found one another.

Following countless invisible lines like string on a madman's map,
searching for some greater truth or secret,
drawn across distances rivaling oceans and by the strength of our backs,
we collided like glass planets,
like drunk drivers, certain no one would miss us.
Yet as we crashed and did our best to imitate the way that thunder claps, the way that windows shatter,
broken boys and girls found a warmer place to rest, that madman's point of origin was our destination, our home-base,
hovel of a headquarters,
a good head to keep above our freshly wounded shoulders,
We picked up our ugly little pieces and put them back in place as best we could, not realizing that we were still working with the hands of children, no one to tell us to wait a few years, that the strong fingers of soldiers
and survivors know how to mend souls.
In our ignorance of proper placement, we never quite patched all the holes, but found we had built a home,
And every tired old board would find its time to bend and groan,
We were the things that went bump in the dark,
celebrating that we still had some skin on our bones,
and those hellish skeleton screams that kept the neighbors up at night were only friendly fire fights,
subtly discussing the finer points of what we would never miss about being alone,
Doing everything but caring that some of us wouldn't even make it out without giving up the ghost;
that maybe all we had left was hope.
These boys of summer and the girls we loved,
we waged a war in raw throats and untimely sunrises, trying our best to bury the end of our rope.

A place where we found living proof of Nowhere.
A place where we called Silence out by name.
Where we choked on bitter smoke, and forced ourselves to go insane and fall in love, for when we spoke aloud we found that they were very much the same,
And so we're letting go,
But never going away,
Retelling our story
Without a single missing page.
Break down every year into months and every month into days,
To never forget the smell of Summers wasted or the way that the music played
over our cries as we dug our brother's graves,
Creating harmonies much sweeter than the ones we tried to make.

We'll never forget
That anything can be a song if enough of us are singing.
Never forget the strangers who knew us best.

We found the true worth of our memories because we'll never forget the cost,
Of years spent, and not a moment lost.
elijah Jan 2016
Say 'hello' to the other side for us
A thousand hearts still beat for the golden one
We lost a lifetime with the way you were running 'cause
lasts for long in the hands of Spiders
elijah Nov 2015
i tried to write you a love song
but that sounded a whole lot like pain,
reliving it every single time I take the stage,
it didn't seem worth it and so the only word that made it on the page was
i trailed off, traveled backwards in time and remembered how many times i tried to write it before,
how many different color combinations it took to decide
that i just didn't know then how to say that your voice when you sang under your breath was the color of the longest sunset i can remember,
     the touch of your slender little fingers as they traced my lips was the color of a glacier before a single drop has melted from it,
  the smell of your hair was the coffee-or-blood stain on a letter I never gave to you,
i just didn't know how to say that because you were too bright of a light and i went blind, couldn't see the colors,
or maybe i just didn't want to open my eyes
and find the culprit for these dead lovers,
the shameless killer of Forever,
the black and white that stole my sight was a little golden cross on a little golden chain that
  you hid between your ******* and you kissed it instead of me every night.
  i'm happy that you found your savior
but I promise you that his white robes are stained
i could have shown you brand new colors or written you a thousand little songs, but now
it just sounds a whole lot like pain.
Definitely an old first draft. I hope you all enjoy. Maybe I'll edit it later.
elijah Nov 2015
You stupid sonofabitch.
I hope you burn less than you did when you were here,
and that maybe you finally caught up with the monster you were chasing.
We still drink to you
on days like this,
Glasses raised to the day you showed up,
Broken bottle on the back porch to forget the day you left.
Oh, and pay your mother a visit sometime, she misses you so.
She's been saving lives in your name for years now,
but the kids are still dropping like flies.
Tell her it's okay,
that she's done her part.

I guess I just miss you.
That heart of gold is still the talk of the town, but I remember the black fingers wrapped around it much better,
And I want you to know that I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I didn't save you.
So tonight I'll drink
Not to the ashes on the mantel or the flowers on the grave.
But to you.
Happy birthday, Matt.
Wherever you are.
Not much of a poem, but my old friend Matt would've turned 22 the other day.
Unfortunately a ****** overdose took him at 19.

Don't wait until it's too late to help the ones you love.
  Oct 2015 elijah
Caroline Lee
and it's taken me two years but I think I finally get it
it wasn't the forced laughter or the radio silence
it wasn't that every time I needed you, you never picked up your phone
too busy talking to God as usual
while I was screaming his ear off about you
and your white teeth and ambiguous intentions
you caught me numb on your kitchen floor
laughing in your old clothes when we're alone together praying that this time this side of you would stay
and for once you do
until there's someone new to impress or I just need to talk to someone at 1am
apathetic until something in the way of my being applies to you
and just like a kid you'll sit me down line our pieces up and try to convince me we're the same
you shoved the pieces that wouldn't quite fall into place under the couch and color coordinated and combined with no true knowledge of the picture
just like a little kid hell bent trying to please a parent
you tried to fit your life in mine but you never quite realized that I am not a puzzle and you are not a part of me
and it's taken me two years but I think I can let you go
I'm done driving to your house
I'm done watching you on social media intently trying to understand who you are and why the hell you do what you do
and it's been two whole years of passive aggressive talk contrasting quiet afternoons on your floor or blue nights spent driving around the city
it was below thirty but you let me roll my window down and so I could breathe the frigid air and tangle my wrists in the power lines
it all boils down to a simple statement:
you were there until you weren't
until it didn't revolve around you
you didn't want a friend you wanted an adventure like the pictures you pin on your wall
like the mindless **** you fill your head with to appear tragic and interesting
and I understood when you brought your new friends to my birthday
and I saw pictures the next day of them in all of the places we used to frequent in the summer when I gave up on substance and just wanted someone to be with
and I know that the world belongs to everyone
but those nights belonged to us
hot blue in a sea of navy and gold
like words whispered into a lover's shoulder
and when I saw the pictures I just kind of knew
that you never understood a ******* word of anything I said when I talked about how moments like these inevitability fall through or the cracks of existence or whatever
and you left early because they wanted to go and I smiled and said it was fine
you didn't get it
but I think I do now
it's only taken me a couple years or so.
Friends don't tell friends they hate graveyards after you take them to your favorite graveyard and then take their new friends to the same graveyard. They also don't bring strangers to your small birthday party.
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