Let me start with a cliche: I love to write.
Let me edit it: I love writing
Lying on the floor
Truths in my head
Think
Of me
Baggy Pajama Pants

so i blew up my air conditioner
and my mom wants to **** me
obviously not on purpose
well the blowing up part
my mom definitely wants to **** me
on purpose
like i wanted to **** the frog
when i shot my gun
that accidentally missed
by about four yards
and shot my air conditioner
yes, call PETA
I have an animal abuse case to report
the perk was the frog
victim: my dog
who was poisoned
attempted ******
by the frog
who i tried to ****
on purpose
as self defense

When I was a kid
I wanted a pet cat.
A disney cat.
Simba or Copa.
Do you remember Copa?
Do you remember the excitement
of your imagination
post movie
when its catchy music
that made want to dance.
A dance made of
skipping and jumping jax
with imaginary pompons and maracas

do you think butterflies
are nostalgic
about when they were
caterpillars?
did they have
hey arnold
and recess?
did they play dodge-ball in the morning mud?
Did they stay up late as cocoons
procrastinating
and worrying if they would become
successful butterflies?
and did they spend their days as caterpillars
wanting to be butterflies

I want to write
Without letters
I want to kiss you
Without lips
I want to choose
without thinking
I want you
Without me

I see the sun climb the white cushions and blue oceans
I hear the mesmerizing melody of the doves stringing and keying.
I smell the aroma of roses and tangerines racing through the air and crashing into my nostrils…ecstasy.
I feel the delicate, delicious, delightful caressing massage of silky roses.
I taste the sweet sugar of life.

It is you.
Do you not see?
No. I was
Mistaken.
You leave me with…
Reality.

Innocence exiled, as a child is stabbed until Breath is livered out of him.
The pulsating bombs of Life against Hope-the genocide of the Eardrums.
The ******, sweat stench of truth lingers over the vulnerable flowers like a gaseous cloud.
The piercing needle of truth injects into every pore. Reality in. Dreams out.
Faith disintegrates in the acid, cavity stricken world with masticated Hope regurgitated at will.
It is my fault. Did i not see?

Are you happy? You ask
Lately I have had an urge to skip.
I love skipping,
it makes me happy.
Am I happy you ask?
Am implies being.
So I think:
I wish you would skip with me.
Not make.
Not do.
Not think.
Just be

Happy

Pretend.
Pretend
For a second
That you love me
and I love you.
Simple.
Pretend I trust you
and you, me.
Pretend that you believe
That I won't change
you.
Pretend I let you in
You turn the key.
Pretend I jump into the abyss
and you took my hand.
Now Pretend
For a second
That we weren't pretending.
We won't say a word
and love in a kiss.

Italians
Invented love and happiness
In the oven
When they made pizza.
If only we could
Spread pizza to the world.
Then and only then
Will we have
World
Peace