you know that feeling where you don't want to get out of bed
you don't want to open up your blinds and see the world pour in through the sun's rays
because you know deep down it wouldn't make you happy anyway
you have nothing to look forward to
nothing to smile for

that is how i feel every day these days
and i wonder when it will go away

everywhere i turn
i am disgusted
my life seems to but nothing more than
a collection of disappointment and lies
soon enough it will drive me
off the edge
and i know i will go crazy
there-is-no-turning-back crazy
just like esther in the bell jar
that's what i think
that's why i sympathize and empathize with her
she is just like me
a person muffled and choked
by customs and expectations

Deep beneath dirt is where I would like to be
perhaps then, under rock, no one would find me
and my body would be left to decay not from hurt but debri
and you, my pain giver, I would not see
but I think, all the same, that eventually
I would crave you and want to dig myself free

The yellow bird in its golden cage sings
to me, in the depths of the night, while I
raise my palm to my lips and kiss
it, pretending I were loved;
though my sorry heart knows I am
not, and the flightless canary does too--
its singing metamorphs into wailing as
the amber stars sink in the sky.
The darkness nibbles
on their ivory light, and my warmth
subsides to ice.

I like the things you say in bed the best
words that caress against skin like your finger grazes
sweet nothings that escape from your reckless mouth
when you are still drowsy from the veil of sleep

My lover's dead
and I like him better that way.
When he was by my side,
I did not know what to say
as my heart was always
in a horrid, constant state
of incomprehensible joy,
my emotions so great,
they overtook my mind,
and all I could do
was let myself be loved
and sigh graciously in lieu.

My lover's dead,
but he still haunts my mind.
He hides silently, waiting
in every place I can find,
pulling me to him
with invisible strings
so he can entrap me in the felicity
that young love brings.
But I am tired, so tired,
of being in love,
of the pain that overtakes me
when I am floating above
in blessed happiness,
with him as my wings
waiting to fall,
because love is a capricious thing.

the birds sing from my backyard
and the morning sun hits my window at an angle,
effusing its gold-tinted rays into the glowing room

i dig deeper for the warmth
beneath the bed covers.

moments like these, i think of you.

I know what it means now
to love;
it kind of emanates from the core
somehow, somewhere
and makes my heart feel heavy,
but also warm, blown-up,
like it's expanded enough just so
that it hugs the insides of my rib cage gently.

there was this time in the park
a frosted, gray-misted November
me, myself
on the brown benches

my head seemed forever tilted
to the right
my head didn't know
but my heart knew

I was looking for a yellow spark
hidden in the crowd of wispy passerbys

I was waiting

for you.

it seems silly when i think about it
when I pause and force
my body to stop, halt
freeze, think rationally
it's terrible to be the only one
who leaves their entrails everywhere
nothing will come out
when I squeeze my heart anymore

I have this amazing way
of hurting myself
more than I need to be hurt

beautiful boy
with your magical hands
you leave trails of gold
on the surfaces you skim
let me be
so blessed to be
caressed by your enchanted fingers.

If the sun were to somehow collide
magnificently
with the Earth,
as if propelled by some
unseen, unstoppable force
of formidable gravity, I wouldn't
care.
I would burn, along
with everyone else,
my ashes mixing
and diffusing with theirs.
I would feel
heat,
become
heat.
The warmth would swallow
me, or I
would swallow it,
and the flames would travel
through my veins
and down my spine
and trickle to my toes
and let me feel.

There are times when I love you
and times when I wish
that the hands of fate
could sever and incinerate
the string that wraps
around both our hearts.

rupturing; that's what I feel
slashing, tearing, scratching
as if my bones have not been cracked enough times
as if my heart is still short of crooked, broken veins
and bruised, dimpled indentations

because my blood really does need
to break through arteries
and spread from the inside--doesn't it?
otherwise, I might not be alive.

I've felt worse
than the misery you lay
with your hands.
so come to me,
dark angel,
envelop me
in tenderness.
go, catch
my skin on fire
I swear I've felt worse.

Maybe if I bite my lips ******
and claw at my skin
then walk on the street naked,
you'll speak to me.

I write poems,
not English essays.
period.