Rain made quite the anchored boy
underneath laid out the things he never could avoid

Today
is it half the same?
Why bother looking up?
They'll probably just give it away.
Today
am I half the same?
I think this thing
is probably not going away.

I could make it all up
and no one would even know the difference
and I could mess things up
and know that everything's gonna be fine
someday..

If only it could change in someway..
Someday

It seems lately he's been acting out
ok.. We'll raise the dose.
It's a little messed up. I know

To say
to a kid that's eight
"what's wrong with you? Why the hell do you act that way?"
To say
at the age of eight
"I'm sorry everyone, I probably didn't take it today".

If only I could change
Someday

this is not a poem

The sun is resplendent and warming.
on this bench in front of these shops in a town we’ve never been to.
Italy’s a lot nicer if you’re in a small town.

I’m watching her peel an orange
slowly,
meticulously
she’s removing the skin from the meat.

She reminds me of a boxer wrapping his hands
before a big fight.

The last moment of meditative solitude
before the **** hits the fan.

She’s finishing with the peel now, setting the pieces on the bench next to us
as she splits it in half, an aerosol of juice sprays from the orange
she hands me one half
and begins to eat the other herself.

I peel the segments apart, eating them slowly
and spitting the seeds into the gutter.
she’s smiling,
the juice running down her chin,
and neither of us are speaking.

Later I’m smelling the citrus on her fingers
as she runs them through my hair;
it’s barely long enough to run fingers through,
and I’m thankful for that.

I’m thankful for that orange.
I’m glad I saw that small town,
the one without tourist attractions or snakeoil peddlers
I’m glad my scalp ever knew her citrus fingers.


it came,

I saw,

it went.

Ominously spindling thread
Tempestuous, voluptuous
Contemptuous and gluttonous
Stitch me a heavy heart
Now rip it to shreds

Rewarding impetuousness
How I long for your torture
Tortuous contortionist
The pleasure is without measure

Your posh silk,
Treasure of my endeavor
Enveloping like the web of a spider
My heartstrings twine;
then are severed
What a twist
Never have I ever

These photos are a gateway to my memories;
They're the only remnants of things I no longer see:
The twinkling stars at the peak of twilight;
The terrifying tales around a campfire so bright,
The heart melting gaze of my new born brother,
The crash of waves as I build a sand castle with my mother.
And although they are torn and hard to see,
These photos are a gateway to my memories.

Here's to the Insomniacs,
Deprived of the blissful retreat , to dream sweet.
to the girl, with the anxiety attacks..
Who holds her composure,
When the strength lacks..
To the boys who are ashamed to cry,
Hanging their heads,
  all wondering why..
Why must we feel this way?
Embarking on a battle..
Every single day.
Just hoping for sunshine,
A breath of fresh air,
To help them unwind,
what's life, if not to feel alive?
You deserve to be happy ,
Not deprived..
Please darlings, spread your wings..
& learn to fly.